I like compote, or Porque lo valgo
I don’t know what it is, besides the obvious explanation of non-simultaneous chocolate cake and fruitful masturbation, but I’m all upbeat today. As if I were high on something. Life. The realisation that I like myself, and that I'm worth more than the bad taste left behind from a unrealistic relationship.
Maybe it’s the Glorious End of The Infinite Sadness.
Yay!

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This morning’s pre-breakfast reflecting went as such:
a. Why, in moments of anger, am I capable of picking something up and throw it at the wall, but always pick up the fifty pence eggcup from New Cross cheap-ass market? Why always something cheap that doesn’t matter? Isn’t anger meant to overlook thrift and carefulness?
b. Should I, like my lovely and very controlled, ass-kicking martial artist friend S, pick up Kendo? From his description, I understand it goes like this:
1.Put on Dark Vader mask and padding.
2.Pick up big stick.
3.Step forward.
4.Hit opponent on any of the following body parts: head, wrists, chest, and throat.
5.When beating opponent to a pulp, shout out the name of said body parts. Head! (whack) Face! (whack)! Just to make sure opponent knows exactly which bit it is that’s hurting like a bastard.
6.Now, your turn to get whacked into Dark Vader compote.
7.And relax.
Pricier than eggcups, but oh so much more cathartic.

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*cough*
And finally, a big thank you to the lovely people who have put up with me for the past two months and reminding me that I'm worth it. I had forgotten - temporarily.