Fuck this.

I'm so sick of everything going wrong. And no one even contemplating everything not being my fault. You actually could not be more mistaken, and I'd give anything to tell you, to make you feel like this, but I can't do that to people.

Last night was strange. It was intended to be a relieving night. To escape. But no, as usual, drama prevailed and enveloped the night. However, much of said drama died down until I suffered an excruciating blow from Tadhg Walsh. In a fit of shit-phone-induced-rage, his phone was hurled to the ground and he proceeded to stamp on it, as though it were some fiery monster. After noticing this, I thought "You're gonna need tha' for a taxi, boi.". However, in trying to salvage what was left of the phone, my hand became involved in the raucous and was repeatedly stamped on 'til I could no longer bend my fingies.
Adamant to not be hindered by such a disability and be subsequently forced to carry no more than two plates at a time in work the following day, I, in my inebriated state, fashioned a splint to keep my fingers straight. And of course, we only have the best medical equipment in my house. The only straight finger length object available from the drawers I looked in was Pritt stick. So, armed with industrial strength duct tape and my aforementioned Pritt stick, I set about affixing my fingers to this tube of adhesive with even more adhesive. Not everything had been considered though. Bear in mind, I had found my raw materials, if you will, in the kitchen and as such, was still fully dressed so the problems began to multiply from there on in. I survived though, wha'?

I hope things can get better soon, 'cause I just can't keep this up. De réir a chéíle a thógtar na caisleáin, áfach.

"Well it rains, when it rains.
Oh, my heart don't feel the same.
There's a sun in my sky,
You don't see it, or even try."