Well hello there...

Welcome to my blog. Brb... I'm making memories (read as: Wine. I'm going to get some wine...)

Ok, so to say I am suffering from burnout is an understatement. People asking me to do something simple, like write my name down on a piece of paper, to me, feels like the equivalent of someone asking me to plot the rotational axis of Uranus (why do we always pick on Uranus) and then write a 5000 page dissertation on my findings, and to show all my mathematical calculations as well.

I hate maths. If I don’t have fingers or toes available when I have to work things out, I’m screwed.

I am as irritated as two wet cats in a pillowcase, and feel that I may possibly maim… or murder someone before the day is over. Boiling oil may be involved.

I think I am going to start my own government, so I can make my own rules and not end up in the chooky for it – damn the man I say!

Treacle’s World Domination!

Rules that I am going to make immediately:

· I’m allowed to yell “Off with his / her head!” at whomever is pissing me off and some one will do it (Please send cv). (I’ll also be able to choose whether the tool will be rusty or not, like those feck orf old tin openers)

· I’ll zoom around on a Segway (it will be pink and bejewelled cause I’m the boss) and yell things like: “YOU *points* give me your lunch!” and of course they would have to comply. If Not? Off with his head! (but, pass me his sandwich first). Yes, I am hungry while I write this.

· I will have a hand clapper, which if used, will immediately drop a bulldozer from the sky and drop it on whoever I wish to drop it on. This will be used in the traffic alot I am sure. Always wear a helmet when travelling on Treacle’s highways.

· All pretty people may or may not be banished to Siberia (I’m still deciding)

· All sick leave under Treacle’s law will be decided by me. Please do not apply unless your head is on fire and you are in full body traction. Your second cousin 3 times removed is not of my concern and if they have a boil on their arse do NOT come and ask me for sick leave.

· If you sms Treacle at 4am, you will have “papercut on your bollocks” torture!

· Days may not be allowed to drag like snails stampeding through peanut butter anymore. I shall decide relevant hours… as I go. You sun will listen to me… or off with your head!

Oh... and chickens may not be cross examined about their movements anymore!

Narf! *walks down passage clapping hysterically*

Holiday Blues

You want to cook me WHAT?!