I must say I'm rather proud of my highly imaginative system for creating titles.
I was ill for a couple of days this week and was repeatedly asked if I thought it had anything to do with not washing for over two weeks. Well, put simply, I live in England. In a flat. If my immune system can't cope with a little bit of normal, everyday dirt of the sort you get in an affluent country with a temperate climate then how the fuck have I survived so long? Bell-ends.
At this point I am really rather used to the state my body's in and, in reality, it's not that bad. The only real problem is that one of the rules of the competition states that I have to tweet about it daily. This is a massive pain in the arse.
Firstly, before I entered into this, I had been avoiding twitter like the plague. I had some vague notion that it would just be a massive collection of the boring prattle of the self-important. I was at least ninety per cent right.
Secondly, it's very tedious wasting whole minutes of my day every day trying to think of some boring prattle about not washing to share with the masses when most of the time there is nothing to say. I have not washed. I continue to not wash. That's about the short and tall of it now except for the occasional thing which is of some interest (to me at least) and therefore cannot be expressed well in 140 characters. Hence this blog.
Thirdly, as I mentioned on twitter don't-cher-know, the only bit of not washing for forty days that really strikes me as unhealthy is the morbid self-analysis that having to say something about it daily incurs. Most of the time I don't give a flying fuck. Only very occasionally would my physical state impinge on my consciousness if I wasn't forced to constantly consider it, even in circumstances like this. It is tedious and paranoia inducing and I don't like it. So there.
What a particularly vitriolic post this has been.