You are rubbish, you know that? I have put up with a lot from you, but at the moment you are really taking the piss. I mean, there is no illness or condition in the world that combines aching hyper sensitive breasts, headache, aching lower back, swollen knee and spots. (Yes, I can hear you all out there. There is one. Yes I KNOW that this sounds like pregnancy. This is how I found myself wasting seven euros this morning on a pregnancy test to test for a miracle/phantom/immaculate conception pregnancy, that, thank FUCK was not real. Oh, and then having to fish the test packaging out of the sanitary bin having thrown it away without checking what positive looked like was a bonus, so cheers, brain. Oh, and then I had a paranoid freakout around 3pm and worried that maybe throwing it away after 30 seconds was premature, so I had to stick my hand in that seething den of fetid horror AGAIN to double check - still not pregnant, thank Nathan!)
Brain, you are just pathetic at the moment. Where is your supposed brilliance of yesteryear? You used to be pretty good at this 'thinking' business. No more. Just today, I agreed to write up notes of the last week's dismal training day of death, only to look at my notes and discover they contain nothing more meaningful than this:
An inept sketch of some owls and other non-specific woodland creatures.
There were also a handful of words that may as well have been ghostwritten by the hand of Guy de Maupassant after a heavy evening on the absinthe and opium pipe. Apart from this, I am not merely forgetful, but almost completely absent. I could barely tell you my own name. I do not even care any more. All I want is a giant nest made of shredded copies of Grazia to curl up and hibernate in.
I also consider you, brain, responsible for my "decision" to not get up out of this chair to go and get proper food for lunch, instead making do with the cheap chocolate mountain that graces my desk. Stomach is now saying how hungry it is, whilst head is remining me that chocolate is a notorious migraine trigger. Really clever. Big clap.
Jaw/teeth - I give you plenty, and I mean plenty, to occupy yourselves with during the day. Why do you feel it incumbent upon you to grind squeakily and relentlessly all night every night, scaring the CFO and giving me an aching jaw/head/neck?
Immune system - The stuff that used to be on my head, and eyelids, and brow bone was NOT an evil bacterial invader, trying to destroy me. It was HAIR. Duh. I would like you to promise me that as compensation for your ridiculous hypervigilance, you make me NEVER get any really crap illnesses, like cancer.
Chest - seriously, screw this for a laugh. Giant aching boobs. Non-pregnancy related (though again I say, thank you god. And Nathan. And any other non-fertility deity.) Why? What can it possibly mean? I can't even bloody GOOGLE this because it would lead me to sooo much pornography. I feel unprepared for a visual assault of gigantic cyber breasts.
Knee - I really don't know what your problem is. You are just built wrong. Three MRIs, arthroscopy, anti-inflammatories, physio, two orthopedic surgeons and still you swell up like an enormous sausage, but less appetising. Only last week the bearded dwarf doctor drained you with his giant needle, but you are back up to your old, ridiculous tricks. I cannot bend you or wear skirts/dresses. Also, you hurt. I have another MRI scheduled for my birthday*, because nothing says Happy Birthday! like lying in a small metal tube trying to remain immobile while listening to the sound of terrifying metallic chuntering, as the giant magnet scans me for signs of decay for an hour. This is beyond a joke. In a few thousand years, human beings will not have knees anymore. They will have marvellous glidey silicone things instead. I am convinced of it.
Arse - it is not for nothing that yesterday the children gleefully mentioned that you are bigger than the CFO's head. Sort it out.
The rest of you (cellulite, stretch marks, scars, gnarled toes, etc)- consider yourself on notice. You had better start shaping up or I will be selling you to the highest bidder on ebay, and whatever is left of me will go and live in a jar of formaldehyde to scare future generations with my medieval levels of deformity.
*Even though Nablopomo has decided I am already 34 which is a little cruel. Another 10 days! Let me be 33 for a few more days, no?
Ps. If this is dull and depressing, go and watch this magnificent thing. It has made me indescribably happy. Put Monifa the baby pygmy hippo in the cake car and I would actually be in heaven.