I was going to write this incredibly intelligent bullshit about inbred Cornish people asking why I don’t live on the streets as they apparently do. But I’ve been at work all day and I genuinely cannot be arsed to type anymore than the sentence about to be written.
Here’s the sentence….
It’s me being attacked by moths whilst holding up Zeus with my magical fruity palms as he takes a well deserved break in the pool.
Done, I’m going to bed.
Oh, and my face has returned to it’s normal rotund shape, as opposed to the drug addict wolf thing in the last post.