I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I can't come to the studio to help you paint tonight, boys. My nails, as I have pointed to you, are fucked to bits. My cuticles are ragged and there is a weird scummy mixture of white, blue and black emulsion paint under my nails. It simply will not do.

When I tried to show my hands to Jaz, he just made this mock-whine that sounded like a weird cross between an ovulating Husky bitch and a paper shredder. He then showed me the state of HIS hands which made me reel back in horror. Iwillnotturnintomymother. Iwillnotturnintomymother. Iwillnotturnintomymother. He also pointed out to me the state of the blister on his forefinger that had ripped apart from him ripping the old carpets off and it was red and raw. I am tired all this up-onemanship business. Listen to me whine. I won't even bother about complaining to Josh because then the both of them will gang up on me and Josh being Josh, he'd even dig up some old story about that one time his brother hit him and he fell off the swing when they were kids. Something that had no fucking relevance whatsoever to the crisis at hand. MY fucking soapbox. Get off it from Exit B, please.

Therefore, I shall sit here tonight, click my life away on my Sims Social and paint my nails a nice shade of Nude at the same time because us women are multi-taskers that way. We, or at least I, may not be made to withstand the harshest of elements but we sure as hell do a few things at once.

Not that they gave a shit, my not being there, of course. They just gathered their things at 1800 hours just now and set off for their Big Painting And Carpeting Extravaganza where this woman would not be wandering from out of the rooms covered in paint at 2200 hours yelling SOMEBODY FUCKING FEED ME BEFORE I DIE and then later at 0400 hours: ARE WE GOING TO MCDONALD'S FOR BREKKIE? Jaz himself just buggered off with a kiss and said Be Good. No, I will be extremely naughty and paint my nails black just to show you how tortured my soul is and how bleak my future looked to me when I looked into the evening horizon with you not by my side to console me.

And then I bashed my knee.

So. Fucking. Embarassing.

I was on the way to the shops with Jaz when I took a fucking dive. You know how sometimes you were in so much pain and shock that you just ended up on all fours on the floor and you were not sure whether you wanted to cry from the pain or laugh to cover up your humiliation? Yes. What came out of Jaz's mouth was 'Ooh, steady! Are you alright?'. And what I answered was, 'MY LEGGINGS!'. That made me stood up quickly to check the damage though; to see if I had indeed fucked my leggings up. Leggings were fine, though. Unscathed it was, so awesome was the workmanship of TESCO leggings. Still, we hobbled on to the shops where I kept saying that my leg felt wet. Jaz was quite sure that I had sweated. From the knee. Just the shock of keeling over made my knee go into shock and sweat.

I went back to the house and yanked my leggings off and true enough, said knee was well and truly mashed.

Obviously, he rolled his eyes when I whipped the phone out to take pictures.

I NEED to show off my mangled bits to my mates on the interwebs, I said.

Still, he sat me on the counter and patched me up like the dutiful love of my clumsy life that he is.

Then he took the time to remind me that he was poorly too because on my way crashing down to the floor, I had snapped his arm that was holding my hand. 

Like I gave a shit when I was in that much pain, really.

Still, I gave him a kiss.

Begrudgingly.

Now, what did I tell you about making sure you look pretty going to the shops?

At least then, if you fall on the way there, you still look pretty, my children.