Apart from the fixable by me stuff, all that stuff in my flat that was shagged the last time I wrote is still shagged. The promised repairman never arrived and my landlady remains incommunicado.
I'm feeling bleh. Sedantary. Sullen. My head crashed during the move and I'm having trouble rebooting it. For the last few days I've been jobhunting like a... like a... like a... well, like a very broke Mordant looking for a job and not much else. All I do is dump CVs at temp agencies, bother agencies who already have my CV ("¡Hola! ¿Usted me recuerda? ¡Estoy aún buscando trabajo!"), eat, sleep and excercise. Haven't been sewing huge felt doll heads with misaligned googly eyes and pointy teeth; haven't been taking bad wonky photos of the new barrio; haven't even been writing. (Well, not proper writing. I'm still blogging, making increasingly bitchy messageboard posts, and churning out word salad.) Which disturbs me, coz writing is sort of my basic level of functionality normally, and non-writyness tends to mean that a certain degree of hatstandness has crept in.
I need a push. Someone push me.