I've proven yet again that I am in no position to judge Bridget Jones.
I dropped M off at the airport & sent him to the islands on his mission. I was sad, the usual amount, about not having him around for a whole week. I was also depressed about not having a single friend in this godforsaken city or country, who I can call to come over and have a sleepover or go shopping or whatever the fuck it is that besties do together. I consoled myself by thinking I'm leaving this godforsaken city in less than a year & maybe I'll find friends where I go. I can dream.
On the drive back from the airport I managed to move on from my depression and proceeded with planning a glorious weekend of self indulgence. In the remaining half of the Saturday I managed to consume a significant amount of wine and chicken, ate a quarter of a black forest cake, watched 3 trashy movies that are going to screw up our Netflix algorithm forever -oops- and have woken up with a deep and sticky headache. I can't even look at what's left in the fridge from last night.
To prove I'm a responsible adult, I've spent the morning going through my old notes from work, scanning & recycling. I'm starting my 6 month journey of registration on Monday and need to demonstrate I've worked. Does everyone feel horrified & disgusted by their old notes? It's like watching the traces of a dying animal on sand, crawling to a mirage of a deadline, noting down indecipherable important sounding points from meetings, dates underlined, hurried calculations, too many diagrams... I can see myself age in these notebooks.
Last one down. I might go for a walk. Brain is a mush. I probably won't.
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تو دلش میگه عن من دارم می نالم تو خوشحالی٬ !