Day 49: The Butt Chronicles Continue

Whoaaaaah.

Day 49 and the virus is still playing WrestleMania in my body.

Honestly, it’s like COVID had an affair with perimenopause, invited her cranky aunt IBS along for the ride, and now they’ve all decided to sublet my internal organs without paying rent.

Bloody hell.

I woke up with dizziness, shortness of breath, and the delightful sensation that my body was auditioning for Les Misérables. Except instead of belting out “I Dreamed a Dream,” I was wheezing “I Dreamed of Sleep.”

Spoiler alert: still didn’t get any.

And speaking of things I didn’t ask for - Ruby the cat.

Bless her furry little soul, but today she treated me to the feline equivalent of OnlyFans. Not once, not twice, but three times she graced me with the holy anointed sight of her butthole.

Full moon at midday.

Apparently, this is trust? I love you very much but no thanks, Rubes, I’d rather have chocolates or at least a handwritten note.

I so wanted to go into the office - I miss my team, their banter, and the sweet smell of someone else making the tea.

But nope, not today Josephine.

Instead, I booked a GP appointment, and now I’ve now been upgraded to long COVID by this lovely doctor.

Honestly, just what every girl dreams of.

As if cramps from the perimenopausal underworld weren’t enough, let’s throw a viral souvenir into the mix.

Fabulous combo.

10/10.

Would not recommend.

By 6:30am I was logged into work, clutching a coffee like it was the last man at the bar, and five minutes later I had another one.

If I’d had matches, I’d have stuck them under my eyelids cartoon-style. Productivity was… questionable.

My brain is still in the Upside Down, chilling with Demogorgons, while I sit at my laptop hoping it’ll crawl back through a portal sometime soon.

Spoiler alert: nope.

Breakfast came in the form of a very fancy thin bagel - layered with smoked salmon, crisp lettuce, and cucumber.

Honestly, it looked like it had walked straight out of a Pinterest board called Scandi Chic Wellness. I tell myself it’s light, refreshing, and healthy, but let’s be honest - it’s the closest I’ll get to feeling like I’m brunching at The Ivy while actually sitting in pyjamas covered in cat hair.

On the bright side, the jab hangover finally lifted slightly, and I managed to have a rather lovely lunch. Teriyaki noodles. Small portion, because apparently my stomach has decided to cosplay as a Victorian orphan child whispering, “Please sir, can I have some more?” But oh, the taste. It was so good I split it between lunch and dinner.

Who even am I?

Now - plot twist. While my insides are still throwing raves, I can really see the difference on the outside. My clothes are loose, some of them are actually falling off.

Imagine me trying to hold up my trousers on a Teams call like some sort of Victorian chimney sweep. At this point, I might need a belt… or a safety pin… or possibly some sellotape.

But I’ll take it, because damn, this is progress.

Did I want to sleep all day?

Yes.

Did I have to act like a semi-functioning adult instead?

Also yes.

Finished a bit earlier though and collapsed onto the sofa, surrounded by my furry nurses who snored in harmony while I drooled into a cushion.

Honestly, the cats are the Florence Nightingales I never asked for.

Woke up feeling like a zombie that had crawled out of the bin behind Greggs.

Sexy.

Straight back to bed I went, muttering about teriyaki noodles and lost sleep.

Tomorrow is weigh-in and jab day. Which means drumroll - the “Golden Dose” might finally make an appearance next week, because let’s be real, at this rate I’ll never see my mythical 7.5mg jab.

It’s like hunting Bigfoot.

Mounjaro stockpilers, you absolute weapons.

If pissed off was an Olympic sport, I’d be on the podium with tears, medals, and noodles in my hands.

Anyway, that’s enough for today.

Off to bed.

Pray for me.

Pray for noodles.

Pray for stock.

With Love,

JABatha Christie