Friday, 19 June 2015

DAY WHATEVER

I’ve lost count, I’m somewhere, not sure where, it’s a day.

Look, I don’t have to answer to you! OK?! OK?!

Don’t look at me like that! My epic fourteen(ish) day challenge thingy to finish my play hit a teeny tiny little hurdle that knocked me off course for half a week.

That’s all, nothing major, it’s all cool, I don’t mind, I don’t give one jot that I was POISONED!

POISON!

‘By who?’ I hear you ask (should it be ‘whom’? When does one ‘whom’? How does one know whom to ‘whom’?)

By what? Should be your question!

For ‘twas not a hoomun what did it for me, but a thing. At least I think ‘tis was a thing (Tiswas!?), for I have not left this house, this cave of mine in which I dwell to carve these words upon this mighty—

Ok, I am sick of that prose, I don’t know why I go all pseudo Shakespeare every time I get poisoned… it must be a reaction.

I ate something, or drank something, at some point in the last week (perhaps the last two) that contained something, or was contaminated by something that my food intolerances will not allow me to consume.

I KNOW NOT WHAT!

I was all happy, happy… well, I was my usual self; a sort of slowly boiling over rage toward the world, when my brain starts to get a little foggy.

I begin to have unwarranted ‘senior moments’ (I’m barely a smidgen more than twenty six!) … I start to run a bath then promptly forget about it, put bread (sans gluten) under the grill and forget about it, put my freshly made coffee in the cupboard, then take the jar of granules to my desk and stare at it for half an hour thinking ‘now I know something ain’t right’.

This is, of course, the first symptom of my downfall, if this was the last symptom, then I may be able to use my wits and genius to work out what is happening, to stop it in its tracks, to prevent sinking further into the pit of despair.

But then, the sun gets brighter. Brighter and brighter, getting all up in my business. I have to close the curtains, shut out this devastating light, put on sunglasses and crawl into the darkest corner of the house, and then forget why I’m there.

And then, my favourite bit, oh yes. The darkest bit of all. The bit that sits there waiting. It waits for me to first lose my genius, my wit, my mind.

It waits for the point when I can no longer remember how complicated things such as ‘words’ work and I dimly ask for ‘hot potato’ instead of ‘a hot water bottle’, like some slack-jawed, monkey-brained, fool of a twit.

But still it waits, it waits for me to become physically frail; pale, drawn, dark circles around my eyes, swollen glands and swollen stomach, a heavy fatigue enveloping my body like a wet, doggy-smelly, blanket.

At this point, I am now capable of nothing more that shuffling around the house; a dim-witted, slothful, peddler of idiocy.

When I am thusly incapacitated, slow of action and mind; I am struck by the last and heaviest symptom of my POISON!

Wiffling and burbling, like the Jabberwock through the tulgy wood, it creeps upon me. I am too slow to move out of its way, too stupid to know which way ‘it’s way’ is any way and alas it is already too late. I am caught in its damp and squishy pincers without even knowing my enemy is upon me.

I think the dark thoughts it whispers in my ear are my own.

For two days I have been caught in its grasp.

All this because of frikken food intolerance! THE BASTARD!

There was something, hidden somewhere! What was it?!
Was it maltodextrose? Ambrose Nectrose? Whogivesafecktrose?!

Now I am even more terrified of food than I was before! Checking everything! Everything!

“OI! What’s in this chicken!?”

“… chicken.”

“AND WHAT ELSE? POISONER! POISONER!”

“… just chicken.”

“Ok, Mum… I believe you…”

I’ll let it slide this time, POISONER! But don’t think I’m not watching you!

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