This can't be good...

Something appears to have gone terribly wrong. I am suffering a bout of the usual Man Flu that goes round at this time of year; for those who, like my poor indignant boyfriend, have never heard the phrase, it means I have a cold. And that, were I a man, I would be calling it the flu while making plaintive noises about the strong possibility of my imminent death.

And this Man Flu has led to the frighteningly boring culmination of several illness-induced things:

1. Fever dreams - they're meant to be vivid and exciting and leave you wondering what the hell is going on, yes? Not mine. Apparently the fact I seem to have miraculously avoided Spider Fortnight this year is concerning my subconscious. So I dreamed I was looking for spiders. Except there weren't any spiders. So, essentially, I spent the whole night dreaming about carpet. Carpet! It's no great wonder that I eventually got up just to escape the sheer, crushing boredom.

2. Derren Brown - something about his Lottery prediction has really piqued my interest, so I must confess to having spent several of my waking hours reading all the commentary on the Guardian blog (best comment of the lot, posted while the reveal show was running: "This is a load of flannel"). Most of the comments, as they tend to do in these situations, said pretty much the same thing. So, having bored myself silly during my sleep, I continued the process by reading the same thing 600 times.

(For the record, I totally guessed how it was actually done while the show was still going on. The split camera bit, not the stupid Wisdom of Crowds bit. And I'm also pretty sure that the stupid explanations are all part of a bigger reveal that will come later. Sorry Rest of the World, this probably won't make sense outside of England...)

3. I have now tried to watch the first episode of Warehouse 13 four times. Each time, I have either been interrupted or lost my satellite signal for no apparent reason. And it's always during the same part, so I'm becoming awfully, boringly familiar with a very specific portion of it.

4. I realised things were reaching epic dull proportions when I felt genuine excitement at how neatly I'd torn the wrapping from a toilet roll.

Please won't somebody save me? Please?

A prison made of self

For a very long time I've felt lonely and useless. It goes back, annoyingly, to the job I was working in at the beginning of the year - though, for the record, not to the insults from my "superior" that my career, education and life in general were useless and laughable.

I would like to blame it on that whole experience, but it wouldn't be the truth: I went quiet not only because I was working 11-hour days while pushing 3 or 4 more in the attempt to pull myself out and couldn't keep up, but because I couldn't pretend I was ok. And so I ceased to find any pleasure in texting, calling, blogging, logging into SL, Plurk - all of it. And so began the decline.

For some reason, I feel the need to reassure everyone I love that I'm fine. I feel the need to not burden them with my useless crap, though my biggest fault is wondering why they don't already know, while at the same time being aware they cannot know if I don't tell them. So I disappear to lick my wounds, and wallow, and then have no idea how to come back, and every attempt I make falls flat precisely because I'm holding back.

I know so many amazing people, and so many I love and admire, and at some point I stopped knowing how to let them know how much I care. But, if you're reading this and wondering whether it's you I mean: yes it is. And I miss you all, more than I can express.