Beneficent boners / dead inside

I feel that the fact that I got out of bed at all this morning merits some sort of parade. That I came to work, in clothes I did not sleep in, and have actually achieved things and interacted with real human beings, is clearly grounds for a national holiday. All of which is to say that given that staying in the shower long enough to rinse off the fever sweat was a feat comparable to a marathon, so the idea of shaving my legs - or wearing tights in this heat, still running this temperature - is to be met with the phrase "you're having a fucking giraffe".

So I feel that my response to the gentleman who passed negative comment on my appearance was positively polite, under the circumstances.

"Oh no! Does that mean you don't want to have sex with me? I am crushed, Random Dude I Have Never Met Before; I am CRUSHED at the thought that I have failed in my sole endeavour in this life, which is, of course, for you to want to touch me with your penis. Want me! Need me! How else will I justify my futile time on this earth? BLESS ME WITH THE BENEFICENCE OF YOUR BONER!"

I mean, he was a hundred yards away by the time I'd finished, but I still felt better.

...

Do forgive the radio silence. Blogging requires an awful lot of feelings, and I am at that very special stage of A Depressive Episode where the most I can muster in the way of feelings is a rolling wave of unfocused 'meh'. I mean, I still want to die, but I don't even give much of a shit about that. Hopefully I'll resurface one day and be able to generate the necessary level of anger of the Daily Mail website sidebar.