Warts, I mean Cold sore and all.....

Well, the cold sore saga is very worrisome. For the first time ever, I went to the doctor for a cold sore.
Now this wasn't just a cold sore, no, this was the monster of all cold sores. Mount Vesuvius had taken up residence on my upper lip, it was so bad that a leper colony would have denied me entry, Jesus would have turned away in horror, people in the street turned their faces away in pity, murmuring to themselves and making the sign to ward off evil. Even the Devil came to ask me who had such great power as to wreak such a devastating outbreak of disease upon my mortal body.
I have never had an outbreak so bad before. My whole upper lip swelled up so that I could hardly talk, it was so painful that I was taking handfuls of analgesics and panadol, I had ice packs pressed gingerly to the inflamed site for hours at a time. I did everything right, but it continued to grow and develop. I worried so much that I think I made it worse. I dabbed cold sore cream into the area every 5 minutes, I washed my hands every time I even thought about putting cream on it, then wiped them over with disinfectant wipes, I tried nearly every quack remedy that I came across on the net, and still it continued to get worse.
It was so big, bad and ugly that I almost got a day off work. Now, that in itself is proof that I had it bad. I have only had a half dozen days off in the last year, and three of those were for when my mum went into hospital. I very rarely get sick, and my boss is not one to give days off just because of illness. Yet even he was sickened by the sight of my swollen blistered lip, suggesting that I might try to find a temp to man the phones for the day, except our usual helper was busy for the day and couldn't come in. As it happened, I got to leave a half an hour early so that I could go to the doctor.
The doctor was so kind, he didn't recoil in revulsion when I entered his office, he looked upon with me with no pity, asked me two or three questions, then told me I would need help in the form of anti viral tablets. The thing with these tablets is, that they are terribly expensive. The doc then got up, said that he was sure that there was some samples in the office somewhere, left the office for 30 seconds and returned with three little boxes in his hand. He gave me three days worth of tablets, which at a cost of about $20 a day, was a very generous gift.
I have not been cured, but I am over the worst of the infection, and nearly ready to face the cute boy I do naughty things with. I was supposed to catch up with him on Saturday night, but cancelled. If he had seen me then, he would have never wanted to see me again.
I think that I need to take a couple of days off soon.

Looks ARE important....

I woke up this morning with a huge cold sore. I have infrequent bouts of this revolting virus flaring up to remind me of how important looks are.
Now, a cold sore is one thing, a huge blister on your top lip, extending all the way around the lip line and up to the base of your nose is another. I could probably deal with just a little blister, hardly noticeable, gone in a day or two. The thing is, I don't get a little blister, I get a HUGE blister, and it stays around for at least four days. I have tried every quack cure in the universe, in fact I am stopping every two lines to put on more cream, and there is not a thing I can do to stop its inevitable spread.
There is not one person in this world that does not notice something of these gargantuan proportions smack bang in the middle of your face. You know that advertisement with the girl where she has a bag on her head? That would be more inconspicuous than the monstrosity I have growing on my upper lip. I may as well have a flashing light and alarm bells announcing my cold sore to the world.
When people are talking to you, you can see their eyes are drawn to that spot on your face. I almost want to yell, "YES, ITS A COLD SORE, AND IT'S HUGE AND GROSS, JUST STOP LOOKING AT IT!!" but that would be like telling someone a secret and making them promise not to tell, or telling someone that you're checking out a cute guy behind them and not to look, or promising yourself that you won't eat all of the chocolate in the fridge, just one piece. Just like in the Austin Powers movie with the guy with the mole...
I've obsessed over it all day, and will be doing the same all day tomorrow. I have been throwing pills down my throat at an amazing rate, and have nearly used up a whole tube of cream on it.
The question begs to be asked, "Why me? Why now?". Is it because I have three interviews booked today and they will all be staring at it? Is it because I found a really hot boy to do really naughty things with (and now I can't invite him over for ages)? Is it because I was feeling way too secure with myself and needed to be brought down a peg or two? Oh, WHY? Just tell me WHY?
When an incident like this arises, it emphasizes society's pre-occupation with looks. How we appear to other people is so important.
I mean, I am really not that worried about what I look like, but I am concerned about looking like I kissed a toad and have big ugly warts on my lip. I have tattoos, and I like to show them off, but when I get a cold sore, I get self conscious and want to wear a paper bag on my head. It's kind of contradictory, tattoos to rebel against the conformist society, but no cold sores to show that I may be different.

