Glaargh

Somewhat inevitably, the instant I stopped work I got ill. This is what happens when you work all hours in a job you are indifferent to at best. Now, I am rarely ill, so when it happens I treat it as a rare scientific experiment. Illness is a curiosity, an oddity, like a baby panda or a happy goth.

I am sickly and feverish and achy and don’t really know what’s going on. I realised something was up yesterday morning when I left the house and didn’t recognise the streets I walk down every day to the station. It was like being in a David Lynch film – there was something not quite right about suburbia. I knew I was probably ill when I got home last night and lacked the energy to do anything but lie on the sofa. Illness was confirmed when I cried during Bruce Almighty. I am ashamed to write that last sentence.

When I’m unwell, it’s my sleep that suffers most. I wake up with the most bizarre delusions – I really should stick a note to my ceiling saying “IT’S OK. JUST SHUT UP AND GET BACK TO SLEEP.” The last time my body failed I woke up convinced one of my friends had texted me to say he and his friends were all coming round at 3am. I was a sweaty panicky mess.

Last night, I appear to have sent myself a text at 1.34am. I was going to elaborate on my train of thought, but the SMS alone is almost a poem:

Delirious? Brain sends messages to limbs. Visualise myself doing it.

No!

If you don’t fix this you won’t be able to sleep!

Somewhere, a siren stirs – could this be carbon monoxide poisoning?

Brain, rouse yourself!

End – we are cold.

Merry Christmas, you beautiful people. Hope you’re not all hallucinatory zombies at the mo. I probably won't remember writing this in an hour! Woo!

22.12.06 15:50