Stomachflu raids my system and renders me useless and conked out for 21 hours. Then I got sick of porridge, braved gnashing stomach muscles and ran off to meet Charm. Got my 4 A1 boards for Art and my "when I'm pregnant I'm going to have this made in a million colours for everyday wear" dress, so I'm pleased, but broke. See, I need to save up for Dippy's anniversary present, his birthday present, dad's birthday present, my soon-to-be kid in Africa, my Fendi Spy Bag, new bikini. Oh woe is me. But I got Marcus to puff for me, 2 sticks. Jac will be coming after me soon.
There's a job tomorrow that will pay me $50 for 8 hours of work. But I don't feel like dialing the number because:
1] I'm too lazy.
2] I hate commissioned based work because I imagine it to be alike selling flags, just for oneself's own cause.
3] I've got things on tomorrow.
4] I can earn $50 per hour [but that's only when work comes a-knocking].
I'm a spoilt brat.
I want at least 4 kids in the future, spares the middle child syndrome, and 2 of each gender. Then I can call my daughters Sunshine and Rain, and my sons Thunder and Tornado. How quaint. Then they'd have little bowl-shaped haircuts with either 2 pigtails sticking out from beneath the bowl or a single tail depending on gender. And we'd have a black cat called Mao, a pug called Trotsky and a bulldog called Pickle. I'd call my husband Dumpling out of love and we'd live happily ever after. How juvenile.
Dippy's returning on Sunday afternoon, when I have to do crowd control for CIP hours. I hope I get a whistle that I can blast into the ears of those who trample on my toes and a nice dog tag. When serving the nation, death is not an option.
12:50:00 am
