(which is probably a hallmark of a bad writer but whatever)
I’ve frakked up. Really quite badly this time – well, ‘really’ within the confines of being a cis, white able-bodied man with a roof over his head and food in his fridge – and the worst part is I can’t fix it without considerable, and tedious, effort or waiting around, which is equally tedious. I’m also too pissed off to write about the things I wanted to write about today, which is a bummer for those of you that were expecting something more engaging than a series of half-censored swears about my own inadequacies when dealing with a company whose name I’ve had to fully censor because I don’t quite want to burn my bridges before I’ve stepped on them. But by gods I’m standing there with a tinderbox and a selfie stick to document the whole tragic affair as a kind of masochistic coping method.