The 19th of February.

My knee is still not 100% better. It feels fine, then I bend and am reminded that I'm slightly crippled.

I had a really pretty decent sleep - I wasn't properly awake until about half past eight! I have spent my day mainly in front of the television apart from a brief period I spent upstairs, trying on two pairs of jeans that will be returned as neither fit in a way I like.

Tonight I'm watching the Brits and it all seems a bit lame, compared to other awards ceremonies. Maybe it's just me, but I have never found them particularly prestigious.

I have nothing of interest to say about today. I chased both black and white cats out of the garden. That was quite enjoyable.

The 20th of February.

Another good sleep! I don't know how, but I'll take them. This morning we went into town to return the jeans, and buy some moisturiser and lip balm. Riveting, I know.

We got home about lunchtime, and after watching the final episode of Tough Young Teachers, Mommy went to see Grandma and I read the entirety of The Fault In Our Stars. I still don't like Hazel, but I quite liked Gus, and he was the one that made all the poignant comments. I'm a bit angry with John Green for not really articulating dying properly, but that's kind of irrational when I can't do it myself, and I actually am. How can I expect someone to write fiction about it?

He writes a lot about side effects. Like how cancer is a side effect of dying. Or how people with cancer are side effects of evolution and genetic mutation. Fuck off, I am not a side effect. I'm dying from a side effect. The whole book just made me kind of angry and I don't know.

The fact that I'm dying in general makes me angry. I don't want to. I don't deserve to. But nobody does. God, I'm so tired of this. I hate it. I'm tired of being a sick person. I want to keep being a person. But I can't. Fuck.