Sometimes,
I think this is my favourite painting:

And sometimes, I think this is my favourite painting:

It varies.
I think this is my favourite painting:

And sometimes, I think this is my favourite painting:

It varies.
See, this is the problem with writing a blog as opposed to keeping a diary: anyone can read the bloody thing. A pack of people just walked past my desk on the way out of the office to spend lunchtime at Starbucks, and one of them, upon stopping to ask me if I wanted to join them, jokingly said, “D’you wanna be in my gang my gang my gang.” Clearly this was a reference to my whining post about not getting to be one of the gang. Whether or not he read the post in question, or was just told about it (the latter I think), it doesn’t matter: the damage is done, and now people obviously think I’m some wilting friendless wallflower who must henceforth out of pity be invited to and included in absolutely everything (I’ve already found myself being added to group emails) just in case I take further offence, succumb to the black clouds hanging over my domain and commit ritual seppuku in a fit of pique.
And now, instead of, ooh, I dunno, joining them maybe, socialising with them, possibily even enjoying myself, I’m sitting here, writing yet another whining post which one of them may or may not read at some point in the future and perhaps find themselves further questioning my emotional state and mental wellbeing. And who could fucking blame them.