the_happy_pig

I don't quite know what the deal is with my body at the moment.

At the moment, I'm currently sat in my room, listening to the Winding sheet by Lanegan, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. I feel strangely at peace with the world, in fact in a minute I'll take a leisurely stroll to the shop, going via the long route too, to pick up the paper and then I'm thinking about spending the day doing the crossword, maybe doing a bit of reading, or I may watch a movie or some such.

But, O happiest of pigs, what has that got to do with the opening line of your journal?, I hear you ask.

Well, I'm glad you asked me that question.

This is what should be happening at the moment. I should be laying in bed, sweating slightly, the vapours of yesterday's excess should be filling the room with a foul reek. I should be trembling as it seems that someone has swapped my head for someone else's, and that head is three sizes too small for me. I should be feeling rather sick, the sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains a fierce poker of white hot pain across my vision. The mere sound of my housemates stumbling around the house filling me with fresh waves of nausea. I wouldn't be leaving the house under any circumstances, except maybe to scurry to get a bottle of Lilt in the vain hope that it'll soothe either the sickness in my stomach or the pain behind my temples.

But I don't feel like that. I didn't feel like that after last weekend's excesses and curious sleeping positions either.