Yeah, that's how I'm typing this. I swear to whatever is up there on that cloud in the sky with the remote control (or in the middle of the Earth, flipping switches... OR that big black nothingness... I don't want to leave anyone out) this is getting old. I'm still quite happy that we know I have fibromyalgia, because having that diagnosis is a good thing. That means they can help. Right? RIGHT!?
More bad days than good are happening now. And- I've said this before- I'm not sure if it is a medication failure or if it's just that fucking Spring has sprung and is spewing that special kind of hate all over me. Oh, you have allergies and the pollen makes your eyes swell shut? They have shots for that, goddammit! I take a single pill a day, one a day and I'm fucking fine with my allergies. I'm allergic to cats and dogs, guess what, I own fucking cats and dogs!
Okay, that's not true. My dogs and cats don't fuck each other. Well, sort of. Jasper is a stud dog, but you get what I'm trying to say.
And I don't mean to play down anyone with allergies. I understand what a pain in the ass it is to deal with, especially when you have to, you know, leave the house or breathe. I hear breathing is good. Like I said, I have allergies too.
But here I am, the all-over pain seems to have subsided ever so slightly. But if I bump into something, even slightly or if one of the dogs puts their pointy-pointy paws on me, it fucking hurts. And this fucking pain in my thigh, I'm 'bout ready to smack a bitch. I'm dragging one leg around like I'm fucking Quasimodo and when I reach the stairs, I groan like... well, Quasimodo. Never mind getting my fat ass up the fucking stairs. That's always fun. NOT!! [Patty, the 90s called and they said stop using their stupidity] CALLED MYSELF OUT THERE!
Itching. Itching. ITCHING! THE ITCHING!! IT-CHING!! DID YOU HEAR ME?! THE FUCKING ITCHING! I'm about ready to claw my skin off. But not everywhere, thank fuck. Just off my arms. The rest of my body isn't itching. Just my arms. Great. I use my goddamn arms. A lot. For things. WHAT KINDS OF THINGS ARE NOT YOUR BUSINESS!
And the tired. So much tired. But I cannot nap (not now, it's five-fucking-PM). If I had tried to nap, one of two things would have happened: My nap would have evolved into a restless and fitful extended sleep session and I would be up all night. OR I would have set an alarm to wake me up within an hour or hour and a half and I would have felt worse than when I went to sleep. So yeah... no fucking nap.
There was much discussion about dinner tonight. Barbecue ribs. We're either havin' 'em or we're not, goddammit. On the grill? In the slow-cooker? Fuck you, they're in the slow-cooker. They've been in the slow-cooker since 630 AM. And guess what we're having with those now-super-tender ribs... TOO LATE! We're having mashed potatoes, some kind of vegetable and biscuits.
I'm sitting here, typing this fucking thing. And the disabled guy is in the kitchen, finishing up dinner. I say "finishing up" because I'm the one who did all the rib-work this morning. He got up after his NASCAR race and said, "I better go start dinner."
I said, "Start? Don't you mean "finish"?"
Plus, for some reason, today was the day for "everyone needs a hair thing done"... Disabled Guy had a haircut... the boy had a haircut... the girl needed her hair dyed. (the last one I offered, because fuck it, I was already standing).
But, things aren't all bad- Vicodin time is in an hour, and since I didn't take any at all today (daytime), I can take my maximum dose. And I have a fuzzy Chihuahua laying on my feet. AND, the Disabled Guy is cooking dinner.
And this pain in my fucking thigh can fuck off now. Anytime.
A note to end on, every fucking time I typed "thigh", I typed "thing" first and had to retype it. And with that, I leave you to it. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck! FUCK!