A pocket full of posies
We all fall down."
This may be the first Pancake Day where I'm not craving pancakes. Something is definitely wrong. I think that would have been blatantly obvious to anyone who entered my room this morning. I've been struck down by the plague - tissues littered the floor beside my bed, medication was stacked up on my bedside table, and I was sniffling away under the covers, feeling a bit more than sorry for myself.
I made the decision that today would be a bed day from the moment I woke up. After a less-than-inspiring phone call with my father ("Nay, you need to step it up"), I wasn't exactly raring to go. But after managing to drag myself into uni (looking more stunning than usual, red nose from all that sneezing and hair that was crying out for a wash - I showered, don't worry, just didn't go the whole hog in the bathroom this morning); I felt it was a rather pointless trip.
I hate being ill. I also hate ill people. It's a good combo, isn't it? Moaning comes top amongst my favourite hobbies, yet moaning about being ill is definitely one of my pet hates. How ironic. "I'm dying," "I feel like death," "I am a complete and utter minger," being my most used phrases at the moment. I love the word 'minger,' makes me feel like I'm eleven again. It's such a stupid word. If words can be stupid.
So to put it simply. I highly dislike myself right now. I will only be happy once my body has ridden itself of this disease. C'mon viruses, move onto the next victim already, I'm bored of you now.
Then I might feel like eating pancakes.
Big love, xo.