Tag Archives: illness

Stop judging me for being efficient, buttmunches

Let’s make it the triple-mention it always deserved to be: I now have a name for the practice of shoving rolled-up tissue paper up my nose, which I do whenever I am ill and the snot factory is working overtime. Thank you then, Futurama, for giving me the name of ‘tissue walrus’. See here an image of Fry, someone I still identify with quite a lot, followed by an image of me, someone I identify with a little less, for what I’m on about:

Alright, so the image of me isn’t quite a walrus so much as it is a shitton of tissue up my nose, but shut up. The picture I was thinking of is printed on some kind of ‘paper’ substance, whatever that is, so there’s no way I’m bothering to put it into digital forms.

Anyway, I’ve always been laughed at by whoever has seen me adopting the tissue walrus to help get myself through a snotty situation, and I’ve never really understood why. I do it in my own home (or at friends houses, if they’re lucky) and it’s not like I leave the house looking like that. It saves tissue, it stops you from irritating your nose with constant wiping and it makes it easier in that you don’t have to pay attention to your hosing schnozz.

It makes sense.

It’s like how – when cooking for myself – I tend to put as much as I possibly can in one pan to cook all at once. If I’m having mashed potatoes, for example, I’ll put veg and stuff in with the potatoes to boil, then mash it all up into one. Yes, it looks like monkey vomit, but it tastes good and it’s easier. Why you gotta get all up in my grill about it?

Basically, leave me alone when I do awesome, time-saving things like these just because you think I look like a tit, or my food doesn’t look amazing, or I’ll end up killing someone or whatever other petty reason you come up with. If you don’t, I’ll leave my discarded tusks secreted around your house.

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I am ill. It’s everyone in the world’s fault.

Since moving to Bournemouth at the end of July last year I had not been ill – bar one moment of madness that lasted a few hours and was swiftly slept off. Of course, when it rolled around to being my birthday this year my body decided that right then and there was the perfect time to capitulate to whatever sniffles the plebs had decided to try and infect me with. I was not amused.

But then, just to add illness to illness, my body has decided once more it will piss me about a bit and make me feel – as I’ve been describing it to any and all – a bit squiffy. Again. For no discernable reason, other than those godawful things called “people” out there are weak enough to get these illnesses and stupid enough to breathe out near me.

You know who I’m talking about – I’M LOOKING AT YOU. I won’t forget this. You’ve made me ill for the last time.

So I’m going to run away, as all the greats of our world do, and go into hiding. While I haven’t yet finalised the Spruce Goose plans*, I’m sure I’ll be able to come up with something else in time. Probably just hiding in a pit until everyone else has died of their various ailments, like the filth that they are.

Sweden could be a good bolt-hole. Just for a day or so. It might impair my ability to do the blogs, as is the norm with running away like this, but the clean air and beautiful people might do me the world of good. And if not, sod it. I tried. For once.

*SIMPSONS DID IT.

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I told you I was ill

I knew actually leaving the house would yield results – one doctor’s appointment later (obviously not for me, as I have the iron constitution of a bull (made of iron)) and there’s a whole new subject to talk inanely about: hypochondria.

It is another one of those facets of life that I will rip on people incessantly about, yet am guilty of myself. From my girlfriend today, whose “definite brain cancer that will make my very soul explode” actually turned out to be a bit of a boo-boo on her knee, to my “definitely got cancer, going to die of it, tell my Mum ‘hello’” which turned out to be more a spot of me being a massive unhealthy twat, there are some fun stories to get out of this strange phenomenon. It’s made even more fun by the fact that it’s borne entirely out of our endless fear of mortality (well, not entirely, as insane media reporting and general idiocy play big parts too, but you get the point).

My example up there brought about three things: one, a general feeling of malaise in the period where I was waiting on test results and generally trying to get on with being a uni student; two, a doctor’s finger up my bum; and three, another doctor – who didn’t believe me when I told him about the last one/fancied me – violating me too. Safe to say, it wasn’t a high point in my life, and having an ultrasound in a room full of female student nurses was the icing on a particularly embarrassing (but tasty) cake. And why did I do it? I have no idea. The fact I was leading an unhealthy lifestyle, as I still am, never even occurred to me, as I simply convinced myself I was definitely going to die within the week.

Case two saw me convinced my kidneys were about to explode in a shower of pissy vinegar, covering my friends in their diseased goodness. On visiting the walk-in clinic (register with your local GP, kids), I was informed it was actually a chronic back strain, natch.

You want to feel relieved that you’re not dying; that you are actually going to live a long, fat life. But this relief is tempered by the fact that you feel like a massive plum for wasting the time of the medical professionals and for scaring yourself and your friends/loved ones so much. Isn’t it, ANNA?

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