Am I part of The Cure, or am I part of The Police?

Today I have devoted to essay writing. Which means that I have written four sentences, eaten all my mini-chocolates in my Cadbury Heroes Eggs, investigated Gail Porter's hairloss online, stared longingly out the window, brewed a pot of tea, eaten more chocolate, felt fat, turned on the radio and turned it off, brewed more tea, read four pages of a book, had lunch, read Heat Magazine, scoured the internet re Tom Cruise and Katie's Holmes's "Suri", checked blogs for updates, laid on my bed, gotten up, contemplated bulimia, decided against it, and went to check if the post had come. It had.

Today I received my second installment of the Kerry and Bronwyn Postal Exchange. Bronwyn broke the rules with the text-based treat. It's hardly letter sized, and indeed was sent as a package. Bronwyn sent me a book called Lancashire: Where Women Die of Love, which is so wonderfully odd, though I can assure you that it wasn't love that killed me during the time that I lived there.

I am so bored. If I stamp my feet and shout, maybe Stuart will come home. He's at the top of the CN Tower right now. Do you think he will hear me?