... you massive shithouse sons of whoremeistering fucktard assbandits. Just give me my fucking money back. To whom am I addressing this ditty? Debenhams, that's who. The online shopping experience that acts all fucking surprised when you want to send a parcel back - on 9 December 2011 - and then, and I know I'm presumptuous - expect your money back before the end of the FUCKING world occurs. Which I found out is December 21 2012. That's going to put a crimp on Christmas. Still, at least it'll save on fucking online shopping with returns that are impossible to make and refunds that are impossible to get.
I'm actually revelling in being angry about something. Anything. Three days and nights of crippling stomach pain while contorting my body in paroxysms of agony and writhing around on the bathroom floor meant that the only thing I've been thinking about is shitting and puking. Shall I shit now? Or shall I puke now? Or maybe both? Yeahhhh, let's go for both shall we, you bastard fucking crapmeistering CUNTbucket of an immune system.
It's amazing how it crystallises one's worries down to two things: when will I stop shitting and when will I stop puking? For the first 24 hours I didn't move from the floor. I couldn't drink water. I forgot to put the bins out. This pains me immensely. It was recycling day as well. I could weep looking at the overflowingness of my waste receptacles.
I only managed to take my clothes off after 24 hours. I kid you not. It may sound dramatic but one minute I was lounging behind the bar trading banter with friendly regulars, the next I was home commencing the writhing. Gnawing pain on the inside that was on a par with five days of appendicitis. Really, really fucking bad. Can't move, can't stand, can't speak, can't even text bad.
I know, everyone's ill, right? Everyone's got something? Blah, blah, fucking BLAH. I'm pissed off. And it's my blog so if you don't want self pity then walk away now. Go and read something amusing about a celebrity or some shit. My body lets me down over and over again and it's PISSING ME OFF. I have lost my appendix, my gall bladder, I have had my womb lining burned off, I have had my fucking nose cauterised, I have had tubes stuck down me, up me and in me, I've had burns cut and a possibly cancerous mole removed from my BOOB, I've had sinusitis that lasted for EIGHT MONTHS and now apparently I have got to undergo a load of new tests. Oh no, it couldn't just be a bug could it? Nahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, it has to be something that necessitates tests, tests, tests and then probably some invasive surgery because I don't have enough scars on my abdomen as it is DO I?
The point made long ago it seems was at least pain knocks away the day to day worries. It shuts the voices up into one big primal scream. I suppose that's good. I had loads of weirdass dreams as well, turns out I was running a fever, who knew? My cat did but did he do fuck all about it? Nooooooooooooo. Little bastard.
I dreamt I had cancer and the doctor had organised a time for me to be put down. My friends held a little gathering in honour of the occasion and were well pissed off when I kept wailing that I didn't want to die. And I chose that moment to ask my mum where my dad was, turns out he's not dead, he's just moved to America because he hates me so much. Yayyyy. Subconcious I love you. You're A-M-AZ-ING.
Anyway, yeah. I feel a bit better, like. And it'll all be fine. And yay, 2012 rocks, I love the new year. And all that shit.