The Prime of Lime;

So the last week of the semester is off to a bad start since I am not actually in attendance. This is because I am sick. Again. Twice in two months is not a good record for someone who Does Not Get Sick. Once more around Christmas and I shall be forced to admit defeat. So since Thursday I've been experiencing all the usual symptoms: the coughing fits, the foghorn nose, the inability for your internal thermostat to remain at one temperature for more than five minutes, the constant sensation of trying to swallow a cactus/porcupine/pineapple/medieval torture device and listening to your brain cells die one by one with an audible (but very pathetic) 'pop' as you realise the myth about TV being the only good thing about being sick is a Big Fat Lie.

You know the part in wedding vows where the groom/bride says 'I take thee in sickness and in health'? Yeah, my husband's not gonna want to agree to that part. I look disgusting, I feel disgusting, I sound disgusting, I am disgusting. I am a germ factory. Instead of a hug this morning, my mother gave me a packet of antibacterial wipes to 'clean all the things you touch, sweetie :).' Aww. Motherly love, eh? Nothing else like it. Anyway, I crave fruit, I'm weepy, I'm pretty sure I'm getting a six pack from all the coughing. I'm also sitting here typing this with a tampon jammed up my right nostril because I blew my nose a little too hard and it exploded in a fountain of blood. Classy. (Sidenote: I love that when I told Meejin this, she asked "Does it work?")

Onwards & upwards, I say. So,

Children, especially those of the boy variety that I'm related to, are of the devil horrid creatures. And I do mean creatures. Why do four year olds have DS's? Why do eight year olds own mobile phones? Why don't seven year olds believe in fairies and goblins and Santa Clause anymore? Are children of this new-fangled Millennium generation even aware they have eight other fingers besides their thumbs? Have they never heard the terms "please" and "thank you"? Look, call me old fashioned all you want, but it seems to me that generational flaws are becoming apparent at earlier and earlier stages. Like, come on, draw or paint or kick a ball around or make shadow puppets or play make believe. Do something active, not reactive. Use your imagination before it becomes an obscure concept confined to history textbooks. Actually, it's really unfair of me to take it out on the kids just because they are the ones showcasing the effects; it's their parents who deserve admonishment. And a right good kick up the arse. I just hope that when I have kids, they will get excited by a power-cut rather than throw hissy fits because they can't play a game about blowing up zombies.

This week I learned that pain comes in waves, and you can either surf that wave or just stand there and let it pull you down. Sure, sometimes when you surf it you lose your balance and fall, but you just get right back up again, and you know you're always heading towards the shore. Or you can opt for secret option number 3) vomiting at the cheesiness of this metaphor. Just remember to clean it up afterwards.

I'm getting that kind of itchy/restless feeling that I want to do something to my hair. See, I have this theory that we carry a lot around in our hair. Not just smells, or—oh God!—lice, but places and times and people. Memories, basically. The past. It makes sense when you think about it. Hair is dead. By the time it's coming out of your head it's already in the past. Between 2007 and 2010, I grew my hair out long (I think I was going for that whole vintage Avril Lavigne look to coincide with my attitude). Three years is a long time to be walking around without any external variation while there is so much internal going on. That period was the most significant of my life (so far), and my hair was soaking it all up like a sponge and I was carrying it everywhere I went. Even to Australia, the purpose of which trip being to get away from everything. And man, was it getting heavy. So before I started uni last year I decided to chop it all off. Well, not all, but a good 10 inches or so. What a relief. So I've got something like that feeling again, except it's different. (Don't you hate when people say something is the same, but different?! Lol.) If I lived in a warmer country and wouldn't look funny with no hair, I'd totally shave it all off, but I am not my cousin, so the next best thing is to change its colour. Again, nothing drastic, because it's not supposed to be a bio-luminescent SCREW YOU visible from space, just something with a little more edge and definition. Like a hint of mahogany, or mulberry or something. I'm totally not opting for that end of the colour spectrum because I've been watching My So-Called Life again and Angela dyes her hair 'crimson glow' in the first episode. Honestly. Last time I dyed my hair with any amount of red it went black, and then purple @_@. Apparently this is due to the fact my hair is technically dark blonde, not brown, since there's no warmth in it, aharharhar, oh the irony.

I'm also toying with the idea of getting a tattoo. I stress TOYING. Please put away your shocked faces. Experience has taught me not to jump on the back of an impulse before you've thoroughly thought it through, Rory Gilmore style. A trillion points if you guess what the tattoo is.

My new hero is Louise Sydes, the 102 year old woman who moved to New Zealand to start a new life after her old folks' home in Kent was closed. I love her doubly because the first thing she asked for when she touched down was a cup of tea! So British :').

Right, I'm off to spread joy germs s'more. If you have exams soon, like I do, good luck. Bye!