And so the worst week of my life ends in a spectacular blaze of vomit.

The past seven days have seen:

• Me send away the only boy who has ever meant anything to me;
  
• One of my best friends, who is already more prone to death than most other people, admit she's been (unwillingly) helping that potential early death along;
• Me realise that the chances of me failing, or at least dramatically under-achieving in, History are very high;
• The gigs I've been looking forward to for months be slashed in number, and the ones I am still attending be tainted, due to point #1.

At the moment I am just a big ball of numb, so I'm not feeling that bad. Sometimes, I've even felt something resembling contentment, because at least I, nor anyone else, is lying any more. But most of the time I've been feeling shit, shit, shit, and I find it so hard to talk to anyone about it because I don't like to make a fuss and besides, I get the impression that most people don't really want to know. We're all just bloody islands.

The one thought that got me through the day today was that soon I would see my future sister-in-law, who has been the biggest help to me recently. Without something positive to focus on, I honestly don't know if I could have got through another four hours sat at the front till at Woolworths, directing silly people to the batteries, glaring at the Valentine's Day sign and hating myself. I had to miss a family engagement- the 2nd birthday of my baby cousin Leo- to go to work, which didn't bother me that much to be honest. The prospect of spending an afternoon with my joy-filled family and having to say no, I'm not going out with whas-his-face anymore, was hardly a cheering prospect, and I'd be seeing Fliss afterwards anyway.

Unfortunately, when I leave work (ten minutes late because yet again there are some stupid fuckers who decide to enter the shop one minute before closing time, then spend the next ten debating exactly what sweets to buy) and see my father waiting outside for me, he informs me that my mother has been sick, so the car smells a bit. I HATE vomit. I can't stand it. I know there's hardly going to be someone who says well, actually, I love it, but really, I think I might hate it more than most people. I get in the car and it reeks. There are huge orangey chunks spattered on the dashboard, down my mother's face and all over her clothes. I find out later that she had in fact fainted before she threw up, which is why there is no trace of control in her sick patterns.

Turns out that some soup at the family party was left unrefrigerated, and everyone who ate some (apart from my father mysteriously, so far at least) had got very violent food poisoning. Fliss was sick before my parents evern left to pick me up, so of course I won't be seeing her this evening, and instead spent some time sponging vomit off of my mother's very expensive leather handbag (I left my father to deal with the car.) She's fine now, though, apparently, so hopefully the rest of my family are feeling better now they've got it all out of their stomachs. I'm so glad that I couldn't go, in the end. In a way, I see it like a sign from a greater power- it's like the cosmos knows I've had a rough enough week already, and so orchestrated it so at least I wouldn't be spending my evening chucking up. It would have seemed appropriate, though.

Sorry for not being full of sunshine at the moment. It'll get better with time, or at least that's what people keep telling me. And although I might not ask for you to listen, or for your support, that's just because I'm just not emotionally mature enough to do that. Believe me, I need all the help and support I can get.