Scientific proof you can eat too much fudge

In an effort to keep myself busy I have spent this morning conducting scientific experiements in the field of food technology. I have attempted to find out the exact amount of fudge a 5'10, 70-something kilo woman can endure. Chocolate coconut fudge, for those of you interested in the finer details of my highly technical experiment. My hypothesis? That I will eat a lot of it and feel very sick, but still keep eating. I may vomit, but this will not stop me.
I didn't make the fudge. It was made in sterile conditions (we'd just done the dishes) by well-respected fudge connoisseur Ruthie. She was wearing an imaginary lab coat and everything. I was supposed to be helping but then realised that previous attempts at making fudge suggest that I ought to stick to my own area of expertise: the eating bit.

So, two cups of sugar later:

I feel a bit ill. Like I shouldn't make any quick movements. Although, the amount of sugar now in my system is going to kick in soon and I will no doubt do something foolish like attempt to get out of my chair and walk to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. This might actually kill me.

Aside from having flashbacks to Form Two science class (even then I could tell that the only lab coats in my future would be on other people, such was my dunce-like inability to understand anything) I have been enjoying the recession. I signed up for the dole today. I don't want to bore anyone, but as 70% of all jobs are not advertised I'm supposed to be bothering you all for work. So hand it over. It's not as easy as it once was to get money from the government, and this is no doubt a good thing, but it is a tiresome proceedure to go through.

Wellington is spectacular - it's cold and wet and out my living room window I can watch it rain heavily all over Oriental and the harbour. Take that, employed people. Even on such an awful day, my love for this city never wavers. It looks good in grey. Maybe it's the fact that I get to walk along the waterfront in order to get anywhere - being this close to the water is pretty darn rad even if I have to wait five months before I can get my leopard-spotted body (it's not fading, I swear now my teeth are getting sharper, as well) out to the pontoon for some fearless leaping into the sea.

Job-hunting is not going so well. But if I learned anything from my lecture at WINZ, it's that I can't expect to go into the kind of job that I want because it's not a time for dream jobs, it's a time for doing whatever I can. So I can kiss goodbye to being a trophy wife and think about being a whore instead.