My good friend E is in the city this weekend, visiting from Czechland where she is finishing up her year abroad. It is wonderful to see her. I wish I was on better form, and not in the library. I am tired. I do not feel stressed. I'm just dull company.
Having said that, I stole something from the pub last night, that I intend to pass on to Miss McG next week (it is her birthday). I am not sure I really "stole" it. I think it was there to be taken. Through the slight fuzz of wine and beer I do not really remember. I do not think the intended recipient visits this narcissistic waste heap but I won't say anything more about the item.
It is totally out of character for me to remove something that isn't mine. I worry over slices of bread, the last splash of orange squash. Flatmates who use my olive oil should be hung. To whoever stole my favourite t-shirt when we were sixteen, a big Fuck You.
I'm not morally bothered by the brief episode of drunken kleptomania, just amused. I'm sure the psychologists out there would say something about buried stress manifested as erratic behaviour. Interesting.
(I'm really fucking tired).