Purpura

I was hospitalised as a 7-year-old for a week with this rare health condition, which has always baffled me. I had not heard of it before, and I have not heard of it since. I’m sure a doctor could provide me with meaningless “word salad” about it, but, using modern information technology, apparently purpura can be caused by extreme malnutrition.

During this affliction, I remember sharing a ward with two lovely older boys, whom I cluelessly had a crush on, and a coldhearted nurse whom a found unpleasant.

Crazy, huh?!

As an adult, I’m a fat cunt. Don’t get me wrong. But I grew up with my two skinny older brothers unfairly bullying me for being a fat cunt. Society rejects me for being a fat cunt. I get it. But I wasn’t a “fat cunt” back when I was a cute little 7-year-old.

If you look at pictures of me back them, I was pretty average.

Really.

7-year-old me wasn’t fat. I wasn’t skinny. But I wasn’t fat. So, what was going on around me, back in 1987, that would have been totally out of my control as a child, that led me to be hospitalised for a week with severe malnutrition?! I lived much like my brothers. I was pushed from door to door like them. I ate the same meals they ate. In fact, I would say that I was much livelier and had more friends than they did.

I was, and still am, a big tart, after all.

I know my military father was sent off to the Falkland Islands for the best part of a year around that time, which created tension between him and my mother, but surely that would not filter down to their most vulnerable child.

Or would it?

Mother certainly became annoyingly protectively after that period, leading me to always believe that a doctor, or somebody from social services, had had a word with her about my declining physical health. And children, throughout history, have always been lucky to live beyond the age of 10.

I consider myself to be a nice person, who wishes never to do harm to others, either physically or mentally, so I find it curiously odd that stuff like this keeps happening to me.

Perhaps I am just awful, and everyone around me is simply suffering my existence.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

War of the Colossal Wheelie Bins

So I finally snapped and stood up to “Crazy Bin Lady”. Basically, I took some recycling downstairs and placed it in, what I could best discern, was the correct wheelie bin. I’m visually impaired, so it’s becoming more and more difficult to work out which is which. I also slightly overfilled it, but that point is really neither here nor there. Within 5 minutes of me returning to my flat, in perfect comedic timing, “Crazy Bin Lady” was out there routing through what I had just discarded. This means she is officially sat in her property, 24 hours a day 7 days a week, monitoring who takes what out to the wheelie bins.

Yikes. There are way more nutritious hobbies out there for a person.

I didn’t confront her in person, as I’m not an aggressive prick, instead simply calling down to her, in a polite but authoritarian voice, for her to stop going through her neighbours’ garbage and that the council will deal with such a thing. Silence. Then she started beavering away again at my flattened beer cans. I called down again, never using strong language or calling her names. More routing. One final polite demand. She stopped and scurried back indoors. I half expected to hear a cat-style hiss as she went, but nothing.

I’ve either gotten through to her, or I’ve just started a petty war with a lunatic who’s main hobby is going through garbage.

It could also be the start to the greatest offbeat rom-com ever: “A man terrified of people going through his garbage. A woman obsessed with going through people’s garbage. Now they’re neighbours!”. The box office receipts speak for themselves.

Good grief.

Regardless, not only is what she’s doing unnecessary, but it’s unhygienic, potentially harmful to her, and an invasion of her neighbours’ privacy. What I throw out is a matter between me and the bin collectors. Sometimes she just goes out there to smooth the garbage out by running her hand over it. Again… yikes! I have recycling piling up in my home due to her, as I know she’s going to scurry out, like a rat, and rummage through it and dump what she doesn’t approve of outside my door.

The latter is illegal and a fire hazard and puts me in an awkward position, as it looks like I’ve dumped it out there.

So, yes, the moral of this story is that, if you live in communal council housing with assigned environmental wardens and find yourself unnecessarily routing through your neighbours’ garbage for absolutely no reason whatsoever, please chat to your doctor. I’m sure there are many, many, many forms of antipsychotic medication they can prescribe you.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Existing in fantasy

The days continue to roll by. The sun remains too bright and the temperature too high for an October, but I’m sure some are enjoying it. Sadly, this means my eyes keep getting hurt by the neon panels that are my curtained-windows, and the noise volume from my scally neighbours is piercing. Only mad dogs and Englishmen, as they say.

And Englishwomen, of course.

I’ve mostly been in an alcoholic daze for the past week, not being able to find a reason to sober up. Once I do, I ask myself: “Uh, so now what?!”. Which I never have an answer to, so I just go back to drinking. Support groups ask too much work from me, which they don’t seem to realise is why I’m contacting them. I’m a low-functioning drunk who can’t deal with life, so please don’t ask me to deal with life. It’s almost like they don’t understand the mind of a boozer.

At least I can open up here, without having to honour an appointment across town.

The recycling continues to pile up around my flat, so I’ll need to find a handyperson to dispose of it for me. The council does seem to be trying out a bulk collection scheme though, so I’ll look into that too. I’m visually impaired with low mobility, so I can’t do much to move crap around. I certainly can’t be seen to be moving crap around. Juggling a white cane whilst hauling garbage is very tricky, even at the best of times.

