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Always a sickly child

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There are days when you’ve obviously drunk too much recently and are ridiculously short on sleep. On these days you become an extra from a George A Romero movie. Shuffling becomes the norm and everything is an effort. Today I am that zombie. I am able to concentrate on the first eight seconds of any sentence, after which the conversation turns to garbled rubbish. For some reason my understanding of the English language is only active in eight second bursts, after which everyone appears to be saying ‘urblurblurblurblurblurbl’ and I have to focus in order to recognise/remember who it is that’s speaking. I am honestly having the weirdest day.

Then there’s the toilet habits of the common or garden variety sleep-deprivation and alcohol fuelled zombie. This is probably where you need to stop reading. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Firstly, there’s the entire surprise aspect of zombie toilet. One moment you’re happy drinking, typing, wishing someone would remove the cantaloupe from inside your cranium, and then suddenly: Desperation. In a fraction of a second, you go from ‘comfortable’ to ‘must reach bowl before bowels detonate.’ How this state of affairs exists I don’t know, but I do have a theory. I believe that the lack of sleep and alcohol have numbed so much flesh and killed off so many nerves that your body has, in fact been sending your brain messages that this is coming for the last hour, but it all gets snarled up somewhere along the nervous system and arrives at the brain just in time to be urgent. This is kind of like your body going from the high speed M62 Toll Road to the M25 London Orbital Carpark through abuse.

Secondly, there’s frequency and quantity. How anyone can need to make trips to the thunderbox fourteen times in one day is beyond me. I’d have to eat a blue whale to be able to need it that much. Jeez.

Thirdly, and most disgustingly (still reading? Stop now!) there’s the amazing gas-powered ass. This works the same way as a compressed air gun. Essentially, though there’s very little to come out, explosive methane builds up behind and at the moment of ballistic release you worry for a moment whether it’s actually gone through the porcelain.

On to less revolting things.

By 10:25 this morning, I’d had five mugs of coffee (trying to bring my desiccated wreck of a flesh-pile back to life). I now have the most amazing schism going on inside. While I feel so helplessly crappy that I keep expecting to find myself in a heap on the floor, some part of me is buzzing with a high-speed need to do things. In an effort to keep myself thinking, I shall now invent words and phrases to help describe this state. Prepare yourself for the downloading of “Vocabulary™ v1.1”

Spurzled – A spurzled conversation is one in which the enunciator is speaking in beautiful, clean and clear Queen’s English, but what the recipient is hearing sounds like two warthogs chewing on a whoopee cushion.

Grotey – When a head is grotey it feels like there may be mould growing on the inside of your eyes and you check your head for unexpected mushroom growth. If also feels as though you haven’t showered since the Hundred Years’ War.

Flickety – Something to do with the nervous system which has claimed independence from the rest of the body due to the injustices you’ve inflicted upon it. Any part of the body that still has nerves can be flickety. The most common locations, however, are flickety hands and flickety eyes. To an outsider this might be mistaken for the most expansive nervous twitch.

Gunge-Panic – The gunge panic is when you feel all the symptoms described in this diary entry and you can’t decide whether the large quantities of coffee and filtered water are making it better or worse. Do you have more? Will it help? Will your brain start to run and puddle somewhere around shoulder height?

Bennying – Bennying is the act of attempting to walk in a normal fashion despite the obvious abnormality of the situation and the incapability of the body to feel or react. Bennying can cause the further condition of ‘rubber-legs’ and may often result in walking into walls when misjudging the size or shape of doorways.

Uh oh. My right eyelid is all flickety.

Then there are also other words I made up before that I might as well release into the world now.

Farcicle – The result of breaking wind in a permafrost region.

Sheet – Contracted word for Sheep Sh*t

Crunge – The sticky, not quite dried drool in the corner of your mouth when you first wake up.

I am calling Chicken Boy a retard a record number of times today. This is because, due to the state I’m in today, he’s started calling me ‘sick-note’. I think that this is such hypocrisy that it needs documenting here. Chicken Boy is one of the sickliest people I have ever met. He has claimed to feel sick at least once a day every workday for the past three years or more. He is in general a slightly greeny-grey colour and occasionally a sort of translucent blue through which you expect to be able to see the organs. I’ve seen roadkill in better shape. In fact, another damn good reason for calling him chicken boy would be the fact that sometimes (especially Monday mornings) his flesh actually resembles those uncooked wobbly chicken breasts when you open the packet and they flop onto the worktop.

I think that’s probably all I can manage right now, but I may write or append later.

Moosehunter.

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Written by SJAT

August 20, 2009 at 12:46 pm

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