Introducing ‘bleuf’ to the English language.

Standard

#100BM Day 46

Decided almost spur of the moment to take a Facebook break for a while. Last week, I was pretty much only using the Big Evil for posting Instagram photos anyway, while barely reading the frivolity and fury of friends (sorry, friends) and kinda-acquaintances (eh).

This was inspired in part by the lovely Jackie who is taking a proper hiatus until September. I still need to log in for work-related things because Facebook is the only internets some people understand. But comments on my wall are turned off, I put up a Test Card F as a profile photo, and that’s that.

Will this increase my general productivity and/or creativity? Who the fuck knows. I’m hoping it will improve the quality of this blog, to be sure, because I really have been half-arsing it since I went back to updating daily. And my life has enough distractions.

And I’m still on Instagram and Twitter, anyway, so check out my nonsense there if you don’t like reading much.

As we were driving back into the capital of the Great White North yesterday, Alison said something to the effect of ‘At least you don’t have to worry about buying groceries, since (Weebro) is home’. I replied something about our food preferences not being terribly compatible, but that yeah, it was nice.

Bleuf.

Sure, I got to have a big bowl of pasta for supper (that Weebro made), but there was no bread in the house. Or oatmeal. Or fresh fruit. Or fresh veg that wasn’t mushrooms (technically not a vegetable, obviously) or green onion. There was only enough coffee for a scant cup today. These are things that Weebro (mostly) does not eat, because he is not human.

I slept a massive amount (slightly broken up by weird dreams and cat peskiness) and wasn’t alert enough to make muffins or pancakes, so I had a tortilla with peanut butter and defrosted blueberries (mmm, leaky) and a weak-ass mug of caffeine. Bah.

Should have sent a shopping list ahead of time, like some kind of demanding asshole mother-in-law in a clichéd-as-fuck sitcom.

Or, y’know, hit the grocery store myself last night.

Cleavage sunburn update: It’s starting to blister. Sexy.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.