So, like hundreds of others, I have started a blog. Not through any decision of my own, mind you. Before my best friend Tayla passed, she begged. No, demanded me to begin a blog. I was actually a little frightened that she would hold me at IV point, while I stood in front of the computer. So Goggs, this is for you. You better like it too!
91 Odd socks. There is an incident involving 91 Odd Socks which essentially summarises my life up in one, clean shot. Every household has the pivotal Odd Sock Basket. You know the one. Where all the socks who have been widowed by the washing machine, golden retriever and couch alike, are sent to live out their days. They are placed here in the knowledge that their pair will one day be found, and it saves you $3.50 having to buy another pair. Or so the story goes.
Not my house. My Dad, who we refer to as Dr Phil and has a penchant for talking to various breeds of foliage, decided to empty the Odd Sock Basket and count the odd socks. In total, there were an impressive 91 separate odd socks. No more, no less. According to Wikipedia, Psalm 91 is the Psalm of protection. I find this particularly ironic, the reason being that my brothers then ceased this opportunity to attack me with the lonely socks.
Stuck with my head in a bucket, having contracted five separate infections, impressive even for the Chronically Ill, my brothers decided that I was a perfect stationary target for their sock throwing, and proceeded to pelt them at my head. And all the while, I could hear my Mum trying in vain to remove a few Odd Socks from the back of my Golden Retrievers throat. This is just a normal moment in the life of me.
I am 18 years old. I have a cat with a severe anxiety disorder, and had a pet duckling named Jerry who drowned. I am yet to work out how this happened. I live with my parents. Dad, who my friends call Dr Phil, believes it is his mission in life to embarrass me, and who gives advice such as “Don’t fall off the roof. You can’t fall up”. My Mum is a hairdresser for dementia patients and makes me wonder if Alzheimers is contagious. Jake is 16 and 6 foot 5. To have any chance of eating, I must hide all my food from him in metal baskets, and wind them up a tree. And Ben, at 14 years old, has Aspergers Syndrome. He has managed to get himself stuck in a cat flap and a rabbit hutch on more than one occasion. And I wonder why I am single.
And just in case things had a chance of getting boring, for the past four and a half years I have been Chronically Ill, trudging my way through wheelchairs, machines and gagging on the unholy Prednisolone. This is my blog, where I will write about everything from the difficulties of hosing a child out of rabbit hutches, to creative pieces and the occasional rant in the hope of persuading a few oxygen thieves to change their ways. Or at least have the chance to bitch whilst still feeling productive. And of course, finding the pairs for the 91 Odd Socks.