As my erstwhile gloomy Lithuanian colleague would so frequently say.

Maybe at least one of the gods knows, because I certainly don’t. Well, what are you whingeing about this time?

The cupboards in the kitchen are bare*, and my wallet is empty. I’m not fully sure if I actually still have a job in order to get more money, and the government is being reticent about the arrival of my student loan. My mother is being unsympathetic (being told simply to pull oneself together when relating recent bipolar diagnosis, self-harm etc is hardly a helpful part of the therapeutic process, nor are platitudes about the relativity of suffering. I don’t give a rat’s fart about how difficult everybody else’s life is, I’d like my own bloody mother to offer a sympathetic ear while I’m trying to work out how to make my own life less shit, thank you.), and my father has pretty much disappeared.

I haven’t even started on the 5000 word essay that has to be handed in in a fortnight, nor have I told anyone significant at university this. Although for all that it doesn’t really matter as I can’t afford the train fare to university at the moment anyway.

And, to rub salt into the wound, the power cable is broken on my laptop, so I’m attempting to remember how to use a PC keyboard while writing this on He Whom I Call Beloved’s wheezing old laptop. A replacement, I am told, will cost £60. Fuck you, Apple.

* Well, that’s not entirely true. I can probably feed us both on the rice, pasta and tinned tomatoes about the house for a good month or so, given that I appear to have stockpiled enough to last me through any unforseen nuclear holocaust.