Yeah I know, I’m categorically underweight and I can eat a lot less balanced than most people and I’ve got to appreciate the body I have at 22 because when will it ever look this way again and bahbahbahbahbah.

But to all the ladies out there who enjoy dipping sweet things into chocolate frosting cans –how?! Ooh, child, do I ever miss the days when I could eat a king-sized Snickers bar without falling into a short, painful coma afterwards.

This time, my prize customs moment was coming through the US citizen line in Boston. I had absolutely nothing to declare, had only been away for a short time, and was simply visiting my boyfriend. The agent looked up as she stamped my duty card and furrowed her eyebrows.

“What’d'ya do to your head?”

—

Warning signs should have gone off when we decided to put the concepts of “romantic weekend” and “Northern Ireland” in the same sentence. Nah, I’m only kidding, I really liked the North. There’s not much evidence of nationalist feelings or terror anymore, at least not where we were. In fact, there was absolutely no indication that we’d driven from one country into another except for signs warning us that speed limits would now be in miles per hour. There are no more towers or flags at the border, and we only spotted one or two flags in the countryside.

Belfast was a neat city, if very quiet for a Friday night. Because we can’t spend Valentine’s Day together, this was our replacement night. I chose Indian food, a favorite of both of ours. It was my delicious usual: chicken tikka masala, peshwari naan, coconut rice, Cobra beer. Familiar and tasty, and though my stomach rumbled a bit I kept eating.

We went for a nice warm-ish walk around Belfast city centre for about an hour, then stopped into our hotel bar for a nightcap before hoping to get to bed early. Neither of us had slept very long all week, especially the night before, as my flight had come in at 5:00 AM, and my kind, doting, and soon-to-be very understanding boyfriend picked me up.

After watching some late night TV, I tried to sleep but my stomach was still unsettled. For about a half hour I tossed in bed, pulling the sheets on and off, until I finally realized what was about to happen.

Ladies and gentlemen, I had a really, really fine case of food poisoning. I’m not even embarrassed about it anymore, just still in awe of the sheer devastation it caused to my body. We’re talking everything, from everywhere, top to bottom, at the same time, every half hour. I would then clean up, fall back into bed, and spring out as somehow, by some curse of Satan himself, I still had more to go.

My dear boyfriend was asleep for the more graphic parts of it, thank God, as this is not exactly what I’d had in mind for a romantic replacement Valentine’s weekend. He asked a few times what was happening, but I did not want to — nor had the strength to — elaborate.

In total I ran to the bathroom about ten times in four hours, but it was around the fifth time that I had my crowning moment. I was perched on the toilet, absolutely exhausted but with no say in the matter. I remember thinking, You’re going to fall asleep, you haven’t slept in two nights now. I then remember thinking, Yeah you should be careful, imagine him finding you on the toilet in the morning. I stood up.

And then I remember about twenty minutes going by where I was involved in a high-speed chase and got hit by a bus, which backed up and hit me four times: my head, my back, my nose and my arm.

Except it hadn’t been twenty minutes, and I hadn’t gotten hit by a bus, because there was my boyfriend knocking at the bathroom door, telling me to move my foot. I squealed in pain and squinted up at him from the floor, saying, “Oh my God. What happened?” He said he’d just heard a big thump and came running.

He pulled me to my feet and we surveyed the damage. Somewhere between standing up and the sink, I’d fainted. I’ve been trying to put together how exactly I fell, because it doesn’t really make sense. But it seems I fell forward, cracked my forehead against the porcelain sink, went sideways, hit the small of my back/hip on the side of the bathtub, then went face first into the floor, breaking my glasses. (And stranger still, not breaking the glass of the glasses — but flipping the nose piece that holds the nose pads 180 degrees. The metal snapped later when I tried to put them right.)

“Holy shit, I fainted,” I panted, staggering out of the bathroom. My vision went black as it happened again, but this time I had both a bed and a boyfriend to catch me. He wiped the blood off my face and then I slept for two hours.

The rest of the trip was a bit dramatic, as I was absolutely wrecked. I’d evacuated everything I’ve ever even thought about eating before, with very little sleep the last few days, on top of my current underweight status. I felt like I was made of paper. I ate nothing and drank only sips of ginger ale. I wish I could say I didn’t act like a baby the whole weekend, but it’s hard to describe me as anything else as I whimpered in the passenger seat, changed my mind back and forth about whether I wanted to eat, and needed the heat blasting in the car each time I came back from the bathroom.

Still, we sallied forth to the Antrim coast and even braved the Giant’s Causeway. This is a very, very simple walking route, but I only made it halfway and onto four rocks before bursting into tears at my wobbly legs and needing to be helped down. Oh, I was a sad sight indeed, and not the kind of sad you want to take care of — the kind you want to drop off the side of the Giant’s Causeway and speed away from. Fortunately, though sorely tempted, he didn’t, and after a long sleep that night I managed to get a bit more strength in me for a castle tour (which, again, ended in embarrassing hyperventilation, shivering, and tears as I needed to be helped up a few stairs at the end).

