I’ve given up. I don’t think I really have anything to say about this week. It was my birthday. It’s nice now that Spring is here. I made it beyond 33 without being crucified; trying not to take that personally. The oldest existing book using metal movable type was printed in 1377 in Korea. The gas man came over and switched off my boiler for the weekend. I was meant to be going out to an event for my birthday, but I gave somebody else my ticket for their birthday. I’m thinking of spiralling into a depression and never recovering. I’m thinking about how unfair it is that I’m the eight of swords and how I didn’t do anything to deserve this and how it’s everybody’s fault but mine. OK; it’s time to empty the dishwasher and fill the dishwasher and vacuum the floors and steam the floors and empty the washing machine and fill the washing machine and fold the laundry and put it away and fold myself and put it away. I cannot imagine facing tomorrow. It’s even more embarrassing because my life is objectively blessèd and wonderful.