On Sunday I get home at 0830 and have a shower trying to wash at least some of the shame away, and then I go to bed. I wake up at 0945 and satisfied with my 50 minutes of sleep, I spend the rest of the day in the living room, where I watch twenty two episodes of Frasier (series 10). Twenty two.
At 1115 I try to order a pizza online from Pizza Hut and/or Domino’s but they are both closed, as I suppose we are not expected to be hungry for pizza at 11 o’clock in the morning on this lazy Sunday. So I make this gigantic effort, leave Frasier temporarily behind and walk over to Marks and Spencer to buy a pizza and heat it up myself. For fuck’s sake.
Then suddenly it’s 2030 so I take some Zimovane and go to bed. I wake up at 0820 on Monday morning. Have people considered sleeping alternate nights only? Cause right now I’m thinking this isn’t such a bad plan.
But then, by Monday morning, none of this seems to matter anymore. The punishment that I’ve been expecting for the last 22 years of my life finally comes. I’m not complaining – I’ve known this was coming and I know I’ve deserved it since that fateful night in my bed when I was 6, and even though I’ve tried to prepare myself and pretend this won’t break me, on this Monday morning just before half past eight, I can’t stay strong, I feel like I’m beaten. I know it’s there, I can feel it ripping up my soul, I can feel the tingling on my bottom lip. I’m getting a cold sore.
Cold sores are my least favourite type of transmittable herpes. (I reserve the right to change my mind about this if I ever get any other type of transmittable herpes). Cold sores drain my heart and wrench my spirit. I know this is very superficial and shallow, but everyone’s appearance affects them to some extent. Some people feel so bad about the way that they look that hatred and bitterness eventually becomes a permanent personality trait (hello NF – initials just a wild guess). I feel like that when I get a cold sore. Plus it hurts.
I’ve managed to beat cold sores in the last couple of months, after A Girl gave me a supplement called Lysine, which helps prevent them. Then I ran out, then I was too embarrassed to go and buy some more because it meant talking to people in a shop, and now I have a cold sore again.
I know it’s too late and my cold sore has already broken out, which means that for the next month I will look like I’ve been punched in the mouth (which I suppose makes a difference from the usual slap in the face), but this Monday lunchtime I don’t give a fuck, I’m desperate, I need to get my hands on some Lysine and overdose on it. The cold sore won’t go, but I will feel better.
So on Monday lunchtime, the following things happen:
- I leave the office as early as possible
- I walk over to GNC with an empty bottle of Lysine and shove it in the salesperson’s face
- The salesperson tells me that they’ve run out and will probably have some more in on Thursday
- I walk out shaking and in a complete rage and call Scott to say a last goodbye
- Scott tells me to try Holland & Barrett instead, gives me an address and tries to direct me
- I can’t follow directions in this mental state, so I tell Scott that if it’s meant to be I’ll just find Holland & Barrett on my own and I hang up
- I find Holland & Barrett
- They have Lysine
- I buy Lysine
- I read the instructions (“Take one to two tablets daily, preferable with a meal. Do not exceed stated dose”)
- I take six and walk back to the office
Back in the office A Girl and I sit at our desks from 1502 to 1506 listening to I’m Not Sorry by Morrissey on our iPods pretending to work, and email our favourite lyrics to each other.