Perhaps I’m getting old, and paranoia, senility and general foolishness is setting in, but I find myself scrambling for something to hang my hat on.  While I pretty much always considered myself a ‘slashy’, ie, dancer/artist/nerd/ne’er do well, now that I have had to take a sabbatical from dance, and thereby reducing my number of slashes to a number which barely warrents membership in the slashy club, I feel somehow imcomplete, and cast adrift.
Which is just me being a total wanker of course, as I am much more than the sum of my slashes. At least I damn well hope so.  But I do miss it already.  Which is fucking typical.

I also miss my stomach. I had to go back for a chest X-Ray, which of course involves the removal of ones shirt. In days gone by, it was never a great chore exposing the chiseled perfection that is me to the glare of an X-Ray and the appreciative gaze of nubile young nurses, however, after 3 weeks of wheezing, hot chocolate, croissants, chocolate croissants, hot chocolate, confits, tartes and chocolate, I now resemble not much more than pasty weisswurst of roughly the same squidy consistency.

Bah humbug

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