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the colours in your head



I woke up in the middle of the night (by which I mean 5 am) with excruciating, stabbing pains in my stomach. I lay there for a little bit, cursing the dawn light that was coming in through the part of the window where Jon managed to pull the curtain down. As I writhed about, trying various variations on the foetal position to spread out the pain somewhat, Jon stirred, muttered something, wrapped his arms and legs around me, buried his face in the crook of my neck and went back to snoring, a blissful grin on his face. About half his body weight was now on my stomach, and I tried hard to convince myself that it was helping. It wasn't. I squirmed out from underneath him, while he muttered "sorry if I was bothering you, I was just having an active dream..." and managed to contort and massage myself into a position of minor comfort. Two hours later I woke up to the sound of the construction trucks starting up.

All this to say, I'm writing a paper, my stomach is hurting again, I'm having an extremely busy day, and my room is messier than I even want to begin to think of. I'm also wearing pants that are a size too tight, since I'm trying to stretch them out, but they're hard denim, so the only result is that I feel rather... constricted. A little bit like what I imagine what wearing a latex bodysuit must feel like, but without the sexual implications, and with more pain involved, what with all the flesh rubbing against the hard denim. Though I guess that kind of pain doesn't trump the pain that could be, and, I suppose, usually is inflicted on you while wearing a latex bodysuit, so...

Agh. If this is how my writing is right now, I'm fucked. Cigarette time.


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