As of this morning, I’m on two new medications.
The first warns that I might begin to believe that others can hear my thoughts or (… and I’ll admit, the “or” is a bit worrying; surely one would hope for an “and,” at least) control my actions.
The second advises me to seek medical attention should my skin turn blue or purple.
…
This is no—absolutely no—excuse for the relative lack of amusement provided by today.
(given that I just spent today lounging around my house, I’m a bit disappointed to have missed a trick re: my actions being controlled by the cats. I mean, I’d have loved to get off the couch, but they truly are relentless puppeteers.)
Today’s edition of Things I Bought For Work That Look Like Sex Toys.
(though honestly, I haven’t the slightest idea what sort of shenanigans this might be used for, which seems to just make it sketchier.)
You know, bodies are amazing, not least in their various types of weirdness.
That being said, I’d really just like all my bits to stay attached in the way they’re supposed to. This doesn’t seem like an unreasonable thing to ask.
Or, to put it another way: I am doing a really terrible job catching up on emails, but I’m trying, and ugh, sorry.
FINALLY. I can’t believe it took this long for someone to adapt this into a board game. I mean, it’s almost like that’s what it’s made for, isn’t it?
When did I lose the ability to just admit to liking something?
I’m sending a package to a friend, and trying to make myself include a copy of a poem that a recent conversation brought to mind. And yes, it’s personal - these things always are, aren’t they? - and one of Those Poems that just came to me at the right time and changed my fucking life. Which isn’t even why I’m sending it.
I just think that what it said to me is something that my friend could really stand to hear right now, and… what, precisely, is the problem with sharing that?
None. There isn’t a problem. But.
I don’t care if he knows that I first read it at age fourteen when we’re both, er, a bit past that now; I don’t care if he knows that I didn’t really get it until quite a bit after that; I don’t care if he knows that I’m aware of the bit in the middle with cringe-inducingly trite imagery. I really don’t. We’re friends, ffs, I don’t have to justify or defend my taste or the things that are important to me.
And yet.
I’m apparently so embarrassed by having earnestly connected with something that I can’t just stick a book in an envelope with a note that says “Here, I think you should read this” without feeling compelled to follow that up with some sort of ridiculous disclaimer.
I had a great time - it was a really fun conference, and I got to spend time with some lovely people - but I’m massively behind on all the internet things and it might take me a few days to catch up. (Email responses? What email responses?) I never expect to go as completely offline as I do when I travel.
Oh, blah, and. After I got in last night I had a bright idea which resulted in some very minor self-breakage, because of course I did. It’s totally fine, but I’m going to go ahead and indulge in some painkillers today anyway, seeing as the nice doctor lady was kind enough to call in a fresh prescription. I should probably see someone about convincing my damn shoulder to stay in its socket with a bit more consistency. Um.
Anyway. Yes. Post-trip tiredness + painkillers means I’m probably still offline for a day or so, or possibly engaging in fuzzy-headed shenanigans if I get too bored to remember what a bad idea that is, but I am a) alive, and b) going to get caught up ASAP.
