Sick.

I'm sick. Not in the  "Spend my lunch money in the local Chicken Shop after school", cool and trendy way. The ill way. (I live by two secondary schools and a high street. You should see it at 4pm...They put years on me. Though I have been called "bruv" by this youth by mine. Blonde, earring, cap to the side and toothpick. Looked like one of them from Blazin Squad. He was offering me a weight loss programme offer and I told him I had previously lost 4 and a half stone to which he replied "SMASHED IT BRUV" and snapped his fingers. I felt ever so youthful that day.) 

I am in bed with my Everton top on. I have had a stomach bug for 2 days. The weight I've lost is phenomenal. Tho I don't advise you start getting the shits off your mate because Zante with the girls is approaching. Today, after sicking up everything I had, wishing I had an extra pair of hands to hold my Mick Hucknall strewn mess back. (Strangely enough Martine McCutcheon was sick into his dreads after a night out in the West End. When I was sick after a night out in the West End I had my assistant manager from The Bookies where I work-ahem to hold back my hair. Soho at night is not as glam as it looks in OK! and heat magazines.) 

I turn into a little victim when I'm ill. I just want Netflix and cuddles. Just someone's chest to lean on while I fart myself into oblivion. So I need someone really, who's got decent wifi a good sense of humour and a bad sense of smell. Granted he has to look like Paul Walker or Ryan Dunn. Not on fire in a car, but coincidentally they are (or were) 2 of my most perfect men. I just want to sit off and chill.

I've made my bedroom proper cute and my beds like a den with the fairy lights on. WHERE'S ME MATES? Come bring goodies! I'll leave the room to fart I promise!