Frick

I called in sick to work today. I didn't have it till 12pm, but I'm crook with not just a hangover, but this acid volcano inside of me that has been erupting as if on frickin cue every few seconds for the past few days.
Last night every gulp of grog-a-log was searing pain through my chest and throat, so I kept at it till the pain was numbed to a gentle roar (Rusted Gumption- the oxymoron's friend). At 3am this morning in the pub toilets, while most girls were drunk and crying about guys giving them grief, I was nearly hurling from the frickin acid volcano in my chest in between thinking about the big media SAC I had the next day (today).

Mum said, with what seemed like with a touch of glee that it was probably a stomach ulcer. Frick.
A Frickin stomach ulcer!
So I'm off to the doctor's today (where I can now tell you the name and date of every magazine on their coffee table) to once again run my doc through my ailments for more drugs! Yay! Drugs!

But right now, my head hurts and I'm farked so reckon I better sleep. I've had something like 9 hours sleep in two days. Oh yeh, and there's the little matter of studying for the big SAC I've got later.
Frick.

This has been a carnt of a year. blahh.