Hooked on a star...

( I lead a thrilling existence. 12 months/one line. )


Mediaeval Baebes were AWESOME. REALLY. I got them to sign a CD, which I am giving to Dad for Christmas. Weeeeeeeooooo. It's a shame I feel utterly ill. Rest, tomorrow. REST.

My body is rebelling on an EPIC scale. For the first ten minutes of waking up, I am cajoled into thinking, 'Hey, I'm not feeling too bad - in fact, this could be a good day!'

And then I get out of bed, move around a little and, one-by-one, each joint begins to ache, my stomach flips and rolls, my head throbs, and, nine times out of ten, I spend the rest of the day battling each symptom. M.E. is a fickle illness; there is no one tablet I can take to cure all of the ailments associated with it. I can dose up on Paracetomal, which means the pain is dulled to a more bearable level, but I cannot take Ibuprofen for any nerve-y type soreness as it upsets my stomach. I can take Colofac for my tum, and Lansoprazole to deal with the excess acid. However, nothing takes it all away. The nausea, for instance, is a continual source of frustration. I used to take Hospital-strength anti-sickness tablets but since I did the stupid thing at 19 and OD'd on them for one mentally unhinged reason or another, my GP is wary of giving them to me. The specific brand I took, in the amount I dosed, nearly stopped my heart so... Yes, I can see why. The migraines are another issue, too, as they come and go as freely as they like; I have also, er, lost my glasses too, consequently meaning I am straining to focus on small writing (which, as a Lit. student is a BIT of a necessity)...

Frankly, I could go on.

But it does nobody any good, does it? So, instead, here's some good news: I got a 2:1 on my first essay - oddly, a book I barely read! It was amusing to see people getting slightly higher marks for putting in more effort, but not by much. I swanned out of class feeling quite smug and, I suppose, more inclined to do essential critical reading. Well, providing energy levels improve over Christmas (which they will, with the right people around me).

Tonight, I'm off out to see the Mediaevel Baebes with Sef; it is exceptionally nice of him to purchase me tickets and take me to the Lowry to see them! Oddly, one of their songs, 'I Sing of a Maiden' is a religious lyric I am intending to revise for next week's lecture. PRETTYFRIGGINACE, RIGHT? Yes, I know. Also, they're kinda hot. As a straight, red-blooded female, I can still be a bit 'phwoar' over beautiful ladies with equally beautiful voices.

Tomorrow, I pick up my Power and Gender in Early Modern Lit. essay (on Donne) - fingers-crossed, I've done well. Wish me luck!

Body is all a bit confused, and I feel very sick indeed. It's been particularly bad over the last two or three hours, which made walking around the Trafford Centre a bit of a nightmare. I've had such bad cramps this month, from just below the ribcage to the tops of my knees and, at the centre of this, my uterus is pulsating wildly and pressing on other organs, meaning I need to pee quite a lot and I'm more bloated than a beached whale on a hot, Summer afternoon (that's bloated, especially when you think of the potential for whalesplosions).

I know this is all because I fucked up my Pill but SWEET MERCY. I am very tired indeed.

Still, I came back from Tackyland with some goodies and a nightdress for Auntie Carole (c/o money sent via the Parental Unit who are, of course, grateful I live closer to it than they do so they get to avoid crowds of Christmas shoppers...). Lush provided me with some excellent bits and pieces - the Blackberry bath ballistic (a certain someone bought some for me not so long ago and I am hooked, the scent is absolutely delicious), the very wonderful moisturising Butter Ball Bath bomb, Blue Skies and White Fluffy Clouds bubble bath bar, Yummy Yummy Yummy shower gel and a new face mask called Oatfix. I'm hoping that Oatfix will sort out the bizarre dry/oily patches of skin on my face, and clear up a few rogueish spots that have appeared recently. I've still got another £10 worth of gift vouchers to spend so I'll wait until after Christmas and use my 10% discount voucher, too. Hooray.

Jeni is popping around later, which will be lovely (as always). For now, I am going to crash out on the sofa and wait for the pain to subside. Bah.

23.

Burfday girl are me.

Well, at 00:10, anyway. I will be 23. I am tired. I have my laptop back, however, and have had a Christian Bale marathon-esque eve of Terminator Salvation and Batman Begins.

As per the tradition, our Christmas tree is up and there are stray whisps of tinsel littering the floor; in a way, it is a relief not having Cleo around anymore, as she used to have a propensity for eating Christmas decorations and throwing them up around the house. Auntie Carole and Uncle John dropped off my birthday card/present earlier on, and have specifically told me not to spend any of it (hmm, I wonder what they've given me, then?) on food. So, instead, rail tickets to Cambridge for the New Year.

