SUNDAY JULY 2ND - SUNDAY JULY 9TH
I put on my suede shorts I’ve reserved for fat days, due to the nature of the fabric it’s a struggle to get them over my fat pale chicken thighs and even more so to get them over my fat fucking ass. I make an executive decision to eat much less. Maybe even go back to one meal a day. In order to achieve this I must smoke more and exercise regularly. Or maybe just smoke more.
Everyone is planning for their business meetings the next day. I spend the morning reading and meditating, in the afternoon I have planned to meet my friends. I have no idea what is expected at this initial meeting let alone where the absolute fuck its geographical location situates itself. I’ll wing it like I always do. Everyone has submitted their weekends homework but the company still haven’t fixed me any internet, I could buy some off a friend but I’ll use this as my excuse as to why I’m late. Ever the typical Brit, I will complain until I am six feet under and I will win, like always. There is so much paper work, excel bullshit and academic hierarchy I must adhere to. I would rather get my hands dirty and physically help my selected business as apposed to helping them behind a banal computer screen. Besides I desperately want to learn how to make men’s shoes, I am to come home with at least one pair I have made for my father. It can be his birthday and Christmas present in one, for many years, I am sorted.
I put on my half mauled Celine sunglasses and hide from the world, I realise I haven’t put on any deodorant so I will sweat to death and stink within a matter of seconds. It is times like this I wish I still had a ‘cold’. The sweat causes my shades to fall from my face, I have to face the world in all my sweaty glory. We are on our way but running late, this seems to be my new tag line ... African time ...
I spend my Monday evening filling out a ‘volunteer diagnostics’ excel spreadsheet. The very title makes me sick to my core. Usually my Mondays are spent wondering why my ex had been ignoring me, scribbling down a million letters I’ll never send in some desperate plea for a paper romance, sat sobbing and slobbing n the dark. I will look at the same piece of pasta for hours on end and feel a total sense of hopelessness since my serotonin levels are at a all time low. I will wonder if I will ever regain my appetite. My mum will reassure me this will pass, I will find love again, I should lay off the drugs as they do nothing for me. I will stare at the ceiling and wonder why I’m such a loser. I’ll wake up on a Tuesday and hate myself for being such an emotional wreck the previous night. It’s a Tuesday now, I’ll probably go out to forget last night and repeat the pattern on Wednesday, maybe even Thursday depends how sleep deprived the night inflicts itself upon me. How my mother copes I will never know. For now all I know is I’ll take a spreadsheet over self pity any day of the week.
I’ve gotten myself into a routine of awaking at six am, I read, I wash, then I spend some time thinking, I may meditate, I go on to smoke and drink a cup of shitty instant coffee. A thought comes to mind and I beg for the pardon of all the mouthes I have kissed over the past two months. For my personal hygiene has been some what desolate and it is only now that my gums have stopped bleeding with the regularity of brushing. My skin is clear and bronzed and at present I can once again breathe through both nostrils. Though I remain fat in body.
I am awoken again by the local church screaming in tongues, at first I thought it was someone MCing but no, they are praying. It’s five o clock in the fucking morning. Overnight my bite seems to have transformed to shape into a nipple. Great, I have a nipple on my fat White milky thigh.
Tuesday is our first day of work, our work is apparently situated two hours away. We have to take a cab... my anxiety hits an all time high, our cab driver has fucking lost it, he’s driving us into meter wide drainage ditches, in between tro tros, whilst smashing away on his phone, this is interrupted with intervals of roaring deep bellied chuckles. I am sure of it that we are going to shortly smash down into the muddy Cholera infested waters of the ditch, thank God this cab has seat belts so I won’t go through the wind screen and end up a chapter depicted from Ballards’ ‘Crash’. Luckily or unluckily. Depending on how you view me, we didn’t die. We set on down the free way, windows open, flies smacking away at our faces, the breeze bashing at my hair. I am going to look a state by the time we get to our enterprise, a leather workshop I am informed, it’s a good job I rarely brush my hair.
