What is it about life that when it starts to go wrong, everything follows in an inexorable slide towards despair and barely controlled lunacy?
Ovaries spitting blood. Mouth spitting obscenities. Mind plotting revolt.
Tuesday 31 March 2009
Wednesday 25 March 2009
Tuesday 24 March 2009
A Bunch Of Cuts
Cripes. Back in A and E for a follow up during which I beg the doctor to hack my arm off. I mean my cast. He obliges me by cutting it in half. I can now bend my elbow (plus shave my own pits and tie my own shoelaces) - although he assured me it would 'hurt like a bastard' for a few days.
He's not wrong.
My only solace during the 3 hour wait is reading about Bret Easton Ellis' 'self-loathing and vast apathy' and his 2 week crack and smack binge during the run up to the premiere of American Psycho.
'I only hang with friends if they're carrying an eight-ball' he says.
I know the feeling.
He's not wrong.
My only solace during the 3 hour wait is reading about Bret Easton Ellis' 'self-loathing and vast apathy' and his 2 week crack and smack binge during the run up to the premiere of American Psycho.
'I only hang with friends if they're carrying an eight-ball' he says.
I know the feeling.
Friday 20 March 2009
A & E
Everyone should spend an hour in A & E to reaffirm their self-love and redress the balance of smiles over scowls. It very effectively quashes the niggling, maggoty itches of irritation with your life and your lot as it thrusts you deep inside the lives of those who are a lot more fucked than you are.
'Hi honey' a *junkie drawls languidly as I pass. Oh God.
Taking my Colles fractured wrist and Phillip Roth with me, the barking receptionist at Royal Barts Accident and Emergency room appraises me testily and does her best to ignore my politeness. The collection of poor souls collected here on this uncharacteristically sunny Friday - exactly a week since the fated Friday 13th incident - are, for the most part, in more pain than me and wretchedly moaning.
I crave health, sun, freedom and a friendly face/gin and tonic. I have a sudden burning lust for my life and it's populace. Being immobilized is a worthy - if annoying - exercise in appreciation of the simple things and the delay of my gratification is necessary to bang this particular lesson where it belongs - in my face. When the fun and the freedom finally arrive it will taste all the sweeter.
*An assumption, a hasty jump to conclusion and a vastly unfair stereotype. But I'm the boss.
'Hi honey' a *junkie drawls languidly as I pass. Oh God.
Taking my Colles fractured wrist and Phillip Roth with me, the barking receptionist at Royal Barts Accident and Emergency room appraises me testily and does her best to ignore my politeness. The collection of poor souls collected here on this uncharacteristically sunny Friday - exactly a week since the fated Friday 13th incident - are, for the most part, in more pain than me and wretchedly moaning.
I crave health, sun, freedom and a friendly face/gin and tonic. I have a sudden burning lust for my life and it's populace. Being immobilized is a worthy - if annoying - exercise in appreciation of the simple things and the delay of my gratification is necessary to bang this particular lesson where it belongs - in my face. When the fun and the freedom finally arrive it will taste all the sweeter.
*An assumption, a hasty jump to conclusion and a vastly unfair stereotype. But I'm the boss.
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