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The cocktail of despair

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The cocktail of despair [ADULT SWEARING ADVISION]

The Cocktail of Despair.
Trouble brewed in our airs.
Ingredients:
  • Chastisement of wife for her securement of obese Christmas tree.
  • Supermarket pizza.


‘Firstly You buy a fat Christmas tree, and then, woman, expect me to dine upon Sainsbury’s staff spread pizza? Do you want me to die?’ I said not unreasonably after my six day endurance of night shifting at the psychiatric pole.
Regular readers will know of my employment [titty waitress, pole entertainer, psychiatric Ward B, Scarborough]

‘Please don’t fuss husband, my lovely, tonight is not for pizza, tonight is for wine; we celebrate your brave six night shift survival.’

‘My god Honey, I am so brave,’ I said.

‘Yes, you need to decompress, recover your senses.’

‘Yes, I am driven completely insane, lover, by night shift. You know I watched Schwarzenegger’s Commando in downtime. I cried endlessly two hours.’

‘You must re-adjust.’

‘I must make love endlessly, love. Love. Love?’

‘No.’

‘Also babe, bad news. You know that mental health nursing degree I fancied?’

‘Meh.’

‘Rejection. The fucking bitch administrator wanted biology. Biology A level to study fucking medicine? What kind of fuckwit!’

‘Fuck them.’

‘I told her “fuck off. Do you know I’ve had three short stories published on-line, stick that up your biology A level.” I believe one short story published on-line is pretty much a degree, heh?’

‘You’re so right.’

‘Thank you.’

...

I can’t say decompression has not been arduous. And what with that minor rejection from life and future [I hate nurses] I was able at least to re-launch this blog for my zero readership.

Also, and to my credit, I was appointed by the high lords of forum, as a judge in the Christmas writing competition.

Although seeing I was a judge nobody entered the contest this year.

I seized opportunity and whizzed off a fantastic 650 slice of life writing, bubbling snot at the keyboard over my tenderness and elegance. I entered straight away so I’ll win and there’s nothing anybody can do about my victory.

Although, looking back, it is rather a dense piece, fathomable only by me really, and if you are me. Also it’s about cats again, and a service user. A service user when fictionalised receiving the pseudonym of Roland. And I feel that/this is rather sloppy writing? [rising inflection]…not all mental health patients are called Roland. So, my question, what is the correct pseudonym for individuals suffering the mental health condition? Your choice: aspergers, personality disorder, creative writer, schizophrenia, take your pick.
Adios.

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