Day 4487 of the Thousand Year January.

I can no longer write.

All words have dried up, creativity is dead, and sense has evaporated.

Supplies are running low.

Mostly – from in-extensive research – antibiotics and tissues. And anything I feel like eating.

Despite taking all sensible precautions, including pretending not to make New Year Resolutions, refusing to go out after dark, mainlining mindless telly and purchasing the annual Notebook That Will Finally Sort My Life Out, the Thousand Year January has so far gifted me a sinus infection, a water infection, a sick baby hamster, a small insomniac, a pre-teen rebel/refusenik-without-a -cause, a brain-fog lobotomy and a crushing black cloud of doom.

I have not attempted Dry January, but have done well so far in achieving Cry January, where you weep a little every day instead.

I do not recommend.

I have not yet started hallucinating (in waking hours) or drinking my own – possibly currently poisonous – urine, but it can only really be a matter of time.

Send help as soon as possible.

Or Bear Grylls.

Or at least funny memes or pet pictures to keep me afloat a while longer.

A terrible pic of Sir Diggington here as inspiration.

Let’s just hope the little fella makes it…

Try to take care.

It will be February soon, I promise. Or hope. Or something.

Mumonthenetheredge

xxx