Yeah, well.

Happy Birthday to me.

I actually can't think of anything else to say.

Partly, I'm a bit pissed off by the on-going insomnia issues.

Partly, I'm a bit sad that my essays are sort of, well, done and that means that everything I do feels kind of pointless again.

I suppose I could start reading my Research Ethics books. Taking notes. Trying to be organised. Or useful.

Partly, I'm pissed off that everywhere is flooded and snow is forecast.

Partly, I'm pissed off that so much is behind me and what has it brought? I feel like I'm worse at work and worse at relationships and worse at friendships and worse at writing and on and on than ever before.

My hair is greying and my face wrinkling. I look back and realise that I was, I actually was, at times, pretty and attractive.

Half a century and what have I done? Kept going? Is that it? Really? And was it worth the bother? The resources (water, electricity, fossil fuels, landfill sites, plastic bags that ended up in the sea, oestrogen in the rivers, dead chicks and calves, housebound cats, anxiety-ridden dog, screwed up horses).

So I think about the poodle. Tallulah or Esmeralda. Ptolemy or Ezekiel. Tally or Esme, Tolly or Zeke. And I think about the end. The rapture of finitude.