It is now halfway through the morning side of the night...

... and I am getting tired. Which is, in fact, the plan. Tommorow (or today depending on how you look at "time") I shall get up early, drag myself to the bus and then, very hopefully, sleep the sleep of a hundred men and women, post coitus.
It is my seafeguard against the evil of the bus. The evil enters through your eyes and strangels your occular nerve, causing images to last twice as long in your brain. Theirfor, a 3 hour bus trip laeves imprinted on your mind 9 hours of images of the wonderfully empty countryside of new zealand. There are only so many sheep you can count before you run out of numbers and your head explodes.

The reason I am not a maths teacher becomes apparent.

Speaking of teaching, I have to get my A into G as my old primary school teacher used to say, and apply for some releif positions. I've been put as number one on one list, but that's it so far. Although my plan is to reach enlightenment through the next six months by simply keeping my head so empty that something worthwhile will fall into it (whats up there is mildewed and cobweb covered junk or antiques, either way things you don't want to touch for fear of breaking) starving in the process is not part of the plan.

On my way back to wellington tommorow I shall be passing the bus that is taking ex-girlfriend-Uma to her new job in Auckland. I must say, I am starting to feel slightly bitter now about a,b, and the lack of c, and regretful about x, y, and upset over z. (ALGEBRA TO THE POWER OF AWESOME!) But me is thinking that is normal. Can't have an end of a relationship without regret, and since I have been sober since being in the Bay the cold knife of depression/regret has managed to prick the delicate pink skin beneath my insobriety armour.
As soon as I get back to wellington I will give that Armour a good repair at the blacksmiths. For those of you not so good with that tricky bastard Mr. Metaphor, this means I'm going to drunk at the nearest drinking establishment. See how I did that? The armour is booze, and the blaksmiths is... oh never mind. My wit be lost on the lower classes.

Knock knock!
Who's there?
Poo!

I then collapse into a fit of giggles and refuse to do an housework for the rest of the week. A wit like mine, I restate, is a heavy burden not meant for lesser mortals.

Well, now time for sleep. The faster I sleep, the sooner the awful busride be over, the sooner I make an ass of myself while trying to chat up the blacksmithess over a large mug of embers.

Damn it Flan! You broke Mr. Metaphor! AGAIN!