Hello everyone! Guess what a productive weekend I'm having!
* I've polished my army boots, then put on some parade gloss so they're all nice and purrdy for when I next use them.
* I've tidied my room, including my exceedingly cluttered desk.
* I've spent ten minute disentangling my headphones, for the six-hundredth time this morning.
* I've written eight thank-you cards, hunted out my address book, run at light-speed to the post office to buy stamps, and posted them all off.
* I've put a load in the washing machine (and am now praying it will all come out again)
* I've sent two poems off to a competition, and now have to wait until mid-September to get the results.
* I've sent another poem in for a school competition, and am currently engaged in an email conversation with the teacher who runs the competition about its "Wordsworth-like" qualities (*faints with fangirl overload*)
Oh, and I've burned down a village and killed several hundred people. I think I may also have given someone else a heart attack.
... In the novel, you sick-minded person. But I still feel like a mass murderer.
Anyone else ever felt like this? If so, leave me a comment below, and we shall all sit back, sip tea and laugh about our sadistic tendencies while mercilessly sporking the waiters.
On another note, has anyone seen my medication? xD