I wish my body would work for me; I am in a rotten amount of pain in every joint and I am struggling with a low mood. It is, I suppose, partly due to PMS (how I wish I could have a tummy rub right about now). Hormones are flying about, skin is flaring up and not even a box of Maltesers can cheer me.

Early night, I think. Sleep will make things better.

I have no idea how I am going to cope with the Cruxshadows gig later. My body is simply far too tired but I have paid for my ticket, so I will damn well go. I expect to be moderately unwell the following day.

It's dark here, and raining. Tonight's outfit will be simple but effective (plenty o' velvet and lace) as I don't CARE enough to dress up for a goffick gig. I have a Power and Gender seminar soon, too, and fortunately for me, it's on the Duchess of Malfi so I can fly through the hour without worrying about the fact that I was too exhausted to get up this morning for the lecture.

BAH to M.E.

Politely pilfered from pinkapplejam .

List 10 new years resolutions, goals, changes, accomplishments, self-improvements or wishes for 2010.
Repost on your own LJ profile with your own ten.

In no particular order:

1. Pass 2009/10 with a 2:1 minimum (so I have a solid basis for third year).
2. Visit a new country. I may have to beg, borrow and steal money for it, but I damn well intend to travel somewhere.
3. Attend all of semester two (for I have, it must be said, been a little... apathetic recently).
4. Take up a new hobby. I've always fancied knitting, or perhaps sewing, but never entirely sure of where to start (at the beginning - ho, ho, ho).
5. Find a job. ANY JOB.
6. Try blue hair.
7. Take more photographs.
8. Go to Whitby (fingers-crossed)
9. Take up some kind of gentle exercise to help improve joint issues and overall stamina.
10. Obligatory give-up-smoking, cut-down-on-alcohol, start-dieting resolution. Saying that, not an habitual smoker, or fatty pants. I may drink too much but I'M YOUNG AND CARE-FREE.

I think this sums me up rather well today. I woke up at nine, with every intention of getting out of bed only I reset the alarm at 10, then again at 10:45. Fortunately, I received two texts during that time so I didn't nod off and wake up feeling grumpy. The first was from Jeni about leopard print wedding dresses (! - and, okay, it's not like I'm getting married but I WANT A LEOPARD PRINT WEDDING DRESS HOGDAMMIT) and the second from Richard. Anyway, I'd be making a mockery of myself if I thought attending both lectures on a Tuesday would ever happen. I honestly will try again next week but it's too damn cold to get up at eight o'clock and we've bypassed the 'Sex' in Sex and Salvation and gone right back around to crucifixion plays. BUGGER THAT. So, instead, I'm drinking vanilla tea, faffing about, tidying my room and THEN MAYBE I'll go to a seminar. I need to print something off between now and then but I'll make up a lousy excuse and do it afterwards. I'm just too damn apathetic about this course now I know I've only a fortnight left. I know I can do well but... My body hates me. ANYWAY, you all want to know about my weekend, don't you? Of course you do! So, here goes:

On Friday, I met up with the lovely moomin_puffin before we caught our respective trains to Cambridge; we had a gossip and I helped her devour a bowl of chips. Then, the journey commenced - Manchester > Leeds > Peterborough > Cambridge. Next time, I'm going for the long-haul of Manchester > Brum > Cambridge. But, on the one hand, moving about every hour or so meant I kept up energy levels and didn't nod off. When I arrived at Cambridge, Jeni and Robin were there, waiting, and so gave me and Richard a lift back to his house. I was, of course, cranky and tired from the travelling but soon warmed up after tea and hugs. After some minor hiccups in the shape of work issues, Rich and I went out to watch Paranormal Activity and I ended up holding his hand in a vice-like grip and shrieking. Very unusual for me, as I'm only like that with alien-related films. All the same, if you're interested, go and see it - just keep a change of underwear around. Afterwards, we went home and crashed out. Saturday was mostly spent being incredibly lazy and I gave Rich his present, and I got my birthday presents from him (a biography of Elizabeth Gaskell, leopard print tights, chocolates and some absolutely gorgeous underwear). I cooked risotto, we watched football and then, after a brief respite, we got ready for drinking. In the end, it was us and razornet getting incredibly pissed at the Kambar. I watched them both dance like loons and had a good laugh all around. Upon getting back home, I persuaded a drunken Richard to make me cheese on toast and then we collapsed in a heap. Oddly, I barely had a hangover but I think that was down to declining the two bottles of wine Grim bought. We went out, met up with people, wandered, had food, came back with Jen and Brian, watched DVDs and I took a short nap for I was utterly exhausted and (embarrassingly) quite close to tears because of it. Sleep did help, pizza was nommed and after episodes of Red Dwarf, sleep occurred. I didn't leave until about 4pm on Monday because I didn't want to go back to Manchester (I'm getting clingy and soppy in my old age, really...). The train journey was draining but I suspect it had something to do with earlier... things. Ahem. Home and much sleep. So, now I'm a little more recovered but BLOODY TIRED STILL.

