Apparently Nothin'

So there are sixteen weeks until I leave.  Have I done anything?  No.  I think when you are on the carousel of work, you just don't get off it long enough to think straight, and when you do, you are dizzy and wanting wine, distraction, crappy Netflix films, documentaries about Anne Boleyn, and oblivion.  But sixteen weeks.  It's nothing is it.  And there ain't gonna be fucking Disney birds with ribbons helping me.

I need to kickstart something and the best way is probably selling something vital or actually telling my boss I'm leaving.  It's finding the words.  I guess I'll say I just want to go home.  Not "This job is relentless, and killing me cell by cell and why do you go home two fucking hours before me?"  Not that.  I'll just say I need to go home.

I think I'm going to sell my table.  It's a fantastic table.  It's a table that had dreams of being big one day.  In reality it just held a bunch of my shit, and hardly hosted anyone.  I guess that's my fault for being a curmudgeon. I feel like a failure that I never had a lot of people round this table and fulfilled its purpose.  I often feel like a failure, but I must put that aside.  There is a whole life to remake back in the UK and thinking of how I failed is not going to help.

I remember when I came here, I simply refused to have a Plan B. 

So there's no Plan B, part II.