—

Anyway, I’m fine now, and kind of endlessly amused by what happened. Alls I know is, that wasn’t exactly the weekend I had in mind (although aside from the food poisoning it was really amazing and so good to be back). Also, thank God I’m going to Rome in a few weeks. It’s time for a major Valentine’s do-over.

UPDATE: Finally got a copy of my Day After face.  Brace yourself for a goofier, creepier, paler version of my post-wisdom teeth expression.  (Also: there’s a LOT of make-up on my forehead.  And before you say anything, I’d like to see you try putting on liquid eyeliner with broken glasses on!)

It’s incredibly rude to remark on anyone’s weight, no matter which end of the spectrum it’s on.  Not everyone who’s lost weight is happy about it, and not everyone who says they’re not happy about it is in eating-disorder denial.  Not everyone can explain why it continues to happen even as spirits soar and fatty meals are consistently consumed.  Not everyone wants to look differently — some people were perfectly happy where they were.  Not everyone is flattered when attention is brought to how loosely their watch fits on their wrist.

That’s because for some people it’s just plain embarrassing and confusing and unwanted.

It’s that time of year, when my generally amazing immune system (for normal diseases, I mean; the bizarre “only on House” types of reactions I’ve got covered) screeches to a halt as it gets a little bit colder, because even though I think I look pretty good when the cord jacket gets its seasonal debut, my body seems to REALLY HATE SWEATER WEATHER.

Well, like clockwork I’ve been struck with the same monster cold everyone else has.  I was pretty convinced it was swine flu this morning, what with the trembling and the fair-maiden weakness and the vomit, but now I don’t think it is.  I think I’ve just got the exact same thing I get every year, the exact same thing the girls in my house have had for weeks.

It’s pretty suck timing, as my boyfriend is currently on a plane home and I was spread-eagled on my bed wishing for death when he left.  I’ll need to get through another month now, and at the moment I feel okay.  I’m snuggled in my jammies in my bed, breathing fine through one nostril, feeling totally not guilty about spending every weekend at home.  I’m on a bubble of love that must not pop any time soon.

Unfortunately, I’ve been experiencing heightened depression lately.  It’s nothing I want to go into here or now, but suffice it to say that my good moods are very easily crushed by bad thoughts.  I’m back in therapy for an indefinite amount of time while I try to figure out how I can summon the elation of a happy memory the way I seem to be able to summon the misery of a bad one.

So, after that monster check list of my hopes and dreams, I’ve thought of a few things to put on a new one.  If I’m bored one day I might make it into a sidebar.  And I’m bored a lot.

• Do yoga regularly. I spent $20 on a mat so I better keep this up.  My plan is Thursdays at 12:45, between classes, and then on my own time using a video Podcast.  This will hopefully allow me to calm my mind and my body, because both of them are reacting as though I just came back from ten years trapped in the space/time continuum rather than one year in Europe.
• Knit or crochet again. I have a project in mind, and I’m once again enthralled by the idea of sitting in my pajamas watching movies on my computer while knitting a scarf.  And this time I have no one to come into my room on a weekend night and imply that I am a gigantic loser for not going out.
• Make jewelry. I’ve made a few pieces that I really quite like.  None of them are terribly complicated but that’s because that’s not the sort of jewelry I like.  Kage saw some and said they were good, and I would like to continue and make some monay.  I’ll do a “ask me to make you something” post soon, so start thinking now if you need a gift or would like something nice for yourself.

This morning greeted me with a bumpin’ headache, waves of nausea, and sour milk to boot, so suffice it to say one might encounter a mega-grump if I had the energy to make it outside.  Fortunately, it is my day off, so you are all spared (except I can reach you through the Internet, wah!).

I haven’t updated in a while because I’ve been too busy making the last part of this come true.  I got the room for the summer that I wanted, the internship that I wanted, and aside from still having no money (OH HOW I COULD USE SOME), everything else is going according to plan.  I’ve got some jewelry-making materials coming in the mail and I made quesadillas for the two of us last week for the first night I spent here in my new house.  So aside from spending the better half of the morning wanting to throw up, everything is really ridiculously perfect, in ways I never thought possible.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again and again and again: deciding to stay in Dublin was the best decision I’ve ever made.

Anyway, I’ll show you a bit of why I’m so pleased as punch these days.

This is the view from the door upon entering my new room, where I’ll be living for the next three months or so.  It’s the kind of place I’d really rather settle into for a year because there’s so much space and so little time to fill it.  As any house for rent, the place is not perfect and shows the wear and tear of residents who know they are temporary and just don’t care to upkeep it.  I don’t mind though, since I’ve seen some really disgusting places, and this ain’t one of them.

