I started reading a book today, whilst I was in the bath. It's called The Blue Eyed Boy and sort of lit-fic/psychological thriller-y, about serial killers and music and the internet and blogging and I like it a lot, partly because it made me think that if I end up writing novels When I Grow Up then it's the sort of thing I want to write. It's by Joanne Harris, who wrote another book I love called The Lollipop Shoes.
When I decided to get out of the bath, I sat up too quickly and gasped, though more in my head, because of the sudden pain that had manifested in the right of my stomach. I couldn't move for a while and felt a bit panicky, then found a towel and hobbled to my room and googled the symptoms of appendicitus (sp?) which it seems I don't have.
One of the symptoms of appendicitis I found was loss of appetite, which I semi ticked because I realised that the piece of chocolate I was eating didn't taste good at all, and tasted in my mouth slightly like cardboard. Then I thought about food for a while, and it made me think about how much I actually eat.
I started to write that about two and a half hours ago, then left it when I went downstairs and ate dinner. I fell asleep flat out in front of How I Met Your Mother, and woke up as the credits rolled, slightly confused.
When I came upstairs, I brushed my teeth and hair, came back to my computer and read one of my friends' tumblr blog for a while, which is about music and I'd say his musical taste is in the top five of people I know (if we're counting internet peoples?)
That's not The Point. The Point is that my blog has no purpose at all, I just have too much to say and nowhere to say it.
Really, that's all I have to say. I've run out. But what I think I'm trying to say is, expect things more interesting, or enlightening, or fun, or worthful (worthful = a word?) in the future. I'll try to come up with something. I always do.
But now, I'm going to sleep, maybe for a few days if nothing interrupts me. um... watch this space?
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