King of Bruises

I awoke this morning in a bed that wasn't my own, next to a snoring Tom, in a room I didn't recognise, with a headache sent from the devil himself.
Good party, guys.

On the way home, the numbness that envelops my limbs during a hangover began to wear off and my knee, oh my knee, screamed in pain everytime it was touched.
Taking my tights off when I arrived at chez walker revealed why..
My knee is purple with fantastic green and slightly yellow tinges.
yum yum.
This bruise isn't any bruise. This is King Bruise. All other bruises, grazes, cuts and nicks hail to this bruise. This is their Messiah. Bruise Christ.
It bloody kills, and I'll be buggered if I know where it came from.
The past two times I've neared alcohol I've ended up with minor leg injuries. Last week, my legs were covered in tiny scratches and grazes and a fucking huuuge gash on my calf (sigh) and this week has left me with Jesus Bruise Christ.
Another thing that has happened in both alcohol infused situations is spewing.
I'd never been sick from drinking, no matter how much alcohol has passed my lips, until last week, and the same thing happened last night.
Now I'm sorry, but I'm going to be a bit vulgar now, because, well, it's necessary.
Last week's vom was luminous yellow. Thank you Fanta.
Last night's vom was bright pink. Thanks Ribena.
So it seems that I'm making my way across the colour spectrum through the means of sick.
Perhaps, if I'm sick next week, it'll be lime green. Highlighter orange. Navy blue.
'Cor, navy blue sick.
Nice.

anyway! I'm going to get into bed with a bowl of Weetos (Thank you mum, I love you) and watch Howl's Moving Castle.
T'rahh
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