There are chickens braising on the dusty Red brick coloured floor, I realise their feet have been cut off and they cannot move, they are waiting for slaughter. I want to cry for them, I never want to eat chicken again. It makes me think of our house dog and how she is starving, unwashed and they leave her in the airless heat all day with little to no water. My heart breaks every time I come into contact with her but I can’t comfort her as she is riddled with fleas. Just as my heart is about to break further, there is an almighty screech that interrupts me blasting Fat Whites so loud it’s almost perforating my ear drums. Someone has crashed behind us. I need a Xanax. I’ll play Elliot Smith instead and close my eyes.
I’ve literally had enough of seeing the dog starve. As far as I am concerned she has much as a place on this earth as I. I hide half my dinner in my bag and on my evening smoke feed it to the dog.
I am awoken from my momentary broken sleep by the screeching of tenacious tongues. The nipple has developed into a full breast, I’ve become aware it is probably infected. The lone breast was the sole perpetrator behind my unrest. So I thank thee for the lack of sleep. Over the course of Wednesdays‘ in the classroom it’s developing swiftly from a double a to at least a c cup. I am aware my leg is totally fucked and I tell the staff. Now before reading the next part and coming to the conclusion I acted like a total prissy bitch please take in to consideration I was now deprived of two days sleep, in agony and developing a breast in a place no women or man should be developing breasts. So forgive me but I am allowed to act like a god damn fucking prissy bitch. As predicted the staff took their sweet ass fucking african time about it. This lead to a full on emotional collapse on my behalf. As I may have mentioned before I don’t have a sim therefor I am out of radio contact, for the most part I adore it. Today however I loathed it. Sometimes, especially when sick and I am sure you will all agree you need your mum. There are somethings after all a smoke just won’t fix. I just needed a familiar, friendly voice. I turned on my phone, let it go ham on the network and punched in the keys to dial home. Oh boy did I fucking cry. In between the chain smoking, the cursing, the crying, I could hear snippets and my mothers smooth, calming voice and though I wasn’t homesick and sure as hell did miss her. My mother is my rock, my dearest, most cherished best friend. I felt stupid that I had finally cracked though I knew it was just pure frustration. I’ve been solid, I’ve help a stiff upper lip so far but today everything and everyone can just get to fuck.
It wasn’t until the staff heard my mother was going to put in a complaint over the fact of two things. One being I was sitting in a classroom listening to rhetorical questions or benign facts as apposed to a hospital waiting room and Two being the fact the call alone had cost a small fortune. They finally got their fucking act together and took me to hospital. I am now in hospital, they are jabbing me with needles and drawing blood from me. ‘Just checking for Malaria‘ they say. ‘Ha‘ I think, ‘Fat chance as I have only been here ten days’.
Now I have a high pain thresh hold, I spent the best part of my teen years, oh fuck it why lie, I’ve spent the best part up until two months ago butchering the fuck out of my arms with a switch blade. If you know me you’ll know my right arm is a battle field of ugly, invasive raised scars. If not I am sure you’ll be aware next time I am without sleeve. I’m not ashamed, I won’t hide from it, it was my coping mechanism for a long time. I do regret it seeing as they are now a part of my body till I depart it. The needle drawing blood hurts, it really fucking hurts. God I’d kill for a smoke right about now. My mental state is declining and whilst I am not in anyway dreaming of hurting myself, I would give just about anything for the world to stay silent for a couple of days, a few hours, a given minute, a grab of a second. My head is fucking pounding. I don’t get offered water, nor am I allowed to leave to get any. I feel like a child. I do however get winged at that my ‘carer‘ is hungry and how late he is for dinner. I think of calling him but I realise I am no longer a cause for his concern and he will just think of me as weak. Right now I do feel a little weak but I know this feeling will pass even if its for a day or two.
I am told I have Malaria and Lyme disease. I start to spiral.
I text him. It was the first thing that came into my mind, I was scared and alone in a foreign country and all I wanted was his comfort, his stupid facts to distract me. I knew he wouldn’t reply. In fact shortly after I sent my panicked messages I saw a mutual friend had posted videos of him getting fucked up. He would definitely pretend to have never seen them. In that very moment I never in my life felt so alone. I knew in a backhanded way this way so good for me but in that moment alone my heart broke all over again. I called out for him and now I am recalling this the evening after and I have still heard no word. It wasn’t until this morning I realised even though he had reached out to me the previous week his words as always were empty, his actions forever deafen them. The evidence alone stacked up substantially to the verdict he was no longer in love with me. Love makes you blind and my love for him and blinded me from the harsh reality. I too had to fall out of love with him.
