Current Mood

These days, at my age, I usually only take one selfie a decade.

So, here it is, folks.

Medical staff will be on call to deal with your passionate seizures.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

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!