Every time I cough it makes me double up because of the pain in my abdomen. Mum, before she went to work, explained that this is because I've been coughing so much that I've strained all the muscles down there. This is very comforting, because it means I don't have some scary inexplicable internal condition.
Called off work again. I won't get to see my people for another three whole weeks, now. >_< I asked Linda please to promise me that she'd tell them all I was going to miss them and that I loved them.
I haven't eaten a thing since some beans yesterday at around two, but I'm not the slightest bit hungry; in fact, the idea of food makes me feel a little ill. Is that a natural thing to happen? I'm just curious, really.
I have Weigh-in to-night at five-twenty, if I can make it, and an appointment at eights from a couple of weeks back to have my hair re-coloured and then chopped off so that it's short. The latter I pray I can make. The former would be nice, too, because guhhh. I've missed two Curves sessions this week and have done my diet very erratically, depending on how conscious or dead I was on respective days.
This isn't much at all fair. I can't do anything, really, because I'm too fuzzy in my head to concentrate much, but aware enough to realise how completely bored out of my skull I am because lying in bed in a grey room for sixteen hours is one of the dullest things anyone can do. I can't read because it hurts my head; I can't sleep because I'm not sleepy any longer, despite being tired; I can't write because that requires too much coherent thought. Light bothers me. I can't say I'm all that averse to going ahead and simply kicking the proverbial bucket to put myself out of my misery.
Wangst wangst wangst. I need to do something besides sitting here and feeling sorry for myself.
Outside it's raining.
Called off work again. I won't get to see my people for another three whole weeks, now. >_< I asked Linda please to promise me that she'd tell them all I was going to miss them and that I loved them.
I haven't eaten a thing since some beans yesterday at around two, but I'm not the slightest bit hungry; in fact, the idea of food makes me feel a little ill. Is that a natural thing to happen? I'm just curious, really.
I have Weigh-in to-night at five-twenty, if I can make it, and an appointment at eights from a couple of weeks back to have my hair re-coloured and then chopped off so that it's short. The latter I pray I can make. The former would be nice, too, because guhhh. I've missed two Curves sessions this week and have done my diet very erratically, depending on how conscious or dead I was on respective days.
This isn't much at all fair. I can't do anything, really, because I'm too fuzzy in my head to concentrate much, but aware enough to realise how completely bored out of my skull I am because lying in bed in a grey room for sixteen hours is one of the dullest things anyone can do. I can't read because it hurts my head; I can't sleep because I'm not sleepy any longer, despite being tired; I can't write because that requires too much coherent thought. Light bothers me. I can't say I'm all that averse to going ahead and simply kicking the proverbial bucket to put myself out of my misery.
Wangst wangst wangst. I need to do something besides sitting here and feeling sorry for myself.
Outside it's raining.