I'm back down again for New Year, hurrah! I shall be getting tickets within the next week. This week will mostly involve Uni, reading and lots of baths. Then it are my burfday weekend and Lianne is visiting. I haven't anything else arranged and not sure I really want to do all that much owing to the fact that I couldn't give a shit about turning 23. It'll be Rocky Horror, then bed.

Party animal is me.

Tired, anxious, even more tired. I have had a great weekend but coming home to Manchester is leaving me a little on edge, mostly just because I have to make an effort with getting up and leaving the flat. ENERGY PLZ. I think I do need a strong cup of tea and sleep. Pulling into Stoke On Trent now so not long until I can curl up in bed. :)

Post from mobile portal m.livejournal.com

I haven't had a casserole in, well, years. Today, I decided I would make myself one, utilising Dad's herb collection and a few pieces of Quorn chicken fillets.

I don't understand why people buy casserole mixes when, with the right herbs, one can make a sauce virtually from scratch. I used two Oxo veggie stock cubes, a spoonful of wholegrain mustard, a dash of cooking oil, a sprinkling of white pepper, dried parsley, a pinch of coriander and HEY PRESTO! It is a tasty mix, designed to keep the Quorn moist and delicious. I am serving it up with home-made potato (and I can justify the 'home-made' part of potato - they were grown at the farm my brother worked at for two years and make the best chips/baked spuds/etc) cuts, wilted spinach and a few pickled onions. Perfect Winter comfort food.

To think, a year ago, I relied solely on ready-made meals, chips and eggs. Now, I've virtually cut egg out of my diet (as it does make me somewhat unwell), have taken up eating more carbohydrates to give me sustained bursts of energy, whittled down my sugar intake, buying fresh vegetables, very rarely stocking much frozen food (unless I am particularly poorly or busy) and SO MUCH PESTO.

I am much more confident in my cooking ability these days. And, because of it, my weight is stable(ish) and, in spite of this prolonged and painful throat infection, I am nowhere as ill as I could be.

In other news: TOWN WAS PACKED. Sundays in Warrington have never been so chaotic but it is, of course, leading up towards Christmas. I spotted a few trinkets I'd rather like from Santa from the new Past Times that has just opened, especially a gorgeous amethyst (it is my favourite stone) ring, an Art Deco cat brooch and a couple of other chintzy bits and bobs. I picked up some hair dye in a shade of violet - though I doubt it will look that vibrant as my hair is rather dull and flat in this Winter weather - a pair of PJ bottoms from Tesco's that I simply couldn't resist, some medication and, er, a couple of trashy magazines. I survived today, venturing out and about, without too much backlash from my body. Fingers-crossed that is a good sign.

Now, to start peeling and preparing potatoes.

Me (doing a crossword earlier on today, to my Dad): "It's got an 'A' and an 'O' in it and says, 'Railway goods vehicle'. I have NO idea what it is!"
Dad (sighing): "Let's think - put a 'W', 'G' and 'N', in that order, and see what it says"
Me: "Oh. Wagon!"
Dad: "Why do I give you money to go to University? To study English?"

(About ten minutes later on...)

Me: "It's got three letters"
Dad: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Yea-- wait, no, it's four letters"
Dad: "Right..."
Me: "I'M NOT A MATHS STUDENT FOR A VERY GOOD REASON."

I don't have to see another fucking essay until Semester Two now. THANK THE HEAVENS. I am awash with joy, happiness, the prospects of getting thoroughly twatted on fifty-pence shots at the Ritz next Monday, and so on. Of course, now I have to make an effort to turn up to lectures and read primary texts in advance - nevertheless, I am free from the restraints of the MHRA style guide, of 'Add to Dictionary' when Microsoft Word disputes medieval spelling (I can't help that 'schulde' and 'should' mean the same thing, with 400 years' difference, can I?), of proof-reading and remembering footnotes.

