It’s Friday night. 8.48pm.

I have turned down two invitations to go for drinks and, you know, have a good time.

I have taken my pants off. But not yet my makeup, because it looks really good today and I am not yet emotionally ready to part with it.

I’m sitting under my doona. Doona, not duvet, because Australia.

I have a half-drunk, luke-warm cup of coffee on my bedside table.

I ate a lemon meringue tart for dinner, with a side of skittles. I’ll be treating myself to onion rings for dessert, and possibly a banana. (Diet of champions).

I just had my twentieth existential crisis in four weeks. I looked at my reflection and my reflection looked back at me. I am a person. A real, live person. I stretched out my arm, and my arm stretched out in front of me. Weird, right?

Was my coffee laced with something?

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