There’s not enough irony on Planet Gazza.

Let’s be straight here: I make a very bad friend.  I tend to forget details, I don’t follow up on how you’re doing, and I’d probably wouldn’t give a toss if you were getting married (unless I really knew you — otherwise I’d avert myself from even remotely appearing to receive an online invitation to your overly Chinky wedding).

I’m also someone who tries his best to forgive (but not forget), although that hasn’t exactly been working out too well.  I think I’m still trying to find a semblance of normalcy in life, but I’m still getting withdrawl symptoms — I’m still fumbling my way through learning how to properly fumble my way through things.

I think these few elements have led me to procrastinate a lot — I can’t get out of bed excitedly anymore, and I’d rather be late for work by 15 minutes due to the urge for a morning wank.

Nobody’s perfect.

But I think I’m doing better.  Relatively, anyway.

It’s a Sunday, and I’m half-past happy and indifferent.



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