The trouble with chemo.

My palms planted firmly on the bathroom floor, my head hovering back and forth over the toilet bowl like Psycho Mantis, my exhausted eyes reflecting back at me from the water. I'm tired, achy, haggard, yet I still manage to inspire fierce concentration in trying to overcome these feelings of nausea. All is for nothing though. The bright glow of the bathroom light pierces my absorption, the stomach muscles spasm sporadically and, realising I'm now completely at the mercy of whatever power regulates this universe, I vomit unceremoniously into the toilet below.

My main thought is how strange an act this is when you're sober.

Side effects can be horrid. This is one of them. Now I'm no stranger to puking into your toilet with all sense of dignity or class in tatters, yet it's not something I want to be going through on what's in danger of becoming a daily basis. Not to mention I'm at such big a risk of infection (OH GOD will he stop going on about that!) So I'm going to try this new tactic I've come up with which involves not eating anything. When this spectacularly fails (I give it an hour) then I guess I should tell the doctors and see if they can change my anti-sickness medication. Logic prevails.

I'm also reeling after seeing my hair grow back uneven and well, not as full as I was first anticipating. All I want is hair. We humans really do take it for granted, unless you're a weirdo who shaves it off out of choice. No offense or anything but... weirdo. Anyway, I love having hair more than Charlie Sheen loves his given namesake and I really do wish this chemotherapy nonsense doesn't piss around with it too much. If you could see me now you'd think I'd been attacked by a crackhead with a razor but I'm so socially unaware that I have no desire or energy to shave the rest off. What? Sense? None made. IT'S PATCHY IS WHAT I'M SAYING. I'm not keen for this at all.

But oh well, I'll always have more hair than my friend George. I hope he reads this.

Much love.

Ryan.