Well, OK, not driving. Driving and blogging would maybe be a touch irresponsible, even more so given that I actually can't drive and my body runs on vodka. I have really bad motor skills, I can't even pick up coins. I know that that's not all that relevant to driving, but it can't be a good thing. So no, I'm not driving. I'm not even on my way home, I've been home a few hours but there isn't a song about having got four trains home for Christmas, earlier. That I know of, anyway. It's good to be home, but I'm shattered. I've been on a bender this week, as ever, and I slept through alcofrolick therapy on Tuesday as well, 'cause I'd drank too much on Monday. I'm not sure what I think about it- I need to make some decisions. But after Christmas.
Not a lot else to say. I still want to cry when I think about not going away next year. I'm not so bitter about it now, we all have our own shite, but I am angry that I'm still letting people who hurt me in the past win. Eating disorders are like taking revenge on a country for nuking half your country, by nuking the OTHER half of your country, so I'm trying to make sure I don't slip. December is not a time for calorie counting, after all. January is the dieting month 'cause there's nowt else to bloody do (apart from shop, of course). Anyway, Momma Ginge has a tub of chocolate fudge frosting in the fridge.