Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day

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84.7% and rising

Well, I finally got through the next section for cleanskies. It's called i love my toys! and features some of the plastic dinosaurs, godzillas, sindies, playmobils, kinders, bondage dollies and other random creatures who clutter my life. Those who've given me gifts over the years can play "spot the christmas present" everyone else can marvel that we live in a world where someone manufactures buttock-firing motorcycle cop dolls, stomach-opening mummy action figures, winged sad-eyed sheep, conjoined piglets, and cheerful, smiling, axe murderer dolls. The mad, the sad, the strange and the lost, all on my shelves, doing what comes unnaturally to them. I might add more, but with my website at 84% of disc quota, I'm beginning to run out of space ....

I know it looks like I'm doing quite a lot, but most of this is projects started a while ago, finally having their trailing bits gathered up. Tea and web-whacking. So much for my wild life.

But on the bright side, I actually got some sleep this afternoon (I'm having problems sleeping at night at the moment -- too much noise in my head) having been sent home by my boss's boss and co-worker ("you look terrible" ... "you look really pale") if only I'd been putting it on but no ... had to go to bed, pills, water, colours, gak.


Was finally dragging myself off to sleep when there's a knock at the door. I snap awake. Now this is a common-enough thing, hallucinations when you're on the edge of sleep -- typically, you feel like you're falling, or someone yells Oi! in your ear, or you hear an "alert" sound like a phone or doorbell, or you see a dark figure on you, or at the foot of your bed. So I don't answer the door. I do my usual calm down, go back to sleep stuff.

I'm just dropping off when there's another knock at the door. I am so tired. Bastard fucking subconscious. I groan for a bit and try to turn off everything in my head, light by light. It eventually works, and I drop off for about an hour. This time, as if my subconscious is revenging on me for slurring its good name, I wake up before the knock comes, and when it comes I'm awake enough to know it is genuinely, really a knock at the door, though tired enough not to really be able to think what to do. The knock was loud. I can hardly move. Can I ignore it? Please?

Still, if someone's been knocking at my door all afternoon, they have to have a reason, right? I have local friends, one may need to see me. Slowly, deliberately, I get up, slowly, slowly answer the door. And there she is. It's a fucking charity fucking door-to-door fucking saleswoman, the sort of expensively-highlighted GAP afghan-jacketed marketing fucking student proving that she believes in her field, and can earn money too, Daddy, the type you just want to, no probably just I want to strangle. I'm sure many find her type deeply attractive.

She'd already gone onto the next door house, giggling and cooing at the goth and her toddler so I close the door and re-lock it, hoping she didn't see me. No such fucking luck. Less than a minute later, the knock, even louder. My house it too small for me to ignore the door.

I open it to her, hoping that the fact that I'm swaying, wearing a dressing gown, and my eyes look like rats have been pissing in them will make her say sorry and leave. No such luck. She launches into her schpiel and I'm too weak to stop her, I'm not even sure I remember how to speak.

Eventually she pauses her barbie voice, and flicks her tanned face at me, leaving a space in which to speak. Oh, yeah, words, I remember them. "Please don't knock on my door again," I finally say, very slowly, so she won't miss a word and I won't slur. (Sometimes I slur when I have a migraine. It's annoying because it's another way, with the squinting, lying down and throwing up, that it looks a bit like I'm drugged or drunk.) She chatters on for a bit, like a toy winding down, eventually realising that if I can't talk, I can't buy what she's selling (the opportunity to help people suffering from MS, it transpires) and then leaves me, but she doesn't apologise. Oh no. She makes it clear it's my fault. "Shall I leave you to it?" She says. I don't reply. I just look at her. "I'll leave you to it."

I close the door on her. I won't sleep now. My head's hot with a sort of dull, wordless anger, and I feel too sick. When I close my eyes I see red shapes chasing across my vision. There are technical terms for this. They don't help.

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