  Well it seems that suddenly Gempires has taken off and,  my god,  people are actually reading it!  Congrats to you all,  what fine taste in time waste you have!  Actually it's a little confronting considering I had absolutely convinced myself that nobody would spit on another 20-
something- Sydney- female- undergoingquarterlifecrisis- with- illness blog if it was on fire,
 but my site stats say otherwise.  Yay. I think.  As long as nobody shows it to my mum.  So this was meant to be my first day back at work after spending all week in bed having a grand old time apart from feeling like shit.  I got up.
 I showered.  I assembled appropriate attire.  I exited.  I walked.  I bought banana bread for breakfast.  I chanted my morning mantra:
 I do not feel like poo I do not feel like poo I do NOT feel like poo .  I felt like poo.  I called my boss from Oxford St.  I said nope,  can't do it.  He understood.
 He's really a great guy,  my boss,  who I like to call Dre Bro ( to myself:  it's an abbrev of his first and last names)  when he's not calling me when I feel sick to tell me mundane things about medical certificates.
 Incidentally,  why do I need one if I'm not getting sick pay?  I have no sick pay.  I have already been sick too many times.  Ironically,  I never made it to the doctor to get one because I felt too sick.
 Does this mean I get a red mark against my name?  No!  God No!  Anything but that!  So here I am again.  Guess you'll be hearing from me at various points during the day.
 This blog is actually becoming quite obsessive for me and has taken over from the small books I carry with me everywhere to scribble various brainal nibblies -  instead I mentally write things in my blog and purge later.  Does anyone else crack their backs too often?  I decided today that I would document everything I do for the entire day.  Pity I'm not actually going to do anything but I guess that means it's more of a challenge to make it sound interesting.  I will also re-
insert myself into the driver's seat of the Vitamin Vehicle riding the Road to Recovery,  which is a tricky and inelegant metaphor meaning I shall now look after my health.  Since we moved to Surry Hills and spent nearly a month without as fridge I got into the habit of eating out and haven't quite recaptured my culinary zeal.  As in,  I've cooked a) lentil soup b)
potato and leek soup c) cups of tea.  Today I will make a nice buckwheat noodle soup with tofu and green vegies and tamari.  Sustenance permitting.  Yes I am vegetarian.  Yes I kill cockroaches,
 mice,  anything else unappealing.  In one of my sharehouses we had a bad mouse problem.  The fuckers were everywhere,  and confusingly,  they were kind of sweet looking,
 so tiny,  like furry grey cockroaches ( which would NOT be cute,  but you get how small they were)  and they would dart across the room in quite a charming way,  and we really didn't mind them until we would go into the kitchen and there would be crumby little poo balls everywhere and holes chewed in cereal boxes and the whole place would be squeaking and stinking of this awful nesty stale procreating musty tang.
 So we did our best to ignore it for as long as we could -  we were like that:  Rene,  Simon and I,  until one morning I put some bread in the toaster and pressed the lever and began to notice the mice were particularly loud this morning in fact if I'm not mistaken one of them is screaming,  squealing in anguish,
 and whatever could possibly be happening to the wretched creature he sounds like he's being burned at the stake,  and isn't it funny that while I'm thinking this I swear I can smell burning,  and look at that there's a lot of smoke coming out of the toaster oops the bread must be stuck let me just.  . deal with the fact that I just toasted a fucking mouse to death and its charred carcass is now stuck at the bottom of my toaster and I think I'm gonna spew.  I left the mouse where it was with a note for the flatmate.
 I didn't know what else to do.  They sensibly threw it in the bin.  At least it was cremated.  Another time a little baby one got stuck to these organic enviro toxin- free cockroach traps we were using -  we also had a roach plague (
you get that living behind a cafe in Newtown)  which were simply sticky paper traps with a bait tablet stuck to the middle.  The roaches crawl onto the trap to get at the bait,  get stuck,  and slowly die of. being stuck.
 So you get this crunchy auburn perimeter of dumb roaches all stuck to the very edge where the sticky stuff begins,  then it's time for team two.  Team two climb over the pitiful wasteland of their starving broken brethren,  many of whom have lost limbs in the struggle to become unstuck,  and create the next layer of stupidly marooned beasts too greedy to learn their lesson from the first generation who by now are reduced to sporadic desperate undulations of antennae,  like white flags of surrender.
 You can almost hear the dirge.  My point is,  once we found a mouse stuck to one of these traps.  On its side.  A baby roach or two dotted the otherwise clean new trap like empathy suicide allies.  We felt so sorry for the thing that we spent a good half hour carefully lifting the little grey beast from the sticky enviro hippie free-
range- corpse trap,  follicle by follicle,  ugly little toe by ( oops,  our fault)
 crippled mangled wrist.  Eventually we freed it and it hobbled across the yard in a daze,  probably to breed and spew forth more pestering beasts to invade our unhygienic plagued wasteland of a kitchen.  We also once found a poo on our doorstep.  This poo was fucking huge.  We were pretty sure it was human.
 It hadn't been done elsewhere and then picked up and placed there,  it had been freshly de- anus'd right there,  against our door,  so that when we opened it the shit smeared everywhere and really showed its true colours.  They had also smeared some around the keyhole in a disturbing metaphorical emulation of their own arsehole.
 We think it was the lesbians next door.  We kept them up at night.  We left it there for a couple of weeks,  all waiting for someone else to take care of it.  Eventually Rene's mother was coming over so Rene cleaned it.  Good on ya Rex.
 This scatalogical diatribe has rendered me quite shitty.
