Rubbish Weekend
Many years ago I had a series of Postman Pat books with titles indicating what sort of natural forces old Pat and faithful Jess would be up against in each volume; There was 'Postman Pat's Foggy Day', 'Postman Pat's Rainy Day' and 'Postman Pat's Windy Day' which was subtly distinct from 'Postman Pat's Blustery Day'.
If my recent tribulations were to be serialised in similar style there would be three volumes,
Number 1: Earnest's Crappy Day, 2: Earnest's Wretchedly Miserable Day and 3: Earnest's Bloody Sunday, all available as a boxed set entitled 'Earnest's utterly fucked weekend'. highLOWlight's from the series include:
The part where I receive a letter containing crushing news which puts the lid on a cherished dream.
The part where I have an extreme and protracted allergic reaction for no discernible reason.
The part where my prescription isn't ready but I'm all out of meds including inhalers which I really need to help alleviate the allergic asthma especially since I'm supposed to have an audition Monday which I can't expect to do so well at if I can't BREATHE.
The part where I realise I'm anaemic AGAIN and am then immediately struck by a menstrual DELUGE of biblical proportions, meaning I probably won't remember my own name by Monday, although frankly that's the least of my troubles given I'm liable to faint whenever I stand up.
The part where I stand back and allow the pizza boy to shout at me (he got lost but clearly it's my fault) and even when he throws rubbish on my doorstep I say nothing but stand open-mouthed, because I just feel too tired and woolly to do anything else.
The part where I get locked out of my house for 6 hours with wet hair and nothing but a t-shirt and jeans on NOT EVEN SHOES OR SOCKS and it starts to snow which then turns to drizzle, which exposure and stress then sets the asthma off again.
But maybe the lowest point is the part where I stay up ranting all over my nice shiny LJ (that I was supposed to be saving for proper things when I have the time) because I just need to get this stuff off my poor wee wheezing chest if I'm to get any sleep before that audition that I've more or less given up on.
ARRRRRRRG.
If my recent tribulations were to be serialised in similar style there would be three volumes,
Number 1: Earnest's Crappy Day, 2: Earnest's Wretchedly Miserable Day and 3: Earnest's Bloody Sunday, all available as a boxed set entitled 'Earnest's utterly fucked weekend'. highLOWlight's from the series include:
The part where I receive a letter containing crushing news which puts the lid on a cherished dream.
The part where I have an extreme and protracted allergic reaction for no discernible reason.
The part where my prescription isn't ready but I'm all out of meds including inhalers which I really need to help alleviate the allergic asthma especially since I'm supposed to have an audition Monday which I can't expect to do so well at if I can't BREATHE.
The part where I realise I'm anaemic AGAIN and am then immediately struck by a menstrual DELUGE of biblical proportions, meaning I probably won't remember my own name by Monday, although frankly that's the least of my troubles given I'm liable to faint whenever I stand up.
The part where I stand back and allow the pizza boy to shout at me (he got lost but clearly it's my fault) and even when he throws rubbish on my doorstep I say nothing but stand open-mouthed, because I just feel too tired and woolly to do anything else.
The part where I get locked out of my house for 6 hours with wet hair and nothing but a t-shirt and jeans on NOT EVEN SHOES OR SOCKS and it starts to snow which then turns to drizzle, which exposure and stress then sets the asthma off again.
But maybe the lowest point is the part where I stay up ranting all over my nice shiny LJ (that I was supposed to be saving for proper things when I have the time) because I just need to get this stuff off my poor wee wheezing chest if I'm to get any sleep before that audition that I've more or less given up on.
ARRRRRRRG.