Addicted to Coke

In which I stop trying to give myself diabetes.

For ten years I was clean, I had managed to give up one of the most addictive substances known to man and all it took was a bout of diarrhoea to drag me back on the wagon. I was able to go cold turkey in the first place by measuring out in a mug how much white substance I was consuming a day, and this was all it took for me to quit the habit, or so I thought.

For nearly all my life I had been a coke addict and it was not good for me, it rots your teeth and your constantly looking for the next high, so the moment I gave it up was meant to be the start of my new life. That was until I needed the toilet in The Maldives, it was toilet paper in one hand and Coca-Cola in the other.

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A cup of tea makes it all better

In which the best treatment for a cold is a stiff upper lip.

SARS, ebola, a serious case of missing legs. Growing up these were still not valid reasons to miss a day of school. Only once I lost the capacity to see, hear and write (and it had to be a compete set) could I think about staying home sick.

As an adult it’s a bit easier to self-diagnose the risk of going to work while incapacitated, perhaps because Mother G won’t have to look after me sitting feeling all sorry for myself. After a number of years of living alone I have been able to cope with not feeling great by just sitting sullenly in front of the TV. Should I allow others to take care of me, when I prefer to soldier on alone?

I don’t like feeling unwell. I have a certain dislike to the sensation that my fragile mortality is being tested by external causes. The fact that I can be brought low by a few single cell organisms makes me feel that my impending doom is ever nearer. Being a typical man who has suffered (yes SUFFERED) through the masculine strain of Orthomyxoviruses I would rather just sit and wait an illness out.

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