…13.19
April 13, 2008 at 6:38 pm (Omni, fire, whatever) (sms, text, text message, iPhone, flu, maltesers, duvet day, dying guck, sick, cold, ill, flirt, ex-boyfriend, lara croft, vicks)
I’m dying.
Had to come home. My life was going smoothly. Everything was swimming a comfortable backstroke with the sunshine on its shiny happy face, and then I caught death by the lapels and called his mommy a whore. Pride comes before a fall ‘they’ say, well before mine there wasn’t much pride, I fell first (between floors three and floor of a warehouse),
his was not a wise idea. I have been struck down in my prime. I have been cast assumder into the pits of my duvet. I am rendered useless by forces outside my control.
I have the flu. I am 24 hours into it and have my eyes on the clock, when they can focus. MR is busy and can’t come spoonfeed me soup, but I sit here with my mouth wide open anyway in the hope that perhaps he will arrive…
I have a jumbo bag of a popular brand of malted chocolate balls in front of me and a mountain of pillows behind me. At the end of a sea of fluffy cream bed linen my toes are sweating. Who knew that was a symptom? I don’t get sick very often, so when I do everyone suffers. I call people. People I haven’t spoken to in months, days, hours, and minutes receive text and updates about the state of my phlegm. I sent a mass text to everyone I knew. Everyone in my phone onto which I imported numbers when in store, received the following.
Missy 13.00pm
“Am sick. Send help.”
Turns out that this is the last time I am going to do this. While most people kindly ignored this abuse of the Intergalatic Satellite system those responses I received were well wishes, arrangements for when I’m feeling better and promises of bags of oranges to be couriered over posthaste (thank you VC for the VC). Oh, and there was this one…
My iPhone at 13.19 records the following message from an X (two years ago he dumped me for a woman with electronic breasts, her name was Lara, and apparently she dealt with his needs better than I did…)
X 13.19pm
“OMG, Hw lng iz it snce I herd frm
u. wht uup 2? If ur sick I cn rub sum
vix n ur clt…dz wnderz.”
What happened there was X mistook me being sick and in need of attention from the masses of aquaintences I seem to aquire for the possibility of rejuvinating a terrible relationship, an appalling sexlife and what was essentially a three month bout of emotional self-abuse (dating him I was punching well below my weight because at the time I was feeling “emo”).
Response was the following.
Missy 13.25pm
“Contrary to popular opinion vowels
cost nothing and can be brought on
the open market…like your mother.”
Turns out culling your address book of detritus is actually very cathartic, and not a little bit medicinal.
