Category Archives: death

road to wellsville

It’s the morning after the day before. I feel as if someone has punched me in my kidneys and filled my intestines with bleach. Despite going to bed relatively early I managed to wake up at fucking 5am and worry for three hours about nothing before going back to sleep for 10 mins, and getting up with the intention of going to work.

Yesterday was as if it didn’t exist, the entire fruits of my being, the only evidence I was actually on the planet I vomited into WordPress, I didn’t go out, I barely moved from one room to the other. Apart from a minor surge in my utility bills I may as well not have been here. It was dead dull.

I managed to eat twice, in both instances soup and dry white toast. I thought it best to ‘take in nourishment’ over ‘eating a meal’; I really didn’t fancy spending another 24 hours up to my eyeballs in sick and formless plop. The first incarnation of food was touch and go, it hit my pea sized stomach with a roar and for a moment I wasn’t entirely sure if I’d pushed my luck or not, an appetite appeared a few minutes after and I stuffed the rest down like one might see in one of those black and white war films when a POW gets food for the first time in a while. Obviously afterwards I felt sick again and my system slowly crunched into life. As I type this a solid turd is but mere fancy.

By the time I was ready for my second food incident I was actually quite hungry, I increased the quantity of bread which for some strange reason gave me a panic attack, fuck knows where that came from. I wasn’t too fussed though, I was beyond care and it couldn’t be bothered and slunk off.

The only thing of note about yesterday, aside from the turd reference, was that, despite drinking gallons of water and endless cups of tea, I didn’t actually do a wee wee through my front cock. I had my last dumpeesh at around 2 pm and that was the last time I visited the chod bin…

Anyway, back at work feeling ravaged.

Look, being ill has effected my music taste, ahem


awake

There are many negative sides to not drinking, many. If you ask me there are plenty more reasons to drink than not, but my liver might have something to say about this, indeed, my liver has convinced my brain to take not just one day off from drinking a week but two. This is all very positive in one respect, but in others, it’s horrific.

Apart from the fact that twice a week an evening my mind is going to have to face up to the realities of the sober self, as opposed to the egotistical one that visits me after a few glasses and leads me to view myself with unadulterated optimism bejewelled with the trappings of future success that will come to pass when ‘they’ understand. The sober self has to actually pull his fucking finger out, and if he isn’t in a position to do that, worry about not pulling his finger out, be aware of time slipping between his fingers and consider the pointlessness of existence, it’s a fucking scream I can tell you.

But not is all lost, there are distracters in the form of Radio 4, TV, tea, cigarettes, good food (which in itself can be problematic because good food needs good wine, right?) and of course Myfwt. This is all well and good when one is awake, in fact, the further one goes into the evening the better one feels about abstaining, a sense of achievement and well being begins to detract from the desire to feeling a bit squiffy. No hangover in the morning! And here is the problem. To get to the morning one has to sleep.

When you’re arseholed sleep is relatively simple, but stone cold sober it can go either way. Last night was such an occasion. Could I sleep? Could I fuck. It was a cold night, the duvet didn’t seem to fit, the little bits of exposed flesh felt as if they were being sandblasted by hail, my limbs didn’t fall comfortably pulling my skeleton against the natural forces of physics, my fucking head, my pulsing blood filled cranium, was crushed into the pillow twisting my neck at every turn. Inside my mind thoughts raced in and out like rats risking it for chocolate in busy kitchen, I couldn’t rest, I couldn’t settle, I couldn’t fucking sleep. I’ve no idea what time I finally took off, some 3 or so hours after I’d laid down? Oddly, I’m not feeling that tired today, this may have a lot to do with it being Friday, sunny (albeit cold) and January is finally behind me.

The weekend is punctuated with things to do in between swathes of freedom. The only concrete plans are to see a flat tomorrow afternoon and lunch on Sunday with Andrea, Myfwt, my bro and his missus. Needless to say I’ll have to shop at some point and I intend to have a drink tonight with some friends, though at this stage this isn’t fixed.

Despite my rather solemn entry today, I’m actually feeling alright so do join me for more japes and capers on Monday. In the meantime I’ll leave you with some classic, pioneering Death (I doubt many/any of you will like it but there is nothing wrong with trying, the clean living lead singer Chuck Schuldiner succumbed the name of his band through cancer) and the usual Friday list which has been cut back on account of some the upsetting Google searches that have lead cunts to this site in error. The remaining list is just baffling.

Have lovely weekends.

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