Category Archives: vomit

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


boils up

I have a fucking massive boil behind my right ear, in exactly the same place on the other ear another is developing. I’ve no idea what the source of these 2 cunts is/are but I’m not happy. Swinging back to the first ear briefly, I’m fucking deaf in it, 100% silence. Bollocks.

The office is like a morgue, I’m finishing off a fucking project and my ‘team’ for want of a better word are rummaging around in their unwashed beds, flailing in the bathroom or pushing cardboard cereals down their guts. The fuckers should be here; one of them may get a smack. The bloke behind me has this habit at talking me when I’m working (writing this) usually to bitch about someone in the office. If he’s not bitching he’ll prequel an attack of conversation by laughing falsely in the futile hope that I’ll turn round all bright eyed and say, ‘hey, what’s so funny?! Instead I mash my fists into the desk and grinding my teeth into themselves, for his sake.

I had a lovely evening last night; I got home following an exhausting but rewarding cycle and had a shower. I’m then sorry to say I immediately played Tomb Raider as I was stuck, and I wanted to unstick myself before Myfwt arrived. She bounced in at 7 on the dot and I poured us a pair of G & T’s, darling. We sort of resumed the conversation that I’d ballsed up last time, either way it was a perfect combination of hilariousness twinged with life affirming seriousness and lasted for a good while before Big Brother took over, sort of, once she gets going that one there’s no stopping her. I rather like that though.

The side effect of all this yakking was that dinner consisted of smoked salmon on toast and a side of cucumber in mayo, Dijion and dill, delicious but not substantial really, plus I’d opened a bottle of wine (as per self-imposed rules) and it was slipping down a treat. Myfwt was also drinking well, in addition to 3 G & T’s she was also indulging in the wine, in fact, I worked out that over the course of the evening I’d had one G & T and ¾ of a bottle of wine (enough but by my standards fuck all, though these days I feel it more) and she’d stuck half a bottle on her aperitifs… Before she had a bath she was giggly and delightfully flirtatious… I began to count my chickens…

…after the bath all of her drinks and smoked salmon and toast and cucumber in mayo, Dijion and dill, were flying out of her face into the chod bin. The thing about Myfwt’s is that, being an ex-model, beautiful tall and lithe, is that she commands a perpetual state of grace that even when undertaking the passing of vast geysers of puke, she retains this perfect dignity which is at once both charming and amusing. I watched my chickens roll over and die. She came to bed feeling a little lighter, smiled at me and passed out. I fell asleep shortly after with a heavy dick.

My ‘team’ are slowly arriving at their desks muttering excuses, I’m not being particularly co-operative. Five minutes ago I picked up the phone and accidentally smashed it into my deaf ear, before realising that it doesn’t fucking work but in doing so burst the bubo. A river of pus and blood are trickling down my neck as I type this, a rough paper hand towel has stemmed the flow. I don’t think anyone has noticed…

This time next week I’ll be off to Glastonbury, I need to get this bloody project off before then. I’m under pressure; I don’t like pressure, especially when I’m deaf with blood/pus all over the bloody shop.

I saw this live once, my head nearly fell off. Take drugs before you indulge