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It's the little things. :)
Aug. 10th, 2012 10:56 pmWell, hello, Pain Level 7. You want me to lie down and cry, don't you? I will think about it.
And, wonderfully, I still have a good pile of Spears left. I can probably move my bedtime to midnight and use some of those Spears to lightly exercise, or write, or read. The Pain Monsters of sleep are coming close enough to attack with Spears anyway.
(The origin of my alternative to The Spoon Theory: http://brightrosefox.livejournal.com/1520669.html)
Spoons say, "I have only THIS MUCH reservoir energy and strength for this one day, and once it is gone that is it! Poor me, I'm too weak to make it to tomorrow."
Spears and weapons say, "Okay, motherfuckers, I'm going to take the day as much as I can, I am going to run and attack and defend until I'm drained and exhausted, and then I'm going to crawl, and then I'm going to ask someone to carry me, and when I am finally done, then I will collapse willingly. CHARGE."
It's the Boadicea method of dealing with illness. Probably why Enya's "Boadicea" is a favorite song of mine.
I need to return to the Container Store for more little pill containers. I've got one in my purse with meclizine, clonazepam, tramadol, chlorpheniramine, and bismuth subsalicylate, for Those Moments while traveling. Plus a tiny water bottle, although the tablets are easy to dry swallow. But more tiny containers are always good, and it satisfies the OCD for a while.
Organizing must happen. Sure, my bedroom and TV room are a mess, but it's an organized mess. I know where everything is in my mess. Those supplement bottles are on that specific dresser for a reason! Because! Reason! No, I will not shift them around, they're fine where they are!
So, I made plans to take the bus, or possibly walk the ten minutes, to Wendy's for a Son Of Baconator burger. And then walk back or bus if the weather is decent. Is it sad or weird or good that I think it would be a triumph?
"The cybernetic oracle. The ultimate man-machine hybrid. Programmed with every crime ever recorded and implanted with the brain cells of history's greatest detectives. We call him... Pickles."
"On account of it's like he's floating in a jar?"
"Exactly."
Dear Futurama: Please continue to make me laugh no matter what. I will even forgive you for the episode 'Attack Of The Killer App' if you continue to make me love you.
And, wonderfully, I still have a good pile of Spears left. I can probably move my bedtime to midnight and use some of those Spears to lightly exercise, or write, or read. The Pain Monsters of sleep are coming close enough to attack with Spears anyway.
(The origin of my alternative to The Spoon Theory: http://brightrosefox.livejournal.com/1520669.html)
Spoons say, "I have only THIS MUCH reservoir energy and strength for this one day, and once it is gone that is it! Poor me, I'm too weak to make it to tomorrow."
Spears and weapons say, "Okay, motherfuckers, I'm going to take the day as much as I can, I am going to run and attack and defend until I'm drained and exhausted, and then I'm going to crawl, and then I'm going to ask someone to carry me, and when I am finally done, then I will collapse willingly. CHARGE."
It's the Boadicea method of dealing with illness. Probably why Enya's "Boadicea" is a favorite song of mine.
I need to return to the Container Store for more little pill containers. I've got one in my purse with meclizine, clonazepam, tramadol, chlorpheniramine, and bismuth subsalicylate, for Those Moments while traveling. Plus a tiny water bottle, although the tablets are easy to dry swallow. But more tiny containers are always good, and it satisfies the OCD for a while.
Organizing must happen. Sure, my bedroom and TV room are a mess, but it's an organized mess. I know where everything is in my mess. Those supplement bottles are on that specific dresser for a reason! Because! Reason! No, I will not shift them around, they're fine where they are!
So, I made plans to take the bus, or possibly walk the ten minutes, to Wendy's for a Son Of Baconator burger. And then walk back or bus if the weather is decent. Is it sad or weird or good that I think it would be a triumph?
"The cybernetic oracle. The ultimate man-machine hybrid. Programmed with every crime ever recorded and implanted with the brain cells of history's greatest detectives. We call him... Pickles."
"On account of it's like he's floating in a jar?"
"Exactly."
Dear Futurama: Please continue to make me laugh no matter what. I will even forgive you for the episode 'Attack Of The Killer App' if you continue to make me love you.
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