(no subject)

Mike went home yesterday, leaving Mum in my care. Started going through bank accounts. Trying to sort out rates, bills, services, etc. Now I really want to kill myself - I hate this stuff so much. 50% of it is arithmatic, the rest is good filing: which is antithetical to the chaos required for synthesis and, as one can imagine, not my forte.
My brain protests: I can do reductive, and; analysis is compatable with artistic endeavour.
But, however, and nevertheless; it bores me shitless and I long for the numbing touch of my particular trinity, but in reality I'm too old for sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll.
And then again, duty is often boring, dammit, but it has to be done. And there's always Rest & Recreation.