(this was all written over the three of four worst days. i appear not to have left AM or PM on any times. testament to the fact i was only semi-aware of the world at best, and in agony at worst)
Impossible to flick my fringe. Impossible to drink the dregs. Impossible to yawn. My neck is so painful that my ears feel numb. How bizarre. The skin on my shoulders feels like rubber. Morphine, or something like it.
I never had much truck with recording the passing of time. Calendars, clocks, deadlines. And it’s always the same. The only reason I’d look at a calendar would be when my period came. Record start, record end, neglect once more.
And clocks. They surround me, walls, tables, phones, wrists. And they’re all telling subtly different lies. The only time I’ll listen is when I’m ill. “1 or 2 tablets every 3-4 hours” allowing 20 minutes for the drugs to hit my system...
I’m lucky I’m not vain. I find it hilarious. I look like some kind of retired opera singer, neck sagging but face still taut like canvas, courtesy of the tent pegs in their hairline.
Puffy neck puffy face. While I’ve been writing this the drugs have kicked in. My head throbs less. The sieve-holes in the pain are letting my sense of humour leak through. Possibly. My sentences are getting longer, always a sure sign…