...way out on the corner of fucked up and evil...

So, due to Paul McGann, hot chocolate and sleep winning out over the Erikpig and a lamb and mint pasty yesterday, my plan to aquire delicious baked goods was moved to today. I did get my lamb and mint pasty, which was very tasty, and then went to the petshop, ostensibly to buy rolled oats for Thlayli (who looks adorable with oat fluff all over his ickle bunny face), but really to check if Erikpig was still there.

He was.

Following scenario ensued:

Froodle: Must not... buy... Erikpig.
Erikpig: I am all alone here.
Froodle: No, Erikpig, I cannot bring you home with me.
Erikpig: At night, monkeys come and bite me. I am like sugar to them.
Froodle: Stop it!
Erikpig: Don't you love me, Froodle? Don't you want to help me make the music of the night?
Froodle: But I'm a human, and you're a guinapig. It would never work between us!
Erikpig: But I love you. See how I snuffle your hand and gaze at you with adoring guineapig eyes.
Froodle: I already have a rabbit!
Erikpig: Forget about him!
Thlayli: ...wait, does that make me Raoul? I don't think I want to be Raoul...
Erikpig: *punjabs Thlayli with ickle guineapig-sized punjab*
Thalyli: *gakk*
Froodle: Noo!
Erikpig: If Thlayli dies, we can be together!
Froodle: Oh, I'm so conflicte- HEY LOOKIT THE NEW BABY BUNNIES!
New Baby Bunnies: *are the cutest*
Froodle: Awww!
Erikpig: You're such a fucking whore.
Thlayli: *nods*

Okay, it might not have happened exactly like that, but you get the general idea.

Anyway, I went on my way without buying Erikpig or the new baby bunnies or the rolled oats, because the petshop didn't stock them. So I had to go to the petstores in the market, neither of which had them either. So now I don't get to see Thlayli with oats on his face and I am sad.

*coughs, then falls over dead*

Urgh, I have been up all night finishing my dissertation, and now I'm in that weird place that's past the point of exhaustion and everything seems to glow. I think this calls for Paul McGann and hot chocolate with little sprinkles. Or sleep. Yes. Sleep is good.

......

Actually, I kinda want a lamb and mint pasty. Fucking dissertation. Perhaps I'll have a nap, go into town and buy one. And check if the Erikpig is still there.

Grumblegrumbleparentalunitsgrumble.

Picture this: it's after twelve on Monday night. I've been up since 8 doing boring-as-Hell uni stuff. I'm in bed, asleep. Paul McGann and Yukimura are providing background noise. I'm probably dreaming something indecent involving hobbits.

The phone rings.

A single, malevolent eye appears in the narrow gap between pillow and hair. There's some incoherent muttering and a suggestion of movement under the mountains of duvets.

The answering machine clicks on.

Ears are half-cocked, expecting the sound of whiny Bisexual Wiccan complaining about the latest dramas in her painfully uninteresting life. Instead, I'm hearing the nasal drone of my mother's Irish accent. I stumble out of my cocoon of precious warmth and over to the computer desk, just in time to hear the answerphone beep as she hangs up.

Hmm, thinks I, as I press the replay button.

Through my sleep-befuddled mind I catch the words "emergancy", "need to speak to you" and "call my mobile as soon as you get this". Oh noes! I think. Some terrible calamity hath befallen the Clan Froodle. Perhaps Buzz's gigantic head has eclipsed the sun, bringing about the second Ice Age. Perhaps Wilhelm - or indeed, Pa Froodle - has been arrested for Intense Stupidity. Perhaps Johnathan has impregnated some teenage whore and needs to know where I stashed a supply of wire coat hangers and rubbing alcohol*. Perhaps Mother has finally realised that she's Irish and plans to kill herself from the shame, in which case, this could be my only chance to say goodbye!

So I immediately ring back, and am instantly harangued over a letter from my dissertation supervisor demanding to know why I missed my first meeting. Bear in mind that this letter is addressed to me and dated November 3rd (thus proving that the Leeds Law Dept. could not organise a prayer in a nunnery, since even on the IOM, it doesn't take 12 days for a letter to arrive), and did I mention, it's almost 1am?! What the fuck?! If you insist on invading my privacy by opening and reading my letters, and then calling me up to bitch about the contents, can you at least do it at a reasonable time?

Got very pissy and explained that combination of computer account being locked due to some fuckwittery on the part of the ISS, and being busy enjoying the throwing up and writhing around on the floor in pain aspects of life thanks to goddamn ear infection had caused me to miss not only the meeting, but the emails preceeding them. Parentals eventually placated (some time around 3am) and said goodbye, leaving me to sit up until 5am fuming about thier idiocy.

In future, shall unplug phone before going to bed.

*Fun Fact: there is nowhere to get an abortion on the Isle of Man. You have to go to Liverpool to get one.

Parental units finally left, though not before threatening, I mean, promising to return for a week in December so that Mother and I can bond over facials, makeovers, manicures and the like. *headdesk* I wonder if James will take her out to play if I give him £50...

Jess, James and Alan are supposed to be coming 'round tonight, but am absolutely exhausted after enduring parental inability to listen to anything I say for 48 hours, cumulating in Dad attempting to hoover up while I'm in the middle of changing Thlayli's cage, despite repeated explainations about why that is a Really Dumb Idea, ie, I haven't finished with the hay or the sawdust or the litter or the food yet, all of which have a tendancy to scatter, and Mother's aforementioned "girly activities" stupidness.

Shall curl up in bed with hot chocolate and listen to Paul McGann tell of the daring adventures of Sean Bean instead.