I’m terrible, or rather, my stomach is. I’ve been a bit ill on and off with it for years, mainly it just growling at me when I eat too many pizzas or curries, and when I say growling, I don’t mean rumbling, I’m aware of the difference between a rumble and a growl, the noise my stomach makes when it hates me is akin to when you hold up a dogs lip to look at its teeth. Not a fierce growl, just enough to let you know its not happy.
Until tonight, to keep up the analogy I think my stomach went crazy and bit off a child’s face. I’m feeling really ill, and worse for the fact that I’m working the night shift, so typing this at 4.30am in a dull office, feeling tired and sad.
I slept too much today, or rather, stayed up well into the afternoon then slept right up until the start of work at 11pm. This really fucks with my brain, a bit of my sock keeps sticking to the inside of my shoe whenever i move, I’ve inspected it and I’m fairly sure it’s some jam, I’m tired and want coffee, but pretty sure that would upset the dog.
Going to go to the doctors in the morning cos the hurty is hurting me to slightly above worried on the worry-o-meter. But, my hypochondriac brain soon ups any rating on the -o-meter. After an hour of sitting here pretending to type I’ve gone from wanting a peppermint tea to fearing i’ve got some horrible cancer and will need chemotherapy or to have my stomach removed or something.
Which naturally (well, as naturally as a fully lit office playing capital FM whilst I make pie charts for the man at 4 in the morning) leads on to thoughts of death and who would be at my funeral and has my career progressed enough to warrant an obituary? I’m thinking not, if I’m lucky they’ll be a post on a forum somewhere, but that would probably be mine own, done in my last breaths.
I’m sure I’m fine, and the belly is a result of today eating half a big old baguette, three coffees, a croissant and a doughnut. But it might be cancer. hope not, need to work harder to get me that obituary.
Fuck me this is depressing twaddle isn’t it?
Think I need to get off this night shift, the growling dog and jam on my sock seem to insist.
But, in reality I’m stuck here til Edinburgh, when I’ll be keeping even weirder hours for a month
I think I did a gig with you a while ago at Tiernan’s night.
Last week I had a pain in my side. I sat in bed thinking I have ovarian cancer, wondering how to tell my family. I then made an itunes playlist called ‘Funeral Songs’ including all the songs I want played at my funeral and wake. I thought I would include Europe’s ‘Final Countdown’ to cheer my friends up and serve as a reminder of my dark sense of humour. I then wrote a few e-mail drafts to close friends, including a couple of jokes about my cancer, making light of my pain. I was thinking of making a video to play at my funeral, which would show everyone how great I was, how much fun. There would be scenes of me lauging (slow-motion), scenes of my tomfoolery, scenes of me patting dogs (although in practical terms this is unrealistic as I am allergic to them).
The pain seems to have gone. I suspect it was a stitch or a low-level cancer.