Most of you who know me, know that I can ramble for Britain. Sober, hyper, calm, dizzy, ditzy, tipsy, drunk, mad or whichever, I can talk. Most of the time it either makes perfect sense or no sense at all. But this is shocking to most of my friends, that I haven’t even been out since last Friday, I haven’t smoked, I haven’t drunk anything apart from squash, not even tea (dear God there is something definitely wrong here), I detest the smell of wine too (WTF IS GOING ON?!) and haven’t left my house since Sunday, to sneak to the shop, to get pasta, that I ended up throwing out anyway, but that technically doesn’t count being 2 minutes from my house, oh whatever.
Since a bad migraine on Saturday, a rather off feeling on Sunday and now no voice, swollen glands, a puffy face and no energy to move, I can’t talk, I have literally been the quietest I HAVE BEEN, LIKE EVER. My mum, for starters, is astounded. She’s the type of person who hears me talking on the phone, puts it to one side, whilst I chit chat away and she gets on with her life, then when she’s had enough, doesn’t even bother to say goodbye, then hangs up. A trait, I’ve noticed with all my family members. Maybe it’s because of me, or maybe they’re all just too busy in their lives to hear what’s going on.
Anyway, what’s the magic cure to get my voice back? I would like to get it back to a sound that is normal, my normal sounding voice, not like that bloke from that God-awful movie John Cleese and Rowan Atkinson was in, Rat Race, or whatever. You know the bloke, Vince Vieluf‘s character who has the very unpleasant infection to go with the tongue piercing he gets…
The piercing bit on his tongue, not the other piercings they all have.
Anyway, my face shape has changed, gone is the normal, I look half decent, now I just look puffy. Like bloated puffy. It’s not even a nice look. My housemates tell me, I look fine, I don’t feel fine. I feel horrible. I feel sore, painful, achy, puffy, swollen and just nasty. If I could sound a little more awesome than this, that would be great.
My bedroom is now my haven of all things ill-related. The curtains are drawn, I don’t even want to embrace the beauty that is the sun, because I can’t enjoy it, so why be part of it? That’s my dumb philosophy anyway.
So, here’s hoping before the bank holiday weekend comes, before my friend Rho has her baby and before the end of the week (come on – only a day to go), I get some part of my voice part, I turn back to normal and this, whatever this is, can fuck off forever and ever and ever and ever and EVER.