Writing Texts? Nope.

So I've been thinking. About very little, yes, but still thoughts. Whilst watching this pathetic shuffle in the general direction of an educated mind, and all the attendant bouts of grief and whining, I have been thinking that life seems remarkably short these days. Too short for her to spend her time writing an essay about introductions (of which: half a paragraph done, or indeed half an introduction). Observe with awe as I assume the role of comfort-giver, ready with some buttery toast and an episode of 'Hustle', whispering sweet nothings like 'look, idiot, this doesn't have to be done until next Friday. You don't really care about it anyway. As long as you pass. The question of what constitutes an introduction is not integral to your life quest. Breathe, and know you're not such a bad person after all for wanting to sleep all day. And wake up at 7 for gin consumption. This isn't heinous. Have a biscuit.'

So when she fails, I suppose you can blame me. But how can you blame me? I am a figment of her imagination. And you can't blame her either because reality is all in the mind. She will no doubt blame me too and who are you to tell her I don't exist?

Tricks and stuff,

Consette x