Through it all though, I mange to write the odd blog article for here and The Whittling Post. I wrote and posted another erotic short story, which you can find here. It’s a heterosexual tale this time, although some may argue it’s actually bisexual. Basically, there’s not enough sex directly involving women for men to enjoy, but it’s possibly too graphic for women to enjoy. I dunno, I haven’t read any other erotica written for women, I just know what men enjoy. My stories are usually quite emotional, after which the reader should be crying out of their eyes, as well as from between their legs.

I never get feedback, so I am unable to tell for sure.

It was nice and cloudy earlier, with a bit of glorious rain, but the sun appears to be fighting back. I’m having to peg-up bin liners to shut it out. Yes, folks, my home looks like the creepy den of a serial killer. Sigh. Dignity. Always dignity!

My cooking adventures have fallen by the wayside, due to my heavy drinking. I exist on prosciutto and olives and cheese. Truly a Mediterranean diet indeed! It’s just a shame I can’t recline in the garden of a French villa to enjoy them. I’m also regularly consuming microwave cheeseburgers, which is pretty tragic. For some reason, even the fanciest fresh patties, made from premium cuts of meat, leave me cold. Crappy ready meal and takeaway ones are just divine. Why is that?! It’s often the simple things in life, I guess.

The estate sounds like a building site today. There’s jackhammers and all sorts beavering away at… something. It’s not the place to live if you value peace and quiet.

No contact from anyone, as usual. I have scared the world off, it seems. I made an appointment for my belated diabetes review, but that isn’t for a month and a half. Again, the waiting room is usually empty when I’m in there, with nurses skipping about the place or idly chatting, seemingly with nothing to do. Where are all the appointments?! Something weird is going on, for sure. Perhaps the surgery is covertly being run just to pay the admin and healthcare staff, rather than to treat patients.

We are no longer the customer. We are the product.

Well, on that paranoid note, I shall let you get along. I haven’t bathed in two days, so I need to go scrub off the filth. Not that I’ve gone anywhere in order to generate sweat and pick up dirt.

I’ve just been existing.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Still alive

I greet you as I await a shopping delivery, which is apparently 3 stop away. It’s a boozy order, as I have little to no interest in being sober at the moment. I’m not feeling self-destructive, per se, I’m just, erm, not not feeling self-destructive. If that makes any sense.

I’m not inclined to look after myself, basically.

Saying that, I did fight a hangover in order to write one of my erotic short stories in the middle of the night. I’m quite proud of it, which you can find here. It took me about 5 hours to get done, including proof reading it. I do tend to lose track of time when I’m horny and creative!

My fasting didn’t get rid of my mysterious ailment, so I’m gonna go ahead and assume going back on my diabetes medication will sort it out. I just need to get my arse into gear and go see the nurse for my check-up.

1 stop away. I best put on some pants.

Autumn is trying to take hold, but the sun keeps fighting back. Bah! I can’t wait until it properly sets in. Still, the street has gotten a lot quieter, although the much-hated local off-road biker is still doing his noisy rounds. I assume it’s a “he”, as women are usually more conscientious than that.

I don’t have much else to report. There’s not been much contact from people. I get the odd text from my friend “Lesbo Lisa”, although she’s suddenly gone quiet again. I really should write about her life, as it’s clearly far more interesting than mine.

Right, I best go stand ready at the door. I think I can hear the delivery person unpacking their van.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Snap

Well, after 2 days 20 hours of fasting, in a misguided attempt to starve a suspected bacterial infection, I’ve finally snapped and started feeding and watering myself again. The weather didn’t help, with the summer coming back for one last day of torment a day before the official start of autumn.

Sweet, cold, beautiful autumn!

I believe I was made for a colder climate. Quite literally, actually, as I’m genuinely thick-skinned. Not emotionally, of course. My dad tends to overheat easily too, so perhaps it has something to do with my Canadian heritage. If I wasn’t so visually impaired, and if I was more practical and confident, I think I would have made a good farmer. I’m a real morning person too, so that would have been an advantage. Plus I don’t get along with people very well, so a life of isolation amongst cattle would suit me perfectly.

Maybe in the next life, huh?

I’m actually planning a short story about a lonely young farmer who finds platonic companionship in the form of a wayward boy from the nearby town. I feel as though I should at least read one book on farming for research though, but the below RiffTrax video is a light-hearted start. I still need to crack on with researching botany for one of my serialised stories, but that one’s stalled at the moment.

Inspiration is just lacking.

I keep amending tomorrow’s supermarket delivery. Sometimes it’s mostly food. Sometimes it’s mostly booze. It depends on what mood I’m in, which tends to bounce around thanks to my cyclothymia. It’s currently mostly booze, since the food-heavy version was meant to coincide with ending my fasting period. I’ve already done that now, so fuck it. Booze it is! I’ve frigging earned it.

