I got up yesterday feeling totally fine (and dandy), had some toast, sat down and started to read a bit of Coleridge ready for my lecture. Suddenly, with no warning, for no apparent reason, my body decided it was time to start a bout of noisy and violent vomiting. What a waste of toast. Hence, romantic poetry is the tool of the devil (and the enemy of toast), and I'm too scared to read Rime of the Ancient Mariner again incase it makes me ill. Which is a problem, as I planned to look at that exact poem for my assignment. "An investigation into the concept of the sublime, with added extra chunks".
Difficult times, my friend. Difficult times.
My best mate L has an insightful thought as to the cause of this phenomena:
"Eeek! Puking just from reading? How? Was it the slimy things on many legs doing something oozy on the slimy sea? No, it can't have been....that's not very romantic. I think we should take this as a sign that poetry (esp from that weird coleridge bloke), pregnancy and toast don't mix...you're trying too many things at once!!! Your body is overloaded with excitement!!!! It's all like "Wow! I'm pregnant! Nice toast....and look, some poetr.... OVERLOAD!!!!! BARF BARF BARF" you see....sensible."
(EDIT: Lou, you will now no doubt see this page and I beg forgiveness for putting extracts from your email on my diary. I am a bad person. But I am not removing the extract. Please forgive me anyway).