So, I got the sick about three days ago. The common cold sort of sick.
My nose is stuffed. Swallowing is difficult. My body feels like jelly. And my anus is running faster than Usain Bolt. See – gross. Eww. Double Eww. Ever so much eww.
Atop that, I don’t feel like writing. I can barely form a single coherent sentence in my head let alone write a few hundred words in the form of a post. I mean, I don’t feel that bad. I’m not in utter agony, rolling around in a puddle of my own broken faeces. I’m not so bad that I feel like crawling back into bed with Teddy under my arm and a whiskey ginger infused, lemon tea sitting on my bedside table. But I’m not functioning in the way I’d like to function.
I’m cranky. I’m irritable. I’m forgetting things. My throat’s sore. And I’m cranky.
Even now, as I try to sort out the random cluster of words floating around in my blurry mind, I can’t think of what the fuck to write next. I can’t even write nonsense. I can’t rant. And if you can’t rant, what on earth is the point to living?
Anyway, obviously the trees set before dawn when the fried eggs are put into the oven after the sailor’s shagged his towel.
Umm. I really wanted to write a post today. I don’t know why that is. Wait, yes I do. The reason I write is because I’m totally and utterly and delightfully insane. Writing allows me to transport my insanity from inside of my head to my laptop. It’s much easier to deal with a crazy person when they’re not living inside of you. It’s much easier to live your life when the bag of crazy that homes you is eaten by bed bugs. What? Fuck. Sorry. I mean to say… FUCK! I don’t know what I meant to say.
It feels like I’ve ingested some sort of sedative. Something to calm the pain receptors in mi’ noggin and unify my neuronal network. Alas, I’m as sober as a flying penguin. I’m black. I’m white. A straight shooting, coffee drinking, loud farting, whinging, whining, death defying whale sperm.
And what’s even worse… Australia’s election results. Eww. Triple eww. What the shit, Australia?
WHAT THE SHIT?
I don’t even care about politics, but a few years ago I promised myself that if this delightful baboon ever became PM, head honcho, the leader, the Man, King Shit, I’d take a long vacation somewhere not Australia. Or rather, I’d pick up my shit and move to Congo and live as a nomadic tribesman whose staple diet consists of peyote and magic toads.
Alas, I’ve just signed a year lease, so I’m legally bound to this country for at least another year.
Straya. Fuck yeah!
Anyway, I have no more left to rant. Have a beautiful weekend, my cyber friends. Peace out. Peas in. Namaste. And now must go and lie down.