"I can't hear your voice, do I have a choice?"
So I got the days mixed up and discovered that the Digby Lions date isn't until this coming up Thursday. For me, that is a truly good thing considering that my health has been slowly deterriorating since last week. While my cough has subsided quite a bit, I have for some unknown reason, broken out in a strange rash. On my back. And my left tit. I know! Very strange indeed. Not only that, my head is extremely stuffy, so much to the point where I've gone practically deaf. Q-tips are not my friend. Neither is my ear wax drops. Nothing is working, and I'm walking around like a big, infected, dirty freak.
Against all things that I believe in, I've decided to go to the medical centre bright and early on Monday and make myself an appointment. I have got to get completely cured before this Thursday, because I'll be damned if I'm missing out on this date just because I had some kind of contagious rash that eats human flesh. Seriously, nothing will hold me back. And it would be nice to actually hold a conversation with Swindon without having to say, "huh? I'm sorry, can you repeat that for me please?" every five seconds because inside my head sounds like a hurricane. Life can really be unfair sometimes.
I don't know why I have it set permanently in my brain that I'm invinsible and able to overcome any kind of ailment on my own. I act as if doctors are only out there to make illnesses worse, rather than try to help their patients, but alas, going to see the doctor is always a last resort for me. Really I'm just scared that they're going to tell me that I have some kind of incureable disease and that I only have six weeks left to live; when really, in reality, I was probably just bitten by some kind of bug in my sleep and all I have to do is apply this here cream for seven days straight and I'll be completely healed.
This past week has been interesting for me, and now I find myself alone in the lounge with Bridget, unsure as to what to do. And a wee bit bored. Trish has run to the shop for more cigarettes, Helen is out at a gig and having family bonding time, and Carlene decided to go back home for the weekend to get away from the Roe and do some work. I know I could do some coursework, perhaps clean the dishes from dinner, or even fold my laundry that has just finished drying. But really, I just want to go upstairs, put a film on and call it an early night. How lame am I?
January has flown by me at record speed, and I feel like I'm not taking all of it in like I should be. This could be my last term here. I may not be back next year. I've got deadlines already approaching and Momma's email waiting for me to respond to. When do I want to come back home for the summer so she can go ahead and buy the ticket for me? How about never. I don't want to leave. I may not be back. And I'm finding it difficult and frustrating dealing with my university about certain things. Our international centre is shit and so unhelpful. There's just too many things swirling down the drain, and I'm not really doing much about it, other than sitting on the settee and watching it all happen in front of me, like a bad day-time sitcom, and listening out of my one good ear.
Blah. And what do I find myself constantly thinking about? Constantly day dreaming about? Constantly obsessing about?
Swindon, of course.
Because I'm a douche. And have fucked up priorities. And am a bit desperate. Well, maybe a lot desperate. And sad, sad, sad.
Who knows. Today has been a wasteful day and I should really do something productive for a change. Instead I think I'm going just going to sit here, and finish out the day on the settee where I've been sat for the past four hours. Trish has come back to the flat, and now we're going to transform our London kitchen into Northern Virginia.