Emerging from the plastic wrap: I'm a frikkin butterfly.

Guess what, folks! The plastic wrap around in front of all my windows is almost gone. The landlord covered them with plastic a while back in order to spray paint the house. At first it was just foggy, then the painting started, and it got pretty damn dark. Combined with the fumes it could have easily put me into a paranoid state where I’d convince myself that I was being buried alive. That would have given us all something to laugh about later.

I have a final exam on Friday, so I’m hoping that my brain - also known as Bergerac – will return from its trip soon. It went away pretty much the moment the plastic came up. I need Bergerac in order to do my pre-exam hibernation routine. That’s when I lock myself up in my apartment and studystudystudy until those little grey cells start to seep out of my ears and nostrils just to get away from it all. I’d leave a light on in the window for it if I didn’t think that would set the blinds on fire.

Bergerac isn't home

There is plastic in front of all my windows. This must be what it feels like to live inside a soapbubble. The house is about to be spraypainted, so I’d imagine that it’ll smell anything but soapy. Where I used to live, back before I moved to Hellhole, farmers used to spray pee from unsuspecting cattle on their fields. That didn’t smell soapy either.

And I’m off to a wonderful start.

The thing is, I have absolutely nothing to say.

My brain, otherwise known as Bergerac, has gone away for a couple of days. It felt that it had earned a break after I put it through and intensive lab course all last week and an exam on Friday, not to mention loads of analysis I had to finish over the weekend. Analysis… Analysisis… See? Bergerac isn’t here.

Momma's got a brand new bag! Or something...

Guess what I’m doing! No, that’s not it. You’re sick in the head, you are. Guess again! That’s it, you ought to be publicly flogged, you demented weirdo.

I’ll just tell you, shall I?

I’m surfing the world wide web with by brand new computer. It’s got a widescreen and everything. Even smells like new plastic, it does. I luves my new baby, and have decided to name it muffin. I like muffins. Wish I had one.

Moving right along…

I have an assignment do, and the work process has become complicated by the fact that I can now play The Sims on a big screen. Very distracting, it is. I mean, who has time to ponder the principal thoughts behind statistical differences in the means between two samples when you’ve got a little man giving birth to the alien-baby he got stuck with after being kidnapped by a UFO in another window? It’s hopeless.

But I’m trying my very best. Apart from right now, of course. Right now I’m doing this.

Poor lucky number two

Last night the Pooch woke me up at two am by crawling into my bed and sitting there, staring at me in the darkness like some furry totem pole. I was very tired and didn’t particulary feel like crawling out of my soft, comfortable bed, but I could see from the way her enormous ears were pricking up that she’d already heard me blink and knew that I was awake. She does that, you see. She sticks her face right up in your face and listens intensely for the slightest little flutter of the eyelids.

As much as I disliked the idea of dragging my carcass out of bed in the middle of the night, experience has taught me that the Pooch usually only has two reasons for waking me up at ungodly hours:

1) She’s about to do her impersonation of a busted fire hydrant and projectile vomit everywhere.
2) She’d like to demonstrate her explosive diarrhoea.

Both of these things are better done outside.

So I slithered out of my sheets, into my pants, got the pooch’s collar and outside we went. It was windy. And cold. And windy. Did I mention that it was cold?

The first thing the pooch did was sniff a variety of bushes and trees in the yard. Then she sniffed them again, before she finally decided to pee on lucky number two. After that followed ten minutes of staring blankly into space, before turning around and heading back inside. No projectile anything and absolutely no explosions in sight.

It turns out that Pooch now has a third reason for waking me up in the middle of the night.

3) The Upstairspeople are being noisy and my bedroom is pretty soundproof.