Late in the evening I spoke to one of my dearest friends. (Yes that is you Danny, I know you are perversely reading). He said for us to speak until the other one drops dead. We made a promise, one I intend to never break. Although sick and of slight broken heart, I went to bed with a smile on my face.
I had awoken in a better mood, I felt awful at the profanities I had screamed down the phone at my father the previous night. I blame it on my malicious attack of Malaria, most likely on set from the copious amounts of cocaine I had inhaled over the previous months. I should of seen the signs of my weakened immune system. For it was evidence enough that in the first week my nostrils were depositing small showers of red droplets which occasionally erupted into waterfalls. I am to ingest thirty tablets a day in order to get better.
Initially I had woken a little sad, this was short lived. I can’t eat as I feel too nauseous but I must in order for my medicines to take effect. I combat this by wrapping them in a small amount of bread and washing it down with half a litre of water. Emanuella, the host families daughter insists on braiding my hair. I do not wish for this but I allow her as it makes her happy and I can finish my book, thinking it won’t take all that long. I have the day off ‘work‘, I am reminiscent of my school years and skiving off to watch scary movies all day with my co-skiver Liam. It takes just over four hours, I have long since finished my book and started on Denis Johnsons‘ ‘Train Dreams’. The entirety of my course come to visit, a total of twenty six people. I feel overwhelmed and cared for, I receive word, finally of a simple ‘your mum messaged me are you ok’. I say I have Malaria and I am very weak. Two days later I am still to receive a reply. Even my enterprise called, which was perfect proof in itself that no matter how busy he could have been if he truly cared he could of found five minutes for me. For people I have known for less than fourteen days found it in their heart to go out of their way to travel to see me. It was very telling.
This week I learnt the true meaning of being alone. I achieved what I aimed for in a matter of weeks. Whilst this post may be negative and bitter, forgive me, it is misleading. It is beautiful here and mostly I am content. It has just been a trying week both mentally and physically. Next week will be better I am sure of it.
I put on my suede shorts I’ve reserved for fat days, due to the nature of the fabric it’s a struggle to get them over my fat pale chicken thighs and even more so to get them over my fat fucking ass. I make an executive decision to eat much less. Maybe even go back to one meal a day. In order to achieve this I must smoke more and exercise regularly. Or maybe just smoke more.
Everyone is planning for their business meetings the next day. I spend the morning reading and meditating, in the afternoon I have planned to meet my friends. I have no idea what is expected at this initial meeting let alone where the absolute fuck its geographical location situates itself. I’ll wing it like I always do. Everyone has submitted their weekends homework but the company still haven’t fixed me any internet, I could buy some off a friend but I’ll use this as my excuse as to why I’m late. Ever the typical Brit, I will complain until I am six feet under and I will win, like always. There is so much paper work, excel bullshit and academic hierarchy I must adhere to. I would rather get my hands dirty and physically help my selected business as apposed to helping them behind a banal computer screen. Besides I desperately want to learn how to make men’s shoes, I am to come home with at least one pair I have made for my father. It can be his birthday and Christmas present in one, for many years, I am sorted.
I put on my half mauled Celine sunglasses and hide from the world, I realise I haven’t put on any deodorant so I will sweat to death and stink within a matter of seconds. It is times like this I wish I still had a ‘cold’. The sweat causes my shades to fall from my face, I have to face the world in all my sweaty glory. We are on our way but running late, this seems to be my new tag line ... African time ...
I spend my Monday evening filling out a ‘volunteer diagnostics’ excel spreadsheet. The very title makes me sick to my core. Usually my Mondays are spent wondering why my ex had been ignoring me, scribbling down a million letters I’ll never send in some desperate plea for a paper romance, sat sobbing and slobbing n the dark. I will look at the same piece of pasta for hours on end and feel a total sense of hopelessness since my serotonin levels are at a all time low. I will wonder if I will ever regain my appetite. My mum will reassure me this will pass, I will find love again, I should lay off the drugs as they do nothing for me. I will stare at the ceiling and wonder why I’m such a loser. I’ll wake up on a Tuesday and hate myself for being such an emotional wreck the previous night. It’s a Tuesday now, I’ll probably go out to forget last night and repeat the pattern on Wednesday, maybe even Thursday depends how sleep deprived the night inflicts itself upon me. How my mother copes I will never know. For now all I know is I’ll take a spreadsheet over self pity any day of the week.
