God damn my body...

Some people treat their body like a temple. I see mine as more of a funfair.

Having just gotten over a chest infection, that I suspect may have actually been pneumonia, I now have a pulled muscle in my chest causing me some pain whenever I breathe or cough... I breathe as a matter of course; I smoke too much and have asthma, so I cough quite frequently...

At least I'm hoping it's only a pulled muscle. There is the deep seated paranoid fear in my head that it's a coronary building up to the point where my heart explodes out of me like a stinger missile, or lung cancer. But that's just paranoia. I hope.

I'd go to the doctor but after the debacle of yesterday, when I called to try to get an appointment sometime before hell freezes over, this will not happen in the immediate future so I'll suffer the stabbing pains and wait for either my chest to get better or for the upcoming stroke to strike and hurl me violently into the big sleep.

But these are the things that keep us on our toes. Or our backs.

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Now playing: The Clash - London's Burning

Light from the torch illuminates the keyboard in the early hours…

The despair has struck…
Quiet voices in the night…

There has been a constant banging headache all day. As there has been for the past three days. Whenever I move my head pounds. Blood surges striking up the pain when I cough and earlier on in the night I was as sick as an inexperienced sailor, adrift on a schooner in the southern seas where the BIG waves are. They roll in the night. Not silent, just deadly.

I am currently stuck in some kind of nightmarish loop… The Gods laugh at me daily as my situation stays the same despite the changes wrought upon me by a power crazed fool with one testicle, a love of whiskey and a deep hatred of women… I wrote to stay relatively sane and able to function in the everyday doom that God wreaks upon us lost souls. And what do I get? A one way ticket to the scrapheap.

I make resolutions to change but lose interest as the futility of any project becomes clearer.

“I shall write a story” I think. I begin to write. My imagination throws out an image and I focus on it intensely. The image becomes as solid and real to me as the keyboard in front of me. I attempt to describe it and am always disappointed. The words cannot project my imaginations and the question of “What do I write next?” is gradually replaced by the more pertinent question “Why bother?”

Whatever I write will not change the world. This is easy to see. My name will not go down in history and Dear Reader, chances are neither will yours. No matter who you are.

A day will come when you are nought but a memory in the minds of lovers and loved ones. This will soon pass though and you, along with the billions of others, will be forgotten. You will be no more remembered than a second cousin twice removed on your great great grandmothers side is remembered by you yourself.

So what are you? What am I? Am I the creation of a loving god as it says in the bible? I doubt it very much. To all intents and purposes and without any evidence to the contrary, life is a punishment wreaked by an uninterested God. Fuck him and all he stands for.

God is the pimp to the many whores of life who tell you it will work out in the end. “We’re all here for a reason.” They cry, with disbelief clear in their eyes and the tone of a beaten person evident in their voices. “God makes us do his bidding so that we may rise above the level of dumb beasts.” They wail, hoping that you will swallow their bullshit and be a good upstanding member of their society and not burn down their churches upon a whim. Despite the fact that their churches should be the first to go.

And now in the early hours of the morning, when the quiet voices take the chance to make themselves heard, the headache is still there beating upon my brow like a hammer of the gods. Have I angered them? Is it divine retribution that causes the pain? Or is it merely a fact of life…

Where is the power of information when the information is lost through a lust power?
Forgotten.
Just like your Second cousin twice removed on your great great grandmothers side.
Just like you, dear reader.
And…
Just like me.

I ♥ Medicine...

One of the advantages of having a chest infection is the opportunity to make the edges of your vision blur through the ingestion of powerful cough medicines.

So today I took a wander along to the local chemist where I bought a bottle of the strongest linctus I could lay my hands on without a prescription from a Doctor. After a few questions from the pharmacist about what kind of cough I had, (My answer; Cough, Hack, Cough, Hack, Wheeze, Turn red in the face, Curse loudly, "That kind.") I was sold a bottle of Meltus for chesty coughs.

I staggered homeward and retired back to the bosom of my warm bed to attempt to knock this chest infection into touch. As I perused the directions on the box I noticed that it didn't say anything about not exceeding the dose. This I took to mean "Drink the whole damn thing."

So I popped the box open, unscrewed the cap of the bottle and knocked back the contents in one feel swoop, despite the fact that it tasted exactly like I would expect if I were to suck the toes of someone who has a very bad case of athletes foot.

Within seconds I felt the guff in my chest loosen and I hacked up a lump of grey phlegm that I could have played with like a lump of silly putty if I felt so inclined. A few minutes later, as I settled into my bed, I felt the familiar drowsy feeling normally associated with having had a couple of stiff rums.

I reread the box and noticed that the ingredients contained alcohol. "Even better, not only will this stuff knock my chest infection on the head, it'll get me tipsy." I thought as my vision began to blur slightly.

Within half an hour later I was sleeping the sleep of a baby and didn't awake until 12 hours later.

Every year it's the same...

Around about the time the weather in Scotland turns cold my chest decides that I don't appreciate the ability to breathe as much as I should and gives me a stinking chest infection.

Green lumps of phlegm are lodged in the top of my lungs, my chest begins to feel like someone has set about it with a brillo pad and industrial bleach, the hair on my head hurts, I daren't shave, my head pounds like I'd been out on the randan and I'm sweating like an inexperienced drug mule on his way through customs with enough illegal drugs up his jacksie to make Amy Winehouse, Pete Docherty and Courtney Love pass out through sheer joy.

At these times it is best for all if I do not venture out the house as my patience is seriously limited and I am easily annoyed. So for today, and the rest of the weekend, I shall be taking to my bed with a bottle of cough mixture and a bucket to hawk my lugies into.

*Update*

It's now a good twelve hours later... My joints have begun to ache like I am a 70 year old man, my voice is starting to sound like I have no voicebox and the normally amazing Dr Solpadeine isn't having the effect I had hoped for.