#things???

someone ordered an anal play bundle and i named the folder heart shaped booty and and and yes i feel very good about that in case you wondering i am in fact purring internally idk why im so satisfied but i accept this feeling full heartedly

i have to go to bed in an hour if i want to get The Right amount of sleep but i am a very happy person rn and sleep sounds the boringness

God the cigarettes in London were shitty. In Venice I stacked up boxes of Lucky Strikes in deep purple; the corner of this one restaurant beyond Piazza San Marco On New Year's it pissed down drearily like the city warning of a dullard's year to come, dripping dank with heralded misfortune, and the streets long with grey and criss-crossed shuttered gates; and I missed Glasgow with the streets strung with lights by the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) across the Victorian Manchester-evoking facades, the stained glass Glasgow-style windows pink with Mackintosh roses - The JSP cigarette boxes were grey and mint green like the ratty pigeons wandering aimlessly along the gum-speckled streets, and pecking through trash bags overflowing with garbage by the lampposts and spilling onto the sidewalks, as if remembering bombings, the war, the sirens, and the empty overground when the people had scuttled like rats infesting the sewer tunnels into the air-raid shelters; do pigeons also have intergenerational trauma? Are London's pigeons' eggs laid flecked with remembrance of pea-soup fog, thick as gravy, and the stench of tuberculosis floaters in the Thames, the docks damp with illness, the workmen's sweat and disillusionments, straight out of the workhouses and slums' poor human misery? Nobody caroled at Christmas, but drunkards' shouts filled the night and floated up towards third-storey windows with battered screw-locks. The Polish man sitting in the chair in the room barrelled on in Italian about London being unfit for living in, and the floors creaked as the 29 rattled on across the manhole covers on the road. In Venice the fog rolled in and made the Ca d'Oro's weathered face sombre with a shambling king's majesty, and ghostly crept atmospherically onto the Grand Canal. The grand navy blue and gold clock set into the tower perpendicular to the basilica looked like the dial-face of an expensive Audemars Piguet watch and the moon-times. If Big Ben chimed, I did not hear it. Somewhere in Earl's Court the pubs rang with cheers knocking against the high walls and chandeliered-ceilings and beer washing over the lips of pint glasses, slopping onto the floor as in a student's sharehouse by the splintering bar counter. The music continued to be bad in Soho. Nonetheless the night went on. Someone in a Kensington mansion clinked wine glasses and champagne and a cork went off. The rats in the Underground rejoiced, for there was an especially good yield of crumbs and scraps that night.

In other news I also jumped into a shouting match between my manager and a few other people over free education/healthcare and taxes and shit. Oops? ovo;;;;;;

today isn't going