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The Good, the Bad and the Metrosexual…

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Good news: I’m still alive! Bad news: it’s been so long since I posted, I’ve forgotten how to write.

Thank-you all so much for your messages and comments. I hope to be back in action soon…

Latest test results all came back clear which is great because it means I don’t have tumours, diabetes or any of the other stuff that they were testing for. I’m not menopausal or vitamin B12 deficient, and I don’t have thyroid problems.

Trouble is: I’m no closer to a bleedin’ answer, and in some respects, I’m getting worse. I have to rest in between changing a double duvet cover. I can’t lift a 3 kilo bag of dog food. Last Friday night I slept for 18 hours out of 24 and then spent the rest of Saturday slobbing on the sofa because I literally couldn’t get up without the world spinning. And I seem to have developed an unhealthy obsession with Robert Pattinson.

Actor Robert Pattinson after the Twilight Saga...

Image via Wikipedia

 As you know, I like my fantasy men mean and meaty, not lean, clean and metrosexual, so I’m quite worried about this new symptom. Perhaps my brain has atrophied from lack of use. Or maybe it’s because I’m definitely not menopausal, maybe my unwithered eggs are screaming for last-chance impregnation and have fixated upon the young male of the species. I suspect it has more to do with the fact that, while prostrate on the sofa, I read the whole of Water for Elephants – in between snoozing, of course – and Master Pattinson adorns the front cover. In my poorly state, I seem to have got him confused with, well, a romantic hero. Scary.

I adore this book; it’s a beautiful love story set in a 1930’s circus. I could explain the plot, but I have Durr-brain, so I’ll make this easy and probably more entertaining:

Ahhh…

So where do I go from here? Apart from re-reading the old Twilight series, of course. Don’t judge me; I really can’t help these perfectly normal teenage obsessions, you know. In fact it’s not really an obsession at all until I start following him on Twitter, or plastering his juvenile mug across my pink bedroom walls. But where was I? Oh yeah, medical stuff. My GP has now decided that I have to wait a month for all medication to leave my system and then try another anti-depressant before she’ll refer me to a Chronic Fatigue Syndrome/ME clinic or whatever the hell it’s called this week.

I replied with a few choice sweary words and just thought Fuck it! I give up!  I’m wasting the bit of energy I have got, fighting doctors and it’s pointless. I may well not have Chronic Fatigue, but I certainly do have chronic fatigue, so I ordered a book, written by a CFS sufferer who also happens to be a GP.  And today it arrived, and there on page 96, it says CFS should never really be mistaken for depression because of the basic clinical differences between the two. And it lists ’em all! Yep! all the points I’ve been arguing since bloody September!

Hahaha! The bitch will be mine!

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