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desperanceWe can haz symptoms, or maybe they're side effects.
Woke up this morning - at four-thirty this morning, waaah - feeling a little sick and with a raging headache. The which has not abated. I have taken stomach-settling medicine, one kind of painkiller and the poisonous antibiotic; now I am going for another kind of painkiller. First cocktail of the day: the true breakfast of champions.
Add all this to the aching-of-joints that I live with anyway, and it is curiously like having a mild flu. A constructed flu, an artefact. I don't know which of what is symptoms of infection and which is side effect of evil medication (or of course alcohol withdrawal, but we're not thinking about that); all I know is, I feel rotten. From the inside.
Still: autumn's in the air and so is Karen, she's on her way. Be here by evening. And Jo Walton has (all unwittingly, I am sure) written a poem to welcome her, and I am doing what I can on my own behalf. Bread is in the oven, beans have soaked overnight. I have a broom and a sponge and virtuous intentions. The boys have their instructions ("no biting, or no sossidge", essentially; this of course is waste of breath - there will be biting, and there will be sossidge; we all of us know all of this - but one has to show willing). All shall yet be well. Except for me, I shall be ill, but hey. If I could find a brave face in this chaos, I'd put it on.
Woke up this morning - at four-thirty this morning, waaah - feeling a little sick and with a raging headache. The which has not abated. I have taken stomach-settling medicine, one kind of painkiller and the poisonous antibiotic; now I am going for another kind of painkiller. First cocktail of the day: the true breakfast of champions.
Add all this to the aching-of-joints that I live with anyway, and it is curiously like having a mild flu. A constructed flu, an artefact. I don't know which of what is symptoms of infection and which is side effect of evil medication (or of course alcohol withdrawal, but we're not thinking about that); all I know is, I feel rotten. From the inside.
Still: autumn's in the air and so is Karen, she's on her way. Be here by evening. And Jo Walton has (all unwittingly, I am sure) written a poem to welcome her, and I am doing what I can on my own behalf. Bread is in the oven, beans have soaked overnight. I have a broom and a sponge and virtuous intentions. The boys have their instructions ("no biting, or no sossidge", essentially; this of course is waste of breath - there will be biting, and there will be sossidge; we all of us know all of this - but one has to show willing). All shall yet be well. Except for me, I shall be ill, but hey. If I could find a brave face in this chaos, I'd put it on.