My new neighbour was drilling into our adjoining wall earlier, which freaked me out. I hope he’s not putting up speakers to turn his flat into a nightclub. That would be just my luck! He’s probably just putting up pictures or shelving though. Or chains to turn his bedroom into a sex dungeon. Nothing would surprise me around here! He’s still kicking in the building’s main door downstairs, so maybe I’ll slip my spare entry fob through his letterbox. I just can’t see how that won’t come across as passive-aggressive though, like “Crazy Bin Lady” creepily returning stuff I throw out.

Golly, it’s weird having caffeine in my system again after nearly 3 days! I do not function well without it.

Righty-ho, I best go figure out how to make food again. I’ve got a Chinese takeaway curry defrosting on the counter, so I’ve got that to look forward to. I’ll probably serve it with some brown rice, which goes well with Chinese entrees.

Do stay in touch, city folk.

Toodles!

Fasting fun!

I kid, of course. This is no fun whatsoever. I’m officially 2 days 3 hours into fasting, in an unwise attempt to rid my body of a suspected bacterial infection. The same thing worked earlier on in the year, so I’m hoping a repeat of my behaviour will end this ongoing agony.

These goings on leave me with not much to report, as food and drink is very much at the heart of my usual lifestyle. Good grief is starving yourself of food and water boring! I’ve got a grocery order coming Wednesday morning, chock with booze, so I’ll end this silliness then. Unless I’ve slipped into a diabetic coma by then, in which case, erm, I dunno.

I honestly don’t seem like the type to do so though.

My new neighbour has started acting like a prick, as they all do. This has come in the form of him kicking the building’s main door open to gain access, rather than simply placing the fob the council will have given him delicately against the entrance panel. He’s either kicking in the door because a) he’s lost his fob b) he wants to show physical dominance to his new neighbours or c) delicate movements aren’t masculine enough for him. Sigh. Either way, he’s doing it every morning at 5 am, which everyone on the fucking street could really do without.

“Obnoxious Camp Guy” has been quieter since taking his loud behaviour too far a week ago. Did I mention this? I can’t remember. Anyway, he’d lost the ability to use words, so was just screaming for hours and hours and hours. I’ve actually started feeling sorry for him now, rather than being annoyed by him. Clearly there’s something wrong there. I mean, that’s not healthy behaviour. I have heard him occasionally since, but it’s not gotten as bad as the screaming incident.

I’m keeping my spirits buoyant with classic MST3K, which is always good for the soul. I’ve also watched a little Keith Floyd, but cooking shows are, as you can imagine, a terrible thing to watch when you’re avoiding food. Don’t worry, I get by on my looks. Ha! Keith just makes me feel less of an outcast in this vicious world, as he was an outcast too. Everyone hated him, from his colleagues to his friends to his family to his fans. I can relate. He just wanted to live his life the way he wanted to live it, which tends to piss people off no end.

My annual boiler inspection by the council is coming up next week, although I may rearrange the appointment. It all depends on what state I’ll be in after breaking this fasting period. Glug, glug, glug. I’ll need a month or so to clear the alcoholic paraphernalia from my kitchen.

Well, I shall leave things there. The hunger and thirst is nowhere near as bad as the mysterious pain, so this is actually easier than it has been in the past. Perhaps it’s also easier because I know I’ll be ending the behaviour soon, rather than using it for morbid ends.

Good times.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Grasping at harmful straws

The agony continues, which I have now had enough of. A disinterested nurse was unable to help, even though I kept saying I was in constant pain. So, what now? Well, the mysterious illness, possibly tonsillitis, I suffered at the start of the year brought me so low that I ended up deciding to stop feeding and watering myself. This had the unexpected effect of killing the illness. Unless it was a coincidence, of course, but I doubt that.

Anyway, I’ve chosen to try this method again. I guess it’ll either be the beginning or the end of me, but I can’t take the pain any longer.

It’d be something if all this pain was worth it, but I have nothing in my life left to fight for. I’m very lonely and very disabled. My mental illness badgers me all day every day. Things keep breaking around my home, as if they too have given up. I have bags of recycling piling up, but not the means to get rid of them. Where I live is like a madhouse, with lunatics screaming nonsense at invisible persecutors and people fighting in the street.

And here I sit, tears streaming down my face, no longer able to bear much more of it.

The tonsillitis subsided after a few days of fasting, so let’s hope the same works with whatever this is. I no longer have any fresh food in the kitchen, so I won’t have that to get anxious about. I’ve put in a grocery order, but I’ll probably push the delivery date back a few days. I just need a spit cup in each room now, as I obviously won’t be able to drink water in order to clear my throat. I learned that from the last time. Who knows, maybe the dizziness from an empty tummy will help me get a good night’s sleep.

For a change.

Being diabetic, I suppose doing this could always put me in a coma, but that’s the sort of merciful thing that only happens to other people. My body likes to torture me in the worst of ways. Not that I hold the paranoid believe that it has its own sentience or anything.

Well, I’ll try and keep you updated, if the pain cools off enough for me to type words.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles