A letter to my dear, dear brain,

Hi there; it's your minion, Aly here. Listen, I know you've been put through a sort of stressful ordeal over the past weekend what with the panicking, crusty eyeballs, laser beams and all that jazz. I understand that's been sort of stressful for you, I really do.

But I think, old brain old pal, that you need to have some serious words with whatever part it is inside you that controls my body clock. I would pretend to be all smart and google it myself, but fuck. I've just had my eyeballs fried, and I don't want to squint anymore than I have to, alright? Alright? Good.

Anyway, back to you and your body clock. Since I've already admitted I have no effing clue as to how the damn thing works other than the fact that sleep is good, very good, I just want it fixed please. Waking up at 5am for the second morning in a row is not only plain ridiculous, it's dangerous for the whole of mankind. And yes, I'm talking about the grouch factor and the worlds blackest and puffiest eyes. All I can say is thank goodness I've been instructed to stay indoors this week, because no one would be spared the ferocity and extreme fugliness that is Aly without sleep.

I should also mention here just some of the things that you, dear brain, are responsible for in this whole ordeal. (Other than the horrid wake up calls.)

Let's start with the killing of my poor Ipod. Do you realise how many times I've recharged its feeble batteries over this weekend? If it ass-plodes, it's all your fault. Why? Because there is nothing else to do at five in the bloody morning when you can't read, watch television or stare at the computer for long periods of time. (Except, of course, while blogging, for this is perfectly normal and acceptable.)

Also? Let's talk about lard. My lard, to be specific. Do you realise how much shit I have put into my mouth over the past five days? I've consumed enough lollies to justify ripping all my teeth out and just buying dentures already because the sugar? Oh man, don't talk to me about the sugar. When my weight has gone up by next Monday, it's all your fault. Why? Because it's YOU that is making me crave naughty things and my poor, damaged will power is still knocked out from the Valium of four days ago. (That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.)

Brain, I've also got this horrible blotchy red blood vessel that has all ass-ploded over my left eye, and it's completely feral. I realise this is not your forte so to speak, but maybe you can have some choice words to my eyeballs too, and ask them to heal just a wee bit faster? (It would probably be wise to give them a hearty, but gentle, pat on the back for doing such a great job in the meantime.)

Thanks for listening, brain. I feel it's helped clear the air between us both, wouldn't you agree?

Cheers,
Aly

P.S. One last thing; the dreams about giant rabbits? Are starting to frighten me. Please make them stop. That's all for now.