I’m too snotty to make sense of things right now.

I’m not completely choked up with phlegm, but I’m fluey enough to know that can’t be trusted to coherently string a full blog post together right now. There’s no way I can find higher meaning in anything when I’m in this state. I just kind of look around with lazy, squinty eyes and repeatedly opening my mouth in a way that tries to pop my ears. This makes look like a goldfish on Valium.

So instead of trying to produce a polished, well-written parable (yes, that is how I would describe my previous posts), I’m just going to list the things that happened to me this week. Because while I am sick, I am not so sick that I can ignore my to do list, and writing this post has been a looming “to do” that hasn’t yet been did.

These are like three mini adventures to tied you over until I’m well enough to appear mentally unwell again. It’s like those Little Treehouse of Horrors episodes of The Simpsons that have three stories to it, except pathetic instead of scary.

Today I got the new iPhone. I also finally when out and bought two new pillows for my bed. When I moved here, my sister’s boyfriend kindly brought a bunch of my possessions in the back of his ute which was loaded in my absence. As such, only half of my pillows were loaded on. And as a fun twist of fate, my two worst pillows were brought interstate. So for the last few weeks I’ve been sleeping on dust-mite-ridden sacks of mouldy disappointment. It didn’t make for a great night’s sleep but it also made me look chronically single having just two pillows on a queen bed (I mean, I am chronically single, which is fine, but no one wants to look chronically single. Being chronically single and looking chronically single are horses of very different colours. One is a classy yet carefree gal who knows what she wants and the other is a crying mess wearing a stained singlet eating cold baked beans straight out of the tin. Don’t be the bean-eating mess). Today I finally snapped and bought two new pillows.

I walked into the homewears shop hoping I wouldn’t pay an arm and a leg for pillows, because the nearest store selling pillows is one of those stores with classy middle-aged women as the shop assistants. And these women have expensive fruit bowl habits to support so their stores are always slightly higher in price range. Thankfully, I was wearing my “active wear” when I walked in, which included a pair of college merch ruggers I’ve worn on every jog and gym session for the past five years with the thighs worn out of them so I looked poor enough that the lady who served me didn’t bother trying to upsell the pillows. Sometimes being poor has its advantages.

Anyway, long story short is that I was more excited about the pillows than the new phone. What does that say about me?

Today I went running with very oily hair and smelled like a snack food. Let me unpack this further. I read somewhere that it’s good to work a bit of olive oil through your hair as a natural conditioning treatment, and when I was roasting some veggies for this week’s lunches, I used a bit of olive juice in my locks while I had it out. You see, my hair hasn’t been cut in about a year and I’m looking very much like that girl who was trapped down a well so I thought I’d give it a crack. About half an hour after I rubbed the oil in (which was a weirdly satisfying job, I must say) I decided that I should take my sloppy rig out for a spin and didn’t see a point in washing the oil out of my hair only to have to wash it again after running.

Now, I’ve been a little slack on the jogging front lately so I became fairly hot rather quickly, particularly in the cranial region – with all that hair on my head, it’s a bit like running with a woollen jumper on. Bear Grylls could survive for three days off the sweat that collects in my hair when I exercise. My head juices infused with the olive oil, which was heating up thanks to my sweaty scalp. Together they released a smell that was kind of like a deep fryer mixed with the stale head odour you have the morning after a big night. Basically, it was like Smiths chips released a special edition dandruff-flavoured chippie. I’m not ashamed to say that it made me hungry.

** Update: I tweeted about this experience and received two likes and a retweet. I’m hoping it goes viral so Smiths will actually make my chip flavour suggestion seriously or a shampoo company will send me free products. Either outcome would be welcomed.

Earlier in the week I ate the chocolate of a stranger. I moved into this place about a month ago. I didn’t need to bring a bed because the guy living in the room before me is leaving it behind. That bed actually belonged to the guy who lived in the room before he did. This bed has been here a while (but don’t worry, I have a mattress topper so I can lie to myself that I’m not actually sleeping on a bed of the dead skin cells of strangers).

Ok, now that you have that information, consider this: Last week I found an Easter egg under the bed and I ate it.

That egg had potentially been there for two years.

It could have been laced with poison.

It could have been used in some weird sex ritual.

It could have been planted there by a cruel practical joke reality show with hidden cameras set up in my room to capture my shame and broadcast it to the would.

And I ate it.

I was in a dark place this week.