January. Hell month. My powerful brain – usually a throbbing, high-performance organ capable of doing several sums per minute – has atrophied to a wet walnut, a sodden grey scrap of cauterised flesh that ricochets around inside my skull like a horrible slug. The excesses of the holiday season have left my wretched body brittle and hollow. My eyes are sunken into my cadaverous face, like somebody launched two bad grapes as hard as they could at some uncooked bread. There is only one reprieve from this cursed month, and that is to become a lumberjack. Don’t try and stop me.
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