Headache - A real thumper, sonofabitch, wanker, gayarseboobs of a headache. The fact that I'm currently listening to Venus in Firs probably isn't helping things. And neither is the five neurophen I consumed yesterday. I know I probably ODed, but come on, how was I supposed to know that ibruprophen was different to Neurophen? And if they don't want people to eat handfulls of neurophen, why the hell do they make them so sugar-coated and delicious? Pah.
Dizzyness - dude. I stood up suddenly and nearly collapsed on the floor. I'd probably get a headrush from bloody going up an escaletor. A slow one. In and old person's home. And you can just FORGET about rotating in my swivelly chair/focusing on things/writing legibly. Well, ok. My writing is never really legible. In fact, it looks like it was written by a guy with only hooks for hands. Dude, that would rule.
Anger - I was rowing today, as my mother has perfected the method of guilt-tripping out of skiving school, damn her, and Mr F (DUDE) told me that I looked 'uncomfortable, angry, pissed off, with rage welling up inside of me, g'day mate'. Dude, I just realised that that made me sound like Darth Vadar. Cool. And that was on top of the usual anger, discomfort, pissed offness and rage welling that I'm usually like. Sheesh, the swear jar of me in a boat would probably have enough to solve the pension deficit, Mr Blair.
NB: Mr F didn't actually say 'g'day mate', but I'm one of those people who holds the opinion that all australian people should say g'day mate, wear hats with corks on then, wrestle alligators, then have a Fosters and a Barbie. Call me old fasioned, that's what I think.
And it didn't help that Joe and Oli decided to be cullywunts today and repeat 'You're pissed off. Why are you pissed off? Pissed off? Why, you? Blah blah blah, my legs hurt. Stop being pissed off! Lalla, look, he's all pissed off. What a looser,' over and over again. And I wasn't even angry then. I was pretty soonish. And so, as a punishment, I have updated my favourite couple to Miris. And don't pretend it won't happen.
Forgetfulness - (
Stomach cramps - just like a girl on period-skive Except much worse. With less blood. I don't see why you girls whinge so much. I cut my knee today, and did I whinge? No, I didn't. In fact I painted a nice red blob on my knee. Blood art, I'm thinking of calling it.
Loss of appetite - I couldn't face lunch today, so I ate half a malt-loaf. MALT LOAF. It was only when I was a few bites in that I realised that it was about three days past the sell-by date, having resided in a corner of my room for a few days. Well, if anything would wipe out a boy's appetite, that would.
So, a pretty shit bill of health. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL. Oh no.
PSA: If you ever do heavy weights after a four week-holiday from then, and fail to stretch properly before or afterwards, be fully prepared to lose the proper use of your legs and days of agonising pain. In fact, no. If you ever do heavy weights after a four week-holiday from then, and fail to stretch properly before or afterward, just buy a piece of wood and a sledgehammer, and go visit the house of the lady from Misery.
That should pretty much replicate the experience. Except all over the body. Seriously, I woke up on Tuesday and was UNABLE TO MOVE. It took a good five minutes to actually sit up, then a long, painful time to walk down the stairs.
Here's an impression of the pre-weights me walking down the stairs: "La di da, walkin' down the stairs, oh yeahh, walkin' down the stairs, ohh yeah, I'm so happy, I'm going to eat some pears!"
NB: I would never actually sing like that. Thats the sort of bollocks this that Ogg comes up with in music lessons.
And HERE is an impression of post-weights me stepping down the stairs: "Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Sonofabitch. Ow. Ow. Ow. CHRIST. Ow. Owww. This isn't fair."
I left out the weeping. You didn't need to see that. Before getting up and going anywhere, I have to mentally count down to three. Then I just lie there for an hour. And do you know what the MOST UNFAIR THING IS? While I'm lying there, my legs get EVEN MORE SORE. And it's not just my legs that CANE, to use the modern slang of the day. My arms are even worse. Seriously, the sound of me picking up my bag af the end of our many FASCINATING lessons would make Pope Benedict 16th wince, and he's been busily sacrifing virgins to Amun-Ra ever since he theatened the conclave with women and alcohol.
I have literally been begging people to pick high up things for me. It is so unfun, being this wounded. I mean, usually being ill is FUN. You just get to wander around the house all day, dossing. But my legs are so painful, I am unable to wander. And as for dossing? Oh my. This body is a doss-free zone. I haven't had a good doss for two solid nights. The dossterbation builds up. I'll need to doss pretty soon, before I start dossing at school. And that would just be MESSY.
And before you americans get the wrong ideas in your head, here's the dictionary's definition of doss:
DOSS: (noun) An easy task or period of time.
(verb) To slack off.
(Orig. UK/ Ireland.)
See? It means 'slack off'. And the Irish invented it, and we all know how good they are at slacking off. I rest my case.
My mooscles hurt.
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