Still, while I feel elated at having done so much in so short a period of time, particularly with less than brilliant health, I am tired and grumpy. I've not snapped at the parents, as I don't feel inclined to pick an argument. I just want to lock myself away from people for a while. I'm not sure if it's simply the onset of a mild Bipolar episode or not, but I have counselling next week anyway, just in case. I need bolstering. I need let off some steam.

Or something.

Anyway, it's done now. I've got this weekend to... relax. I may need to see my GP though, as antibiotics are clearly not working. Tra-la-laaa.

I'm now 2000 words into the FINAL essay of this term. So, yes, alright, I only had three to begin with but, dear me, it feels like much more when, for last two of them, you've been incredibly unwell and fighting off any number of different viruses, parading around your body like they own the damn thing. I'm hoarse, aching all over and, now that I'm done coughing up a lung or two, I'm onto kidneys, liver, stomach lining, etc. You get the picture, anyway. I rang up Mum intent on lamenting my ill health and ended up listening to her instead; we were meant to have a new fire installed this morning. It didn't go quite to plan - in that, what was a £90 job turned into just under £1000. Apparently, the marble was cracked, therefore rendering the fireplace unsafe and the fire we had ordered didn't actually fit, in spite of the fact that we'd had someone out to check the measurements first.

Dad came home to find the house covered in a thin sheen of soot. Including Mum, the children in her care, and most of the food out in the Kitchen. Nothing was left untouched. So, we have a lovely new fireplace - but it cost us a lot more than anticipated, meant Mum lost hours of work as she had to send other children home and Dad had to take a half-day to stop Mum from killing the fitters. I rang back later and the chaos had abated, somewhat. I had my turn to complain, once I had assured myself Mum was feeling better, and the short of it is that I need to go home for a few days to recover properly. Dad will pick me up in the evening and Mum can coddle me to death. I think I need it.

To summarise: chaos, essay, ill health, going home and generally having a shitty illness that won't bugger off. Thirteen years! I've been ill longer than I haven't. Oh well.

I am considering a job in the sex industry; more specifically, phone-lines. Why? Coughing has damaged my voice so much, I sound not dissimilar to forty-a-day smoker. Why not make the most of it? I could use that cash and -- oh, who am I kidding? With my phobia of telephones, I'd never pick the damn thing up again.

But yes, my voice is reduced to huskiness that sounds sexy - until the squeaking starts. I give up. I have antibiotics to get rid of the throat infection but the cold has redoubled effort and I am aching all over, partly from the coughing, and my sinuses are swollen. I need home, my parents, cups of tea in endless abundance. However, I have that damned essay on virginity to finish tomorrow.

On the plus side, as you, dear F-List, will have noticed: I have access to a computer! The DSO have lent me a laptop for the next three weeks until my own can be fixed and returned. It's not brilliant and I have to connect via about four million metres of LAN cable as I have lost my O2 installation disc and the wireless settings are not such as they are on Vista (I am back to hitting it up XP-style with this). But, all things work for good, in the end. Despite a very, very stressful day, I made it through. I handed in my essay with about five minutes to spare, had a very wholesome meal of chips, salsa, mayo and cheese (dead healthy), took an evening nap and, admittedly, I feel like something the cat dragged in, shat on, and pissed over but I survived everything. The week is nearly over. The last essay will be done and then the weekend will be upon me. REST. SO MUCH OF IT.

And I can take up reading my crappy women's weekly magazines again.

I dropped my laptop.

And... Broke the screen.

What a fucking ridiculous Monday; fortunately, dual-screen techology allowed me to move my desktop next door, and I rescued everything I needed to.

For example: THE MOTHERFUCKING ESSAY DUE IN TOMORROW.

Fuck me sideways, really. Fortunately, I bent Rich's ear for a good twenty minutes on the topic of how much of an idiot I am, and do, in fact, feel better for it. As it stands, I have an appointment with the IT/DSO part of the University tomorrow to see if they can arrange for me to have a replacement. Hopefully, given my disability, they will provide the service for free - if otherwise, well, there's a way around it.

But BLOODY FUCKING HELL.

The talent of being awesome.

OH WAIT. I ALREADY AM.

Ahaha. No, really, if I could have an extraordinary talent, it would be something like Mr. Fantastic in the Fantastic Four. I already have the ability to dislocate most of my joints so, now, if somebody could make it less painful and more useful to me, I'd be set for life.

