June 13, 2003 @ 2:59 a.m.
Do not molest the sick girl.

I am sick. Physically, this time. My throat is a burning line of burniness. My head is both swimming and aching. I've been having Fun With Deliriousness ("Go on! Ask me anything!").

And I had an exam today. Oh, that was fun. I sat in the chair and tried to write and periodically stared at the clock, which was going a little bit Daliesque on me. I don't think I completely fucked the exam, but have applied for special consideration anyway. Got a note from my doctor, says I'm sick. Don't need a note. People tend to say this about me regardless.

I have this urge, perhaps as a result of not feeling entirely 'there', as it were, to start writing smutty, smutty diary entries. However, I shan't be doing it here, due to me stupidly letting some people who know me read this. Some people who can't recognise tongue-in-cheek writing when they see it (C'mon! Stuart doesn't get nekkid in front of people's parents! Well not deliberately anyway! And c'mon! I've never ACTUALLY had sex with a Liberal voter, I think). Fuck, where was I? Oh yeah. So I'm thinking, maybe I should get back into that whole erotica writing gig and earn myself some cashola (it's time the old pseudonym was trotted out again...damn that girl was hot!), or else just start a smutty diary devoted wholly to the chronicles of one happy little sodomite (as bright as bright can be/we all enjoy our sodomy for breakfast lunch and tea....fuck me, I'm going to hell for that one aren't I?). Real or imagined? I don't know. The older I get, the more my sexual acts and imaginings start sounding like they should begin "Dear Hustler...". Not that I'm saying that's a bad thing.

Oh my god. You know how he was saying alcohol makes me easy? Well, apparently viruses do too.

Go on, ask me anything!

On a related note, I was talking to Stu on the phone on Wednesday night. It was at the height of my delirious phase so I was probably making less sense than usual. Sneaky man that he is, Stu usual takes the opportunity when I am somewhat incapacitated to tell me things he thinks I won't remember when I'm sober/not sick/not mentally composing letters to Shaun Micallef, who is my real boyfriend, he just doesn't know it (and nor did Stu until he read that paragraph. Uh...you know my interest in Mr Micallef is purely platonic right?)

Anyway, so we got talking about the last time I was really sick, which I wrote about in this entry. And he revealed that while he had been playing Mr Nice and Concerned and holding my hair back while I puked and rubbing my back in a comforting manner, he had found his hands straying a bit and had to make a conscious effort to force himself not to start feeling me up while I leaned over the side of the bed and communed with the bucket. Okay, so it was force of habit, and okay, so he stopped himself, but WHO THE HELL GOES TO FEEL PEOPLE UP WHILE THEY'RE VOMITING ANYWAY? What guy thinks "Wow, my girlfriend is hot and naked and vomiting, I think I'll start playing with her fun bits"? Well, okay, I know that answer to that one now. But I am still somewhat bemused. I mean, this never happened in my high school drink-to-get-drunk, it's-not-a-party-without-vomit days. At either party.

I suppose I should give him the benefit of the doubt. And I'm much more amused than pissed off anyway.

But it reminds me of something I said to him once, long ago when our relationship was still in its early stages and we were shagging like rabbits on speed still getting to know one another:

"Stu, that would be sweet if it wasn't so creepy."

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