I’ve gotten myself into a routine of awaking at six am, I read, I wash, then I spend some time thinking, I may meditate, I go on to smoke and drink a cup of shitty instant coffee. A thought comes to mind and I beg for the pardon of all the mouthes I have kissed over the past two months. For my personal hygiene has been some what desolate and it is only now that my gums have stopped bleeding with the regularity of brushing. My skin is clear and bronzed and at present I can once again breathe through both nostrils. Though I remain fat in body.
I am awoken again by the local church screaming in tongues, at first I thought it was someone MCing but no, they are praying. It’s five o clock in the fucking morning. Overnight my bite seems to have transformed to shape into a nipple. Great, I have a nipple on my fat White milky thigh.
Tuesday is our first day of work, our work is apparently situated two hours away. We have to take a cab... my anxiety hits an all time high, our cab driver has fucking lost it, he’s driving us into meter wide drainage ditches, in between tro tros, whilst smashing away on his phone, this is interrupted with intervals of roaring deep bellied chuckles. I am sure of it that we are going to shortly smash down into the muddy Cholera infested waters of the ditch, thank God this cab has seat belts so I won’t go through the wind screen and end up a chapter depicted from Ballards’ ‘Crash’. Luckily or unluckily. Depending on how you view me, we didn’t die. We set on down the free way, windows open, flies smacking away at our faces, the breeze bashing at my hair. I am going to look a state by the time we get to our enterprise, a leather workshop I am informed, it’s a good job I rarely brush my hair.
There are chickens braising on the dusty Red brick coloured floor, I realise their feet have been cut off and they cannot move, they are waiting for slaughter. I want to cry for them, I never want to eat chicken again. It makes me think of our house dog and how she is starving, unwashed and they leave her in the airless heat all day with little to no water. My heart breaks every time I come into contact with her but I can’t comfort her as she is riddled with fleas. Just as my heart is about to break further, there is an almighty screech that interrupts me blasting Fat Whites so loud it’s almost perforating my ear drums. Someone has crashed behind us. I need a Xanax. I’ll play Elliot Smith instead and close my eyes.
I’ve literally had enough of seeing the dog starve. As far as I am concerned she has much as a place on this earth as I. I hide half my dinner in my bag and on my evening smoke feed it to the dog.
I am awoken from my momentary broken sleep by the screeching of tenacious tongues. The nipple has developed into a full breast, I’ve become aware it is probably infected. The lone breast was the sole perpetrator behind my unrest. So I thank thee for the lack of sleep. Over the course of Wednesdays‘ in the classroom it’s developing swiftly from a double a to at least a c cup. I am aware my leg is totally fucked and I tell the staff. Now before reading the next part and coming to the conclusion I acted like a total prissy bitch please take in to consideration I was now deprived of two days sleep, in agony and developing a breast in a place no women or man should be developing breasts. So forgive me but I am allowed to act like a god damn fucking prissy bitch. As predicted the staff took their sweet ass fucking african time about it. This lead to a full on emotional collapse on my behalf. As I may have mentioned before I don’t have a sim therefor I am out of radio contact, for the most part I adore it. Today however I loathed it. Sometimes, especially when sick and I am sure you will all agree you need your mum. There are somethings after all a smoke just won’t fix. I just needed a familiar, friendly voice. I turned on my phone, let it go ham on the network and punched in the keys to dial home. Oh boy did I fucking cry. In between the chain smoking, the cursing, the crying, I could hear snippets and my mothers smooth, calming voice and though I wasn’t homesick and sure as hell did miss her. My mother is my rock, my dearest, most cherished best friend. I felt stupid that I had finally cracked though I knew it was just pure frustration. I’ve been solid, I’ve help a stiff upper lip so far but today everything and everyone can just get to fuck.
It wasn’t until the staff heard my mother was going to put in a complaint over the fact of two things. One being I was sitting in a classroom listening to rhetorical questions or benign facts as apposed to a hospital waiting room and Two being the fact the call alone had cost a small fortune. They finally got their fucking act together and took me to hospital. I am now in hospital, they are jabbing me with needles and drawing blood from me. ‘Just checking for Malaria‘ they say. ‘Ha‘ I think, ‘Fat chance as I have only been here ten days’.
Now I have a high pain thresh hold, I spent the best part of my teen years, oh fuck it why lie, I’ve spent the best part up until two months ago butchering the fuck out of my arms with a switch blade. If you know me you’ll know my right arm is a battle field of ugly, invasive raised scars. If not I am sure you’ll be aware next time I am without sleeve. I’m not ashamed, I won’t hide from it, it was my coping mechanism for a long time. I do regret it seeing as they are now a part of my body till I depart it. The needle drawing blood hurts, it really fucking hurts. God I’d kill for a smoke right about now. My mental state is declining and whilst I am not in anyway dreaming of hurting myself, I would give just about anything for the world to stay silent for a couple of days, a few hours, a given minute, a grab of a second. My head is fucking pounding. I don’t get offered water, nor am I allowed to leave to get any. I feel like a child. I do however get winged at that my ‘carer‘ is hungry and how late he is for dinner. I think of calling him but I realise I am no longer a cause for his concern and he will just think of me as weak. Right now I do feel a little weak but I know this feeling will pass even if its for a day or two.
I am told I have Malaria and Lyme disease. I start to spiral.
I text him. It was the first thing that came into my mind, I was scared and alone in a foreign country and all I wanted was his comfort, his stupid facts to distract me. I knew he wouldn’t reply. In fact shortly after I sent my panicked messages I saw a mutual friend had posted videos of him getting fucked up. He would definitely pretend to have never seen them. In that very moment I never in my life felt so alone. I knew in a backhanded way this way so good for me but in that moment alone my heart broke all over again. I called out for him and now I am recalling this the evening after and I have still heard no word. It wasn’t until this morning I realised even though he had reached out to me the previous week his words as always were empty, his actions forever deafen them. The evidence alone stacked up substantially to the verdict he was no longer in love with me. Love makes you blind and my love for him and blinded me from the harsh reality. I too had to fall out of love with him.
Late in the evening I spoke to one of my dearest friends. (Yes that is you Danny, I know you are perversely reading). He said for us to speak until the other one drops dead. We made a promise, one I intend to never break. Although sick and of slight broken heart, I went to bed with a smile on my face.
I had awoken in a better mood, I felt awful at the profanities I had screamed down the phone at my father the previous night. I blame it on my malicious attack of Malaria, most likely on set from the copious amounts of cocaine I had inhaled over the previous months. I should of seen the signs of my weakened immune system. For it was evidence enough that in the first week my nostrils were depositing small showers of red droplets which occasionally erupted into waterfalls. I am to ingest thirty tablets a day in order to get better.
Initially I had woken a little sad, this was short lived. I can’t eat as I feel too nauseous but I must in order for my medicines to take effect. I combat this by wrapping them in a small amount of bread and washing it down with half a litre of water. Emanuella, the host families daughter insists on braiding my hair. I do not wish for this but I allow her as it makes her happy and I can finish my book, thinking it won’t take all that long. I have the day off ‘work‘, I am reminiscent of my school years and skiving off to watch scary movies all day with my co-skiver Liam. It takes just over four hours, I have long since finished my book and started on Denis Johnsons‘ ‘Train Dreams’. The entirety of my course come to visit, a total of twenty six people. I feel overwhelmed and cared for, I receive word, finally of a simple ‘your mum messaged me are you ok’. I say I have Malaria and I am very weak. Two days later I am still to receive a reply. Even my enterprise called, which was perfect proof in itself that no matter how busy he could have been if he truly cared he could of found five minutes for me. For people I have known for less than fourteen days found it in their heart to go out of their way to travel to see me. It was very telling.
This week I learnt the true meaning of being alone. I achieved what I aimed for in a matter of weeks. Whilst this post may be negative and bitter, forgive me, it is misleading. It is beautiful here and mostly I am content. It has just been a trying week both mentally and physically. Next week will be better I am sure of it.