In other, less boggling news, I am feeling much better in myself. The antibiotics have thrown my stomach into turmoil, so most food consumed takes on a washing machine effect once in my gut; fortunately, regular consumption of bland food, tea and smidgens of chocolate appear to have helped this. I spent last night aching from top-to-toe and, most of the way through Star Trek, I was running a temperature and measuring the myriad muscle twitches involuntarily coursing through my lower limbs. As is always the case with M.E., once the illness itself is done and dusted, the recovery time is substantially longer. Dad has been deftly persuaded to give me a lift into Manchester tomorrow, under the 'But the Doctor said I couldn't go out into the cold too much!' excuse. I have virtually finished my Donne essay so that leaves only Sex and Salvation. If am expected to turn up to lectures and get a good essay grade, Manchester is clearly deluded. My health is paramount at the moment. I am aiming to be around for some of Tuesdays lectures and seminars, if only for the fact that I have a great time in Benjamin Ware's Writing, Identity and Nation class, wittering on and metaphorically telling one particularly smarmy bastard to STFU.

It's sunny but cold outside. I'm indoors, sunk into the sofa of the new three-piece suite my parents bought last week. My brother apparently sliced his thumb and arm open on a job at the farm today, so he had to take a trip to A&E for a plasma tetanus shot (IN THE ARSE, AHAHAHAH, OH HOW I LAUGHED WHEN I FOUND OUT) and glue/butterfly stitches. It's always exciting living here. Always.

Last night, my throat started to swell up... Anyway, I woke up this morning, unable to swallow properly, ears continually popping with the pressure from enlarged tonsils and the taste of ick on the inside of my throat. Upon inspection (which involved me grabbing the nearest parent, going 'LOOK AT MY THROAT' and sticking my tongue out as far as it would go) it was realised that, not only did I have quite swollen tonsils, I had a delightful green coat of infection.

Two hours later, I am in the emergency, out-of-hours GP centre in town and being seen by the Doctor who almost put me in care shortly before I was diagnosed with M.E. (I SHIT YOU NOT - this man had already contacted social services after being convinced by my school counsellor that I was, in fact, UTTERLY INSANE; of course, further down the line, one might have believed him, but at that point in time I was exceedingly unwell and physically weak) and brandishing a prescription for antibiotics. Artifical banana-flavoured antibiotics. Delicious, really. I came back home, got into my pyjamas and went to bed for a nap. At twenty-to-three, I got a phone call from devalmont , who was checking I hadn't choked to death on my tonsils (have I mentioned how lovely he is?) and I dragged myself out of bed not long after.

700 words down on second essay, only 300 left to go.

Now, I'm going to eat takeaway pizza and watch the new Star Trek film. HOOOH YEAH.

My throat has exploded in a storm of pain and swelling. Frankly, after nigh-on a decade of continual throat infections, I ought to be a dab-hand at coping with it but, oh my goodness, is it hard. I can't swallow properly, and talking is reminiscent of a male adolescent waiting for puberty to strike. I'm squeaking one moment, hoarse the next, choking, coughing, spluttering like the engine of a badly tuned car. Great, being ill provides me with numerous metaphors for suffering but I don't like being ill. It makes me unhappy and I have an essay and a half left to write. OH AND I'm supposed to be expected to leave the house in order to hand in my Lawrence paper.

Dear Manchester University,

You are shitting me, right?

Sincerely,

Kim

Fortunately, I am fairly clear-headed amidst the sheer agony of a stuffed nose, neck akin to a bodybuilder on illegal 'roids, eyes sunken so far back I can roll around and see the inside of my head, etc, etc, etc., more or less. Hopefully, with much persuasion, Dad will pick me up from Manchester tonight so I can spend the weekend being looked after by Mum who stated, rather bluntly that I 'need to be home'. Not for anything other than that she misses me and wants to exercise some maternal feelings. She's had screaming three year-olds all week, so I suppose having a 22 year-old that can't talk properly will be like bliss.

Don't laugh! Talking hurts!

Hopefully, with a little affection from various parties, including those of the fluffy, purring kind, I will feel much more human. I am debating whether to come back Sunday evening or early Monday afternoon - just to prolong the attention and free food. At the moment, my room is occupied by Abi's friend Naomi who is having a ridiculously difficult time at home, so at least there'll be some company in the evenings after Mum and Dad have buggered off to bed under the steam of old age and brandy.

Hugs welcome, also, a cure for the common cold.

ILL.

ILL. NOW. OF ALL THE TIMES. I HAVE AN ESSAY AND A HALF LEFT TO WRITE.

AND I AM ILL.

Fortunately, all I need to do is write up a conclusion and reference appropriate passages for the Lawrence essay.

GAH.