I awake at 6 am, fully-clothed, drool-covered hands on drool-covered laptop keyboard, nonsense half-sentences on the screen. I brush the sleeping cat off my feet, I rub my agonisingly cricked neck, and I cursecursecurse my decision to go drinking with Kieron and his comics friends rather than cook myself a sensible supper. I also realise I am at least six hours late for Thursday’s posts on RPS. I must do them now! But about what? I scour my boozy dreams for inspiration. One in which a PR agency was circulating an image of Felicia Day with a badly Photoshopped-on beard and claiming it was their new hiring, Dave. Something about birds fighting. No, I can’t tell you that one. Ah yes, F.E.A.R 3. I actually dreamed about sodding F.E.A.R. 3.
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