Shingle Bells

This absolute asshole of a year is almost over and I was just beginning to relax. I could see the proverbial finish line, and I was ready to slow motion run through the tape, crowd cheering and ticker-tape raining down. Chariots of Fire or Eye of the Tiger or some other inspirational bullshit music playing.

I had faith my birthday and Christmas would be the pinnacle of the year. A last ditch attempt from the universe to apologise for fucking up 2016 for almost everyone I know.

Instead, I find myself under a metric fuck tonne of stress as I go back and forth with school about a student making death threats to my Tricks and what seems like half the year one students, and the school now saying that the kids just need to stop reacting to the threats. Yeah, because a six year old should totally be able to remain stoney faced and stoic when told they are going to die. These kids still believe in Santa Claus and when their friends tell them they can do triple backflips while riding a motorbike. Grrrrr!

My nights are filled with reaching out to other parents, furiously researching who I can contact about this ongoing bullying (as the school is implementing safety plans... then not fucking following them) and worrying constantly about the psychological effects of sustained death threats to an entire bloody year group by one student.

Earlier in the year it would have been my mind that gave up and I'd be rocking in a corner.

This time though, with my mind so much stronger, this whole fiasco is manifesting physically. It is, quite literally, getting on my nerves instead.

I HAVE SHINGLES.

Fucking Shingles. But you guessed that from my hilarious and oh-so-cliche post title, didn't you?

There will be no ticker-tape and slow motion run. There will be no inspirational music. Just "All the Shingle Ladies" on repeat for the next two-four weeks. 

I'm in a lot of pain and feeling pretty damn sorry for myself, but luckily I was at the doctor getting anti viral meds within hours of the rash appearing, so fingers crossed it isn't as bad as it could be.

I've been given Oxycodone because "this will be really bad over the next few days". So along with the pity party for one, I'm also a bit delirious and struggling to keep my eyes open. Perhaps I should employ MG as proof reader of my official emails before I hit send, lest I end up with expletive laden correspondence. 

So to 2016 I say, on behalf of so many, fuck you. Don't let the door hit you on the way out... and once you're through the door, fall down the stairs. Break your leg. Get concussed. Go to hospital and while you're there get MRSA. Because that is how highly I think of you.