As far as I am concerned, Friday the 25th of February did not exist, because I spent all of it lying on my face, trying to avoid eye contact with my parka hanging on my door, because it was actually a moving skull. And my owl bag which contains my Lomo camera, also a skull. So if I didn't look at them they wouldn't eat me. Day faded into night punctuated only by visits from my most loyal friend: Neurofen Cold & Flu, purchased by Ceri, in literally the hour before he got struck with the same thing. This is what it looks like, in case any of you are unaware.
So the day somehow rolls on into Saturday, at which point he and I are so ill that we make an elaborate plan to get to the Gobus, which is miraculously intervened with by my father (better known as the single greatest man alive) who goes into 'MUSTKEEPMYCHILDALIVE' mode and no less than drives across the country to rescue me and Ceri. And drives back - as we listen intently, in our sick-comas, to the election results. Sure didn't we all full well know it'd be Fine Gael and Labour - hopefully Labour'll knock some cop on into them. But shush with the politics aren't we all up to our eyeballs with it anyways.
The worst thing by far, worse than puke and delirium and sweat was having to cancel a gig for the first time. The Block T Fundraiser - I'd been really sweetly invited to come contribute some of my poetry to the night but was only barely able to write an apology e-mail. Heartbroken. Hopefully they'll have me back another time. Also, worse than this, having to cancel a gig for the second time. A new spoken word night in The Roisin Dubh of all places, Testify Nights, where my name was even on the poster (I have a copy in my bedroom), I'd to hand over my sword on that one too. Two gigs down. I'm determined to be up on my feet for the Speakeasy in Greystones and The Good Room in The Mercantile on Saturday. It's always the important weeks that the wrecking ball hits you, isn't it?
Yesterday, another lost soldier and today I am going to a second doctor for more being poked and prodded and hopefully fixed. One thing I will say, is that my mood has increased. I suppose that's what happens really isn't it, you cheer up a little then your body follows. I'm trying to write a poem about me and Ceri both having the same dream last night, but that isn't working yet. Maybe my poetic gears are still infected and gross. What made me realise my brain was back to normal was this:
Two hours this morning spent on Regretsy, where the lovably hateful webmistress scours Etsy.com (online vintage/handmade marketplace) for the most hideous creations known to man. Sometimes however, they are pure genius, like this AMAZING cross stitch. I'll leave it to you to read through the pages and laugh for yourself, but any sex-toy that features Eva Peron engraved in copper on it... well I just feel the world has to know.
So long story short, I'm only dyin leave me here in my sweatbed with my equally ill boyfriend to feel sorry for myself and watch Boardwalk Empire until we recover
party
on
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