My fitbit has given me eczema. Pneumonia has allegedly given me asthma – I have an inhaler now and it seems incongruous with everything else I think about myself.
I am wearing pink jeans that are too tight to make any kind of movement comfortable. I cannot bend down, sit down, squat down, come down stairs but I do have a camel toe so that’s something. I’m wearing them anyway.
Lately, I think I might be damaged in some way. I wonder if I’ve spent the past four years accidentally being a massive stoner and just never realised – it seems the only explanation for this headless chicken vacuousness, this entering and leaving of rooms with more questions and fewer belongings than when I entered. It’s as if a handful of my brain was gauged out in my sleep, magicked away into obliteration along with my passport, favourite headband, most comfortable trainers. I am losing everything. Yesterday, I went to the post office to send a parcel that is already 10 days too late for Christmas and somewhere on my walk from the cashier to the pound shop I lost the international stamp I’d spent ten minutes queueing for. It was my own fault. I’d been running and had receipt, wallet, face masks, bank card, phone, hat all scrunched into my flat fist. I twirled in the car park in the hope to unravel it but instead my sister just looked at me pityingly from the passenger seat and I cursed and faffed and blamed my incompetence on the cold. It is so cold and I hate it. Did I always hate it? I’m worried I’m a miserable person now.
The post office was closed by the time I returned to rebuy the €1.70 stamp and now the the parcel will be 11 days late.