I have a nice big wardrobe but I already kind of broke the latch on it.  Also, I found a spider on my scarf the other day and now I don’t know what to think.

I borrowed the bedding and felt surely it could not match anything in the room.  But behold!  A crazy wannabe modern art painting!  And good grief, it also goes quite well with my teal fleece.  I like looking at this combination.  Though the green bunny does not really match anything now.  The bed is quite comfortable, although I have had some trouble sleeping these past few nights, but I’m attributing that to it being a new place.  Oh, and Don Quixote also lives in my room as you can see below, above my various knick knacks.  That fireplace is covered, and I can hear animals living in there.  I think it’s a bird building a nest.  I wish it were a litter of kittens, to be honest.

I really punched last Friday the 13th in the face by having the most spectacular day, full of good grades and good progress and sub-par chili made by me but an understanding boyfriend who told me it was great.

But one does not deny the Hellbeast his chance to reign evil.  It pursued me through the shadows, letting Its wicked eyes gleam here and there in the shape of parental disappointment and uncertain future plans and a cold that is on day twelve and my skin is really dry lately.  Still, I battered It down with internships and interviews and lovely dinners and holiday plans and an ever-increasing feeling of success as I let no day go to waste.  I tackled my essays early on, hitting the library back in February, and did such a good job of not screwing myself over this time.

Yet the will is strong in that one and It continued to lurk.  (By the way, I think it helps to picture Gollum for this whole journey.)

As I settled back into my room on Sunday night, I had only a few more hours of work left on my essays–three of them were due Monday, today.  One on mermaids, one on Dickens, and one on Boston English.  “Thank God the Dickens one is done,” I said, scrolling through the 7 or so pages.  “Let me just double check everything, make sure I met all the requirements.  I’ll just take out my Visiting Student  Handbook and OH MY GOD.”

Oh my God is right.  An essay that I had thought was 1,500-2,000 words (and really, only merited so much!) was in fact meant to be 5,000-7,000.  That is a HELL OF A LOT OF EXTRA WORDS.  I proceeded to have an absolutely impressive freakout that I’m pretty glad no one was there to witness.  I texted a panicked “omg omg omg” and IMed anyone who happened to be online to inform them of this outrageous level of fuckupitude on my part.  How did I confuse numbers like that?  In fact, there is an explanation, but it’s so fucking stupid I’m not even going to subject you to it.  Fact of the matter is, I completely blew it.  The essay I’d started months earlier and leisurely typed my way through, the first one to have “finished,” wasn’t even one third of the way being done.  And I had two more essays to write.

I stormed around in my room for about 15 minutes, crying and watching myself cry and yelling at myself for being such a fucking idiot (and also thanking myself for even thinking to double check the word count).  Then I emailed my editor saying I would not be in until the afternoon on Monday, and my department head to say how I knew she had no reason to even entertain such an excuse but to please give me a short extension.

And then I got to work, until 4 AM.  I’d finished the two other papers by then, but still had the daunting task of writing my essay three times over again.  You can follow my journey into madness on my Twitter page.  I woke again at 8 AM and wrote madly, sitting in my underwear with leftover Kimberley’s and tea.  I told my editor I’d be in between 1 PM and 2 PM.  It was now 11:30 AM and I had 1,000 words to go.  I struck up the cursing of myself again at this point and am in fact still bewildered that this even happened.  I blew my nose another couple hundred times and checked my email compulsively.  Finally, I got this:

Well, there’s no excuse for this really as you were told about word lengths for essays both when we worked out your learning agreement and at the meeting about essays in the middle of last term AND it’s very clear in the handbook.

However I will take your difficulty at face value and yes, you may have till Wednesday 1230 …

Ohh shit ya’ll, that’s my department head right there telling me that I have been a big fuck up and it’s my own damn fault and if it weren’t for the concept of space and time she’d give me a big see ya later, but fine here have an extra day and a half, you absolute twit who can’t count for beans.

Mildly embarrassed, I put on pants and printed the two essays I did finish, which of course came out in black ink, which of course I’ve always known but again disregarded when I made colored maps and graphs and told the reader to refer to the colors rather than the data.  After a quick lunch, I rushed over to the office for the internship I’ll be doing for the next month.  “They won’t make you go out and survey people again today, will they?”  “Nah, surely not, the guy knows I’m on 3 hours sleep and freaking out, plus I think I did enough the last time…”

Thirty minutes later, of course, I am putting my jacket back on and heading out for the grey streets of Dublin, stopping strangers and asking them what their worst summer jobs have been while I’m falling asleep on my feet and thinking of a million better things I could be doing, including injecting some Dickensian bullshit into an emaciated paper.

And then a bird pooped on me.