Big baby

In all my time of illness, I like to think that for the most part at least I’ve taken it all with dignity and a philosophical attitude. Funny that it takes one simple bout of grastro to unglue my resolve and turn me into such a big fucking baby.

I’ve never denied being a “Mumma’s Boy”, nor have I denied having a Peter Pan Complex, but this is just ridiculous. I’m sipping lemonaide, praying not to throw up because if I do then all my meds come up with it and I get no pain relief, and nibbling vegemite saos like a chipmunk (the reason being, according to my mother, is that this way when you throw them up again they’re nice and mushy and not crunchy when coming up the oesophagus), and sulking. Lots of sulking. Before bed, I lay down next to Mum, who was in her bed reading. She stroked my hair and told me she loved me—which in and of itself isn’t strange—but this was like a little kid cuddling up to Mummy in the vain hope that she will miraculously make it all better. I’m old enough to know there’s nothing she can do beyond scold me when I break my lemonaide-sao diet, but I guess I slip into these fits of infancy when I’m like this. And the really weird part?—after the last three weeks of drug induced crapitude, this is the time I get like this. Go figure.

I’m even getting bitter about it. Mum, Dad and Sister had French omelettes tonight for dinner. I hate French omelettes, with a passion. Yet my mouth was watering and I was sulking in my room, lusting over this food I hate, eating saos. It’s just not fair!

Boo hoo. Ok I’m over it now…