A punctuationless rant.

Firstly, let's address just how Christmas Miracle-y it is that I am writing this post from somewhere other than my parent's sofa. Seriously? The only time I got up from that woven-fabric-ed, overly-stuffed, ARE YOU KIDDING ME I HAVE TO SLEEP HERE TOO BECAUSE YOU MOVED HOUSE AND NOW I DON'T HAVE A BEDROOM MUMANDDAD! couch over Christmas was on New Year's Day when my aunt stormed through the front-door with half of her hand missing and an incredible amount of blood. She was whimpering like a scolded child, and it turned out that in renovating her property next door she'd like, totally lost a limb.



That isn't when I got off the couch.



I got off the coach when Mama grabbed the car keys to head off to hospital with her, put on her fancy winter coat and then was all, "Laura. Go upstairs and find me the grey scarf I wear with this. Now. If you look behind the door in the office, right beside where we keep the thing..." by which time her sister had legit bled out and now her handless ghost haunts what I have affectionately come to call The Forge because most of Dad's time is occupied by fuelling the real-coal fire they use to heat the house in lieu of actual central heating.



Bitches be crazy. And largely void of empathy for others.



Anyway, this totally comes to you from Rome because yes. After two weeks at The Forge I had to like, resume real life and shit. But the thing is, I'm locked out of my new apartment because my housemate didn't leave me a key at the local garage like she was supposed to, so I'm cold and tired and in a cafe my friends all refer to as Bruce's even though the owner's name is Chris, eating an iced doughnut even though last night when I passed normal-person's sleeptime at the airport because of a stupid-o-clock departure I ended up eating THREE iced doughnuts in a row as I had an impromptu sleepover with a 55 year-old nurse called Patricia from Tyneside who I met on the train and bedded down with in the arrivals hall. It was way comfier there.



And Internet, did I even tell you I have a new apartment? PROBABLY NOT. Because of the lack of moderation in my life makes me unable to successfully communicate large life events and changes in circumstance when I have a drink in my hand and I haven't slept in a gazillion and three hours and I've eaten too much sugar and I had to leave the sofa. THAT BEAUTIFUL SOFA.



There is SO not enough punctuation in my world. Or vodka. I need more vodka.