One of the things I hate about this stupid disease

Things are going along swimmingly, I suppose. I'm lucky enough to have gotten that elusive diagnosis which means I'm getting treated for it, and right now, that treatment is working. I am having many good days in a row, which is nice. But the one thing I hate about this...

How fickle is this stupid disease? I mean, why can I be perfectly fine one day- so fine that I can literally stand for hours and even run the length of the Bristol tilt yard and only be a little bit out of breath. And the next day, I'm so sore that I can barely get out of bed?

Okay, so there is the whole point of "well, dumbass, you just said you ran the day before..." I suppose that's true. But what about days like today? I didn't do a damn thing yesterday aside from my usual wandering around inside my house and out onto the back deck with the dogs. And today, I'm so bloody exhausted I can barely stand up. And I ache. Every muscle is hot and angry. I feel as though yesterday was a day at the faire, except I'm not still smiling about having a good time like I did on those Mondays and Tuesdays following a faire day.

This is one of the things I hate about it. Feeling good for a few days and then having the next day slam into me like a folding chair thrown by an oiled-up,  overly-steroided-up guy in tights. And this whole thing seems to hit  on days when I have to get up and leave the house. You see, that's what this blog post really is- a procrastination device. If I stay here and write this blog, I don't have to go to the store. Except that I need to go to the store and I will have to anyway when I'm done with this. But, as long as I keep typing, I can stay seated in this chair with the ridiculous wheels on the bottom and rest my wrists on this little neoprene pad with seemingly 3D water droplets on it. And when the disabled guy comes down and says, "I thought you were going to the store" I can say, "I had to write this blog first." And then he'd ask: "It isn't a blog about me, is it?" