Sick

I have been sick. Being sick. Sick for days. Feeling sick too. Every time I move, sick. You know what though? I still prefer it to depression. Even the night I sat up all night beside the bed, head over the waste bin, cold and retching, too giddy to make it downstairs. Even that was better than depression. I told you I was mental, didn't I?

It's been a strange week. I finished the big OU written assignment on time, but didn't get it in. Couldn't find the address, and then got sick. This kind of self-destructive behaviour is typical of me and my spectacular lack of success. I have wrapped one prezzie. I also got Nick to tell the family I shan't make it down before Christmas. There is a bit of snow which might have put me off, but really, I feel weakened. I also feel that no-one is likely to be that bothered. The gifts will have to go down in January. There is some irony there because they are all, innovatively, ready.

It is almost the end of the decade. I've had some of the best and worst times in these years. It hit me tonight that I've wasted the worst and made the best of the best. In the next decade, I would like double glazing, and a house by the sea. I don't think Santa manages stuff like that, so I'll have to do it for myself if its going to happen. As it is, I want more than anything to be looked after. To have someone make a good roast dinner, change the bedding, warm the bed. Small luxuries, yet unattainable. Ah, but as Nick said to me when I told him about the motion sickness, it helps to move around.

I'm thinking of giving up this blog.