Don’t feel much better than I did last night. Starting to worry that I am coming down with or already have some kind of flu.
Which would be ironic, seeing as I am taking a strong antibiotic twice a day. Maybe all it did was take out the weaker germs, leaving only the most cunning and ruthless bugs to take over my body/.
Kidding. If I have something like the flu, it’s probably viral, not bacterial.
Mostly I feet hot. Very, very hot. Like I am baking on the inside. I think my pore are clogged despite having showered last night, so I am going to try to talk myself into showering again today despite not being “scheduled” to shower till tomorrow night.
It’s depressingly hard to convince myself to do things off schedule. I think because it’s so hard for any sort of order or discipline to survive in the hot wet chaos of my mind that when I do manage to establish some, I cling to it with an almost religious fervor.
Plus, rigid habits protect me from option paralysis because they keep me from having to decide what to do.
Deciding to do things is hard for me.
I wish I had some sort of purge mode for my pores. A button I could press that made my pores tighten in just the right way to clear the gunk out of them and leave me feeling fresh and clean because now my skin can breathe.
Skin is happiest when it can breathe.
Essentially, I wish my pores had a gag reflex.
Outta juice, gotta rest,.
It’s now 7:44 pm and I feel much better than I did before. I think my pores managed to unclog themselves when I was sufficiently hydrated to sweat them open again.
I still feel too hot on the inside. I still feel like someone left the furnace on somewhere near the core of my solar plexus. It still feels like I have a forest fire inside me.
But at least the outside feels nice and cool and breezy now. Phew.
Speaking (sorta) of my horrific health issues, the Demon Nipple is definitely on the way out. A patch of white is spreading over it and I am pretty sure that this means the growth itself is dying and that eventually all the white stuff will slough off.
I just counted my antibiotic pills and there’s 16 left. At four a day (two with breakfast, two with suppper), that means I got 4 days of pills left.
We’ll have to see how it looks by then,
The big thing for me is to resist the urge to pick at it. It hasn’t been too bad so far but if at any point it starts to itch, I am going to be sorely tested.
But the last thing I want is for it to turn into a dermatological horror show like what it happening to my poor scalp.
It bugs me that everyone in the ER, including the exotic Doctor Andrew Smith, thought I had a open wound on my head.
In fact, the first person to comment on it was an EMT who was hanging with his fellow EMTs outside the ER.
He said “Whoa there, you need some help buddy?”
Perfectly reasonable. You see a guy walking into the ER with what looks like a head wound, you assume he might need help walking in a straight line.
I told him I was good, which I was.
But part of me wished I had lied and asked for help because the dude was hot and I have a strong attraction to men in caring professions and his offer came from such a pure and caring place that it left me all a-flutter.
It’s not an open head wound though. Sure, it bleeds sometimes when I remove the encrusted dandruff from my scalp, but that’s extremely superficial bleeding.
Sure does look bad, though.
Like I lost a flamethrower fight.
More after the break,.
We got these huge kiwi fruit at Costco yesterday. Easily twice the size of any kiwi fruit I have ever seen before.
Sadly, the Bertrand Rule of Produce remains in effect : regardless of the size, the amount of flavour remains the same,.
So they are not exactly packed with flavour.
And that’s not necessarily a terrible thing. The usual size of kiwi fruit can be a little overwhelming when you haven’t had one in a while.
Still, there has to be a happy medium between “overwhelming” and “underwhelming”.
If that’s a word. I know it’s not, ’cause I looked it up.
It’s one of those skills that I learned in my school.
Damn I love that song. The comedic tension between the big 90’s high production value music and the extremely picayune lyrics makes me so happy.
Oh, and of course, the fact that it’s full of language pickiness makes me happy too.
There’s no way I could remain attracted to someone who mangled the English language when they spoke. Or texted.
That might seem harsh to some, but I am super sensitive to language and when it is used wrong, it’s actually painful to me.
Like, nails on the chalkboard of my soul painful.
And no amount of attraction could overcome the negative association I would form from having my nerves shredded over and over by their bad grammar.
I am not saying they have to be poets, or even that they need to be as eloquent as I am. That would be setting the bar a wee bit too high.
But there’s definitely a minimum level of language competency required in anyone I am going to associate with for any meaningful length of time.
And the thing is, I don’t think of myself as a fussy and demanding person. I can’t stand Sheldon on Big Bang Theory or Felix Unger from The Odd Couple and I pity Jerry on Seinfeld’s lack of success with women because of his fastidious nature.
But when it comes to language and logic, I am extraordinarily particular.
Guess everyone has something they are fussy about.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.