It's finally happened; I've had a reverse mental breakdown.
It's a reverse because I'm acting completely out of character. I am happy. I am confident. I am being - ugh, stupid word - proactive.
The clocks will soon go back and the weather is now officially allowed to be shitty. With no more bank holidays on the horizon and my Eastern European trip done and dusted - and no more work leave available anyway - there's nothing left to look forward to until Christmas.
Thus, for the last week, I have - ugh, stupid phrase - Life Laundered.
I have taken all my household bills, calculated their combined yearly total, worked out the monthly average (which I then halved as Large Northern Flatmate obviously pays bills too) and am squirrelling that sum - 35 quid - into a dormant account every month ready for the next bill to land. I Will Be Prepared This Time.
I am now keeping abreast of my bank account and actually making a note of how much I can spend per week. I am 34 and I've never actually done that. It sucks, but it's incredibly simple and effective. Yesterday, I spent 99p. On a Saturday. When I normally spend at least £50.
I didn't do anything all day, but you get the point.
I have cancelled the gym I never go to near me. That was £36 a month right there.
I then vowed to forsake the tube throughout October if at all possible, and cycle to work again.
I have decided to be less wasteful and to eat what's in my fridge/larder instead of letting it rot and throwing it out.
I am avoiding alcohol as best I can, throughout October. God knows I had enough of the stuff in Europe, and I'm fairly sure I've never spent a month of my adult life alcohol-free, so it'll be nice to attempt. I think.
Oh, and I haven't smoked since last Monday when I woke up and finished my remaining fag from the weekend.
So, October's been a clean sheet so far:
I haven't smoked.
I haven't eaten any crap.
I've cycled to work and back every day.
I am spending my money only on healthy food. Any free time has so far being spent on household chores and writing.
I should be at the shoe-eating/ murdering stage by now, but I'm not. I feel strangely empowered. I spent last Christmas, and pretty much the dozen before that, in an orgy of bacchanalian excess, boozing, smoking, and eating only the yellowest, shrink-wrapped garbage. I would at least like to approach this one with a little more common sense.
Apologies for the conservative, rigidly boring, and relentlessly dull nature of this post. I wouldn't expect much else here for the rest of the month, but you're all invited to stick around for the inevitable breakdown where I end up face-first in the gutter with the world's largest hypodermic syringe protruding from my neck, its contents of mashed up Pringles, 2,000 Marlboro lights, Tesco's value meatfeast pizzas, a barrel's worth of lager and a light sprinkling of crack and skag being absorbed into my ruddy, bloated corpse.