I suppose I should write something

even though, increasingly, I don't know who I'm writing for.

And it's unbelievably stupid - the first rule of writing fiction is that you are writing for yourself - but I don't read my blog 

Bingo, get off my foot you fluffy-faced imbecile

and I don't know who

Bingo you idiot get the hell off my phone I swear you're worse than Leo and he's a human-person you're just a cat-person

actually reads this anymore

Bingo stop scratching the sofa

Oh, gee. When did I become so like my dad. I don't care if he scratches the sofa. I care if he scratches me, but that's because it hurts. If he scratches the sofa - so what? It's not like it's going to be worth any more twenty years down the line when Ma and Pa try to sell it if it's devoid of cat scratches; the arse-imprints are there forevermore, as is the red wine stain (Dad) and the hot chocolate stain (me) and the mysterious green stain (who knows), and if the cat scratches something then maybe he'll be nicer to us.

It's the same with coasters. Damn coasters! A little quadrilateral of uselessness is never going to protect your coffee table from devaluation because it's already worthless from the moment you get it in your front door. No, you know what a coaster is? A sign of how far up their own arse a person is. The greater the coaster:table ratio, the more of a pedantic, irksome arsehole the coaster-owner is.

It bothers me that, after a weekend spent in the company an entire family of coaster-fiends, I automatically sought out a coaster on which to rest my beverage. I had to actively move said beverage to a different part of the table for me to not shrink into neurotic insecurity. Can't I just drink my beverage? Why, why oh why does it offend some to see a tea-ring on the coffee table? I love da tea-ring! It was probably a great cup of tea! Everyone loves a great cup of tea. 

(Michael doesn't, but then I always knew there was something strange about him.)

Oh, well. No coasters to hurt me anymore. 

I did quite well in my January exams. Well, exam. I got an A in psychology. Which is something of a relief. And my English Language teacher got back to me the other day - I've got full marks in my coursework. Which is also something of a relief. All I have to do now is not mess up. Three As? I can totally do that.

I can't. Shh.