rejection

In the last few posts I've shown a disturbing pre-occupation with aging and death.  It is only natural given - nay, it has been BORN out of - my body's complete rejection of the lifestyle I've been forcing it to lead recently. 

Slight HED* there, yes.  However, I do think my body is rejecting the alcohol and takeaway food I've been cramming into it.  Tasty treats like zeppelins in Lietuva (more to come on this trip) were covered in sour cream sauces; P wolfed down some airport BK which I couldn't help but bite**; and I think I've singlehandedly been responsible for at least 50% of last year's juniper berry crop with my gin intake in the last two weeks.***

This morning, I woke with a cold that is now making me feel like cotton wool is rammed into my head.  It started with a sore throat last night, when (I shit you not) my throat swelled pretty much immediately upon contact with a very nice glass of rioja. I COULDN'T FINISH MY GLASS OF WINE, people.  That NEVER happens to me.

Also, the spots and greasy hair.  But we shall not speak of those, only continue layering concealer and dry shampoo in a vain hope that we do not look like a 14 year old with a hormone problem. 

Fuck, there's no way to finish this one, is there?  Messy as hell.

*Hyperbole Exaggeration Disease, a chronic illness that we diagnosed Hat Friend as having some years ago.  She is incapable of having mediocre or average experiences - everything is the WORST or BEST EVAAAAAAAAAAAH.  Most often, she claimed that she was "the DRUNKEST I have EVER been" (well, we were only in our early 20s but there was quite a high standard set the day she and I tried to join the hundy club and vommed in a tent in my backyard so I take leave to doubt this statement regularly).  If she got a parking ticket, it was always for the sum of about $50,000.  At the least.

** I can't believe we're both able to eat BK let alone BK from an airport after the 12-hour-plane-toilet-tag-team-relay caused by BK in Bangkok.  Horrendous.  When we got off the plane in Auckland, P's dad, generously there to meet us, recoiled. We were omitting a noxious odour so bad that it that probably required some kind of resource consent for release into the atmosphere. But there you have it, we never learn.

*** That makes me sound like some kind of 19th century lush floozy, destined for the almshouses of Whitechapel, the streets of East London and the knife of Jack the Ripper.  Didn't all those ladies drink cheap gin or geneva or methylated spirits or something?