I’m risking typing this out on my own PC. This afternoon, I took to the air vent with a vacuum cleaner, and that seems to have sorted some of the dustitis issue out. Granted the fan is still clicking at an unhealthy volume, but the tower isn’t physically shaking any longer. Warning: taking a vacuum to your dying computer fan is not something professionally recommended, but I figured if I couldn’t blow the grime away with an air-canister, I could suck it out instead. And thus, I have enough of a computer to type novel pages as oppose to penning it, and that’s good enough for me at the moment. Besides it’s a Sunday, and the central library is closed.
While shopping yesterday after work, I started calculating individual washing tablet prices. In my current financial state, I have to allocate money towards certain luxuries, such as being able to machine wash my laundry; however, I had to step back and look at myself for a moment, when, in the middle of a supermarket, I was using my phone to explore which combination of tablets would get me the most for my money. I’m growing up. Persil non-bio 20 pack works out to .30p a tablet. The fact that I know and remember that is astonishing to me. My parents would be proud, but I’m not going to tell them. I’m not going to spread the word to anyone, but you hypothetical audience. Call me Holden Caulfield (lit jokes: it’s because I’m clinging to my childhood).
And in all the vacuuming the computer and counting how much I get for my quid, I’m trying to make a living writing a story about a man who wants to be a goat, because he can’t work out how to be a man. Being an adult is weird, especially when, like me, you haven’t been doing it very long, not in the means that most have anyway. I buy socks with robots on them, and I make offerings in a shine two times a week, and it isn’t at all what I imagined I’d be doing as an adult when I wasn’t one.