le weekend AKA livejournal as an outlet for procrastination now that all my flat mates are asleep
This weekend was mad. It started on the 3rd of March (a month mentally associated with spring) when we finally got our first bit of long-awaited, much anticipated SNOW! It was fabulous for about five minutes before it all melted while I was in my English Lit. lecture. That night, in spite of the fact that I was dying of a sore throat/fever/headache/bird flu, I went out and it was good fun.
Saturday, I woke up and I was actually dead. I couldn't swallow for pain in my throat, I couldn't breathe because of my stuffy nose, and in the five hours during which I was sleeping and could not, therefore, blow my nose every 1.2 minutes, my head seemed to have accumulated so much snot it started oozing out my eyes because hey! yeah, they were crusted shut when I awoke and, not having taken a science course in a good two years now, I have no other explanation. Are you tired of my whining yet because I'm not done. I was shivering and feverish and my head hurt so much I couldn't lift it. It was awesome except for that part where I stopped living because I couldn't take the pain.
So, I spent the day wallowing in self pity, making nice hygienic piles of tissues on my floor, reading about religion and the Renaissance until Steph came home at about 6:00 and convinced me that what would make me feel better would be going out clubbing with her. At first, I may have been sceptical, barely able to stand as it were, but I figured Sambuca soothes the throat, right? and what's the harm in a couple cocktails? I have to say that half way through my second Cosmopolitan, I no longer felt ill, though I remember very little of what happened after the bottle of Champagne. It did, however, involve ketchup which was splattered all over our kitchen/living room this morning.
And now, to the last 300 words of my English essay. I'll even get to sleep tonight! I had just better not wake up with goo oozing out of my eyes again because that is seriously motherfucking MINGING.
Saturday, I woke up and I was actually dead. I couldn't swallow for pain in my throat, I couldn't breathe because of my stuffy nose, and in the five hours during which I was sleeping and could not, therefore, blow my nose every 1.2 minutes, my head seemed to have accumulated so much snot it started oozing out my eyes because hey! yeah, they were crusted shut when I awoke and, not having taken a science course in a good two years now, I have no other explanation. Are you tired of my whining yet because I'm not done. I was shivering and feverish and my head hurt so much I couldn't lift it. It was awesome except for that part where I stopped living because I couldn't take the pain.
So, I spent the day wallowing in self pity, making nice hygienic piles of tissues on my floor, reading about religion and the Renaissance until Steph came home at about 6:00 and convinced me that what would make me feel better would be going out clubbing with her. At first, I may have been sceptical, barely able to stand as it were, but I figured Sambuca soothes the throat, right? and what's the harm in a couple cocktails? I have to say that half way through my second Cosmopolitan, I no longer felt ill, though I remember very little of what happened after the bottle of Champagne. It did, however, involve ketchup which was splattered all over our kitchen/living room this morning.
And now, to the last 300 words of my English essay. I'll even get to sleep tonight! I had just better not wake up with goo oozing out of my eyes again because that is seriously motherfucking MINGING.