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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Okay, then, if we must talk about it, let's get it out of the way immediately. Today's post will be entitled THE ONE WHERE SHE GOES ON AND ON ABOUT HER HEALTH and will be, once you've finished reading it, appreciated by all in the form of a polite round of applause, and then will never be spoken of again.

People never used to talk to me about my blog, apart from very possibly the occassional text message denying whatever it was that I'd accused them of doing, but never face to face. Nothing was ever addressed in person and that was the way - uh huh, uh huh - I liked it. But since moving to London and having my blog be the main source of information for m'friends and m'family back in the Auld Country, people have started saying things to me down the telephone. Similarly, people who live in the London Town where I am living feel driven initially to tell me that they are now reading my blog, and then subsequently to tell me that they've read certain posts, and their views follow in great and intimate detail.

A while ago, I posted up a description of a nightmare I had, where He Who Only... dumped me while sitting in the backgarden of my house in Dublin. I don't usually do posts about dreams - in fact I think that was the only one I'd ever written - but I had been carrying it around with me all day, and felt the best way to get it out was to write it down and then make y'all suffer along with me. Anyhoo, a few days later I was at a comedy gig, when one of the performers (HELLO NICK SWIFT!) told me that he had also had that dream. Of being chucked. By He Who Only...

So, it's with trepidation that I continue the rest of this post, because I'm absolutely terrified that someone in real life will say something to me at some point in a social situation, and I'll be forced to blush bright red and then beat them to death with the nearest blunt instrument while sobbing. Deep breath. Here we go.

My back did a spazz last week, when I was bending over in the shower to pick up some shampoo. The feeling was totally indescribable - it didn't "click", it didn't "twinge" or "twitch" or "ache" or "ping" or even leave me screaming in pain. It just "went". My closest comparison to it is the horror that you feel when you've accidentally cut yourself on something, like a piece of paper or a kitchen knife. It doesn't immediately hurt, but you know that very soon in your life there will be blood and pain and ick. It's the dread and the immediate neausea, and worse than that, the knowledge that you didn't appreciate how good your life was up until that moment.

Well, so my back "went" and I lumbered up to the doctor and bawled my eyes out and she prescribed me a MOUNTAIN of valium and some other painkillers, and I lumbered back home and phoned my mother and bawled my eyes out and lay on the floor and bawled my eyes out and so the weekend progressed. The main problem was the fear that I was going back to where I had been before - no job, living at home, immobile and drugged up and filled with misery. But slowly it got better and there was light at the end of the tunnel and I stopped fantasising about suicide plans and got back up off the floor and got on with life.

Pumping myself full of painkillers and anti-inflammatory medication has, however, had two very unpleasant side effects, and this is the crux of the nub of the gist of this post: I am on occasion violently nauseated, and I am also constantly violently constipated. Feel my pain, and admire how brave and wonderful I am. Someone, please, pass me a medal.

Constipation is not a topic that should be blogged outside of dooce.com, and certainly nothing I would have felt comfortable with sharing with the world before about six months ago, but ladies and gentlefolk, having spent the last week lying again on the floor of my flat with plenty of time for reflection, I realised how much my life has changed, and in particular how much my life has changed me. Case in point: last night, in bed, I was overcome with helpless giggles as He Who Only... let rip the most ALMIGHTY fart the world has ever heard.

Ask my siblings - two years ago, I would have been so horrified and so prim about that kind of thing that I would immediately have left the flat, the building, and possibly even the country, so mortified and disgusted was I by this kind of expression and admission of body functions. I could never bear to have people burp around me, and if a belch occured even in an adjoining room, I would immediately fall into a faint. Now, I sit at our dinner table and burp right at He Who Only... and then fall under the table laughing at my own (pathetic) burping abilities.

What I'm saying is, I'm hugely thankful for what I have. My back is still sore, but not debilitatingly so. My bowels are quite clogged up, but I can still party with the rest of you. And yes, sometimes I feel the urge to vomit so strongly I risk crippling myself for life in the dash for the bathroom, but apart from that all is shiny and rosey, and smells slightly flatulent, but in the most amusing kind of way.

Many thanks.

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