Ever since I cut out carbs and started eating ridiculous amounts of mushy peas, drinking just hasn’t agreed with my brain (possibly due to that niggling malign liver disease, but let’s ignore that). After a night out a couple of weeks ago I woke up covered in grazes with my shirt ripped to shreds, my student card gnawed up, my debit card gone, a dish cloth in my bed and the lid to my 1 calorie cooking oil spray on my desk. There are also the fragmented memories of scaling walls, climbing fences and picking my way through a densely wooded area nestled between some houses. Gaining confused consciousness in indistinguishable residential areas is fast becoming a regular pastime.
The only feasible explanation for these lengthy excursions is that I’ve been turned into a werewolf, and there are enough scratches scaling my ribcage to prove it. This has absolutely nothing to do with my intense desire to live in a never-ending episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer (which really really doesn’t mean I want to be Seth Green, because, go away Seth), and it’s not like I just drank too much and took the wrong turning out of the club or anything.
On one of the occasions that I found my way home intact and with absolutely no mud on my clothes (achievement of the century) my housemates took the liberty of filming my freaky nonsense-talk. I considered including the video in this post, but the potential wrath of future employers (hey guys!) made me think otherwise. I transcribed some cute highlights instead:
Me: I want my moisturise! My othercrem sudocrem. I want my mudocrem sudocrem. Sudocrem mudocrem 😦
(pointing at a chest of drawers) I would like to put my vomit over there, in the sink.
Housemates: There’s no sink over there.
Me: But there are lots of shrinks over there. There’s four! Drawers of frink! Shrinks! 1, 2, 3, 4. There are shrinks of drawers.
Housemates: Can you tell us a good joke?
Me: There are three drawers. And there’s one behind me, and I say ‘hello!’
5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and that’s the joke. And now you see that there are five things behind me!
What’s that? Oh, I know. It’s the distant hum of my future career in stand-up comedy. Or is it the van that they bundle you into when you’re sectioned? I’m not sure.
IN OTHER NEWS:
I still don’t get politics, but Obama has another 4 years, and from what I gather that is a really great thing unless you’re a racist, homophobic, sexist mormon and/or you want every baby ever conceived EVER to be born, even if it’s to a couple of hapless crack addicts who can’t tell the difference between children and toilet paper. So, well done Obama! I’m sure you’re reading this, so give yourself a nice pat on the back.
The new edition of Exetera magazine, The Science Issue, is also out soon, and it’s great, so if you’re in Exeter make sure you get your hands on it for a lot of genuinely fascinating articles as well the chance to draw hearts around my name in the masthead and read a revitalised version of my ‘life without carbs’ post, now starring Susie Bubble. I basically cut out the sporadic capital letters and exclamation marks and added this on the end:
There is one plus to Gilbert’s syndrome, though: the biological legitimisation of an aloof fashionista diet. I frown on you and your large fries as I nibble on miniature forkfuls of lettuce and goji berries. Just how polio sufferers pick up crutches and blind people adopt guide dogs, I dealt with my illness by purchasing a camouflage coat, hanging an SLR round my neck and starting a blog. Susie Bubble eat your heart out; I bet you hide pepperoni pizza in your Prada clutch.
Over and out kids.