25.01.13- Downpours, Diabetes and Dangerous Driving

Right, so I'm now posting the other side of Christmas. There are 3 main reasons for this:

1) I've been too busy studying.
2) I've been too busy being a drunken pest.
3) I'm a lazy cow.

Happy new year and all that. Having got over the bitter disappointment of Father Christmas not bringing me a cat (selfish fat bastard, and he still helped himself to my mince pies) and surviving the exam period without my scheduled annual January breakdown (this time last year I'd signed my withdrawal form for Uni and was going to drop out of education, work and life), it's time to get writing.
So. Today.
Today I woke up with my blood sugar levels more than 5 times what they should be for the 5th day in a row. Once this has gone on long enough, this starts to happen:

1) My head hurts and I feel sick.
2) I want to fall asleep. Anywhere. Anytime. Everywhere.
3) I want to drive an axe through everyone's skull for existing.

Me this morning

So I scowled in my cowprint dressing gown and went back to sleep for an hour before testing again. Read the meter. "20.8".
Jesus arsebiscuits and christ in a tin.
I stabbed myself with more insulin before going back to sleep again with my book on top of me (sadly the only thing that gets on top of this cat lady lately) before going for a cup of tea with my Dad. Some people tell me I look like my Dad. I do not look like my Dad.
He is bald and has a goatee.
Running was out of the question today. I'm up to 10 miles but past that my blood sugars go haywire and last time I reached 10 miles I ended up retching near a bin so got a bus home from Mumbles. I liked to think of myself as being a "lad" swaggering on in my running gear.
In actual fact I felt like a dirty fraud. I don't think it will be acceptable for me to jump on a bus during the Llanelli Half Marathon. It might disappoint people.

"HI BOYS"

So it's been irritatingly restricted on the training front at the moment. I mainly seem to stick to the gym at the moment due to the fact it is freezing and I get so cold. I once went to bed in the afternoon in Spain because I was shivering. I'm the sort of person who goes to get my soya milk from the fridge and finds that my tits have turned to glaciers. Therefore running along the beach will definitely mean death.
All this training has also given me the leg muscles of He-Man (I noticed as I vainly flexed my calves in the mirror the other day). I am almost disappointed by the lack of penis.

So today's blood sugar reading really pissed me off as it meant inevitable laziness and sleeping. I don't have much energy at the moment but a lot going round in my head. Without running and the endorphins to calm me down, I am proud of myself for not hurting anybody yet, nor eating a cat.
After seeing my Dad and hearing all about his holiday to Jamaica (jammy git), I went to see my Nan and Grandad. I love them. At this point it was pissing down and icy cold and almost...ALMOST...made me want a cuddle. But I have no man I particularly want to cuddle right now plus I'm not in a cuddling mood, I'm in a smack-your-bitch-up mood so boys please don't mention Valentine's Day because the cards already appearing in the windows are already making me want to spew (this may be because it is inevitable that I'm only going to get a card from Mummy this year. Or the dog. Funnily enough, they have similar handwriting).
I showed them the penis birthday cake I made for my housemate yesterday. My Nan said it was "fabulous". My mum also said yesterday that it was "lovely", but then she was off her face on anaesthetic from having her wisdom tooth out and I was trying to force her to eat custard so I don't think she was quite all there at the time.

"Lovely" according to Mum. 

The rain got worse and worse today. I know we're in Wales. I was born here. I should be used to rain. But this was no ordinary rain.
This was apocalyptic rain of Satan.
As we speak, Killay and Brynmill are currently in the grip of hell (Brynmill is usually hell at about 3am on a Wednesday post-Wind Street, but that's usually vomit-and-stolen-traffic-cone related).
Driving back from seeing my hilarious bezzie bum James and slagging off life over refillable Diet Cokes at the Harvester (refillable. REFILLABLE. The novelty never wears off. You can stroll to the drinks machine feeling like a fucking monarch AS MANY TIMES AS YOU LIKE), I dropped him home and then decided to avoid the unlit road to Cockett (my windscreen wipers were breaking, thus in the downpours I had all the visibility of Stevie Wonder at a disco) by going through Dunvant.

"Welcome to Brynmill"

Big mistake.
The rain hammered harder. The window became more difficult to see through. I couldn't see the giant pools of water in front of me. I swear half my car was going to be entirely engulfed as I splashed straight through what can only be described as Gowerton's own Atlantis. And all the while all I could think was: "I am not going to fucking die listening to Lady Gaga's 'Bad Romance'."
I finally got to Killay only for the road to be closed off anyway due to floods and had to take a detour. Brynmill was also closed off. This is half-scary, half cool, like being able to imagine you live in Spongebob's pineapple under the sea but knowing that humans cannot breathe underwater.
I got in, shaken, Lady Gaga still thumping in my head. In true cat lady style, bed has never looked so appealing.
All that's missing is a cat.
Until next time, meow and all that.