Funeral songs

I have been asked to sing at funerals a lot. I have also volunteered a lot. I like to think that my singing at a funeral makes someone feel good. I can tell you that it is hard. I have sung at both my grandmother's funerals. That takes an awful lot of self control. I don't see myself as having a lot to offer the world, but somehow, singing at a funeral seems to be a gift that I can offer to the people that are grieving.
I snapped my achilles tendon a few years ago and whilst I was in hospital a lady died in the ward I was in. She was an otherwise healthy woman, in for some surgery on her feet due to age and diabetes. She died suddenly from a blood clot to her lung.
I remember the nurses coming in and drawing the curtain around her while they tried to revive her and we could all hear what was going on.
Now I didn't know this lady, I hadn't even spoken to her, but I felt that I should do something to try to ease her husbands pain. I contacted her family and offered to sing at her funeral.
Her husband called me and I met with him at my home - remember that I had only gotten out of hospital myself a few days prior - and we discussed what song that she would have liked for me to sing. These were religious people, the gentleman asked me to sing a hymn.
I knew very little of their religion, I think they were seventh day adventists or something like that, and I took the music from him and learned the hymn.
I don't know if I performed well on the day, it is really hard to sing when there is a big lump in your throat and you are trying not to cry, but I did my best.
Maybe I did this to ease my own guilt over the state of my karma, maybe I did this because I am so full of myself that I thought that everyone wanted to hear me sing anywhere. Whatever the reason I did this, I hope that that lady's husband remembers his wife, the music that played that meant so much to them both and not the person who sang it.

And it all comes crashing down...

I am finally free of my guilt over my living arrangements. I finally became so aggressive and nasty that my brother kicked me out. I have one month to save enough money to move out. Just lucky that I have a swag and a pot, I can always steal enough plastic cutlery to furnish the kitchen.
It's kind of funny. I have lived in lots of different places in Australia, by myself and with others, and I have no household goods whatsoever. Everytime I run away, I leave everything behind and end up broke, homeless and very alone. The only things that I have managed to keep are some very tattered books, my doona/blankets, and that's about it. The last few times I have run away, I managed to get to keep my car as well. I have walked out on at least 5 furnished houses and even left a PA along the way. I have left dogs and cats, CD's(which hurts a lot) and whitegoods. Everytime I have to start all over again I end up paying for it twice. I beat myself up for being such a loser, punish myself by not eating(stress reaction) and also have no possessions with which to start afresh.
I am basically back where I started all those years ago when I first left Mum and Dad, only I have seen a lot more of the world and its people.
Surely there will come a time when I am forced to take control and face my mistakes without running away. Only, it seems to be much easier to try to hide from it all. I don't know if that makes me a coward, or if it just shows how much I hate confrontation. Then again, it really shows that I make bad choices when it comes to men.
My most comforting thought about all the things I have left behind over the years is that no matter what happens to me, or where I go, I will never lose my tattoos. One of the reasons that I got my tatts (besides that I enjoy the process) is that they are mine forever and can never be taken away while I am still alive. After I die, I would like it if they could take those pretty pictures off and display them somewhere as "living art", that would be so cool.

My Mum is coming to visit. She is going to be staying for a week or more. I love my mum, she knows everything and she is a great cook.
10 days before christmas last year, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was put on the short list for hospital and had her breast removed the Wednesday before christmas day. By Friday, she was itching to be out of there and we took her home. Christmas day she was fine, not even a little bit sore. She didn't have any pain killers, and seemed to be coping with the whole thing very well. Now she is doing the chemo thing and that is having more of an effect on her than the actual loss of the breast. She has no problem with losing her hair, she shaved it all off last week, but she appears to be a bit depressed.
I can understand why. My mum and dad have had the oddest relationship for a lot of years now. My dad thinks of no one but himself, but not really. He doesn't think of the little things that count, yet will go and buy mum really expensive jewellery for her birthday. Mum doesn't like my dad, at all. They shouldn't be together, but don't have any idea what they would do with out each other. I thought the breast cancer thing would make dad a bit more sensitive, but it didn't happen.
Dad really likes tractors, he is trying to spennd what little inheritance we thought we'd get on "antique" tractors. He now has 6, and is in the Tractor Club. Even if I could describe him, you wouldn't believe it unless you saw it for yourself.
I think that insanity runs in our family. My dad has had some serously manic/depressive interluds over the past two to three years, mum is depressed most of the time, my brother has a case of paranoia(every one is out to get him), and my other brother has a case of Narcissism. I get depressed and angry a lot, but it isn't someting that I can control, and my anger is supressed, which is probably why I get depressed.

On a lighter note, I have been getting some lately from a babe!!!! It has taken me a year to finally get him to go out with me, and we are having lots of fun, and lots of sex. I may not be so angry or depressed while this lasts.

It's a weird thing, when you have sex on tap - IE a regular partner - you turn it down so often, but when there's no end in sight to the drought - IE single - you miss it more than you thought you could.

Well, here I am at work, 6:10pm, an interview booked that is running late, and I don't look like getting out of here for at least another two hours. I am really sick of these long days. I think I am going to demand some remuneration for the extra hours that I have done, only for the last two weeks though, I'll be holding the others back for another time when I really want something.

Now that I have some quiet time to write what I want, I can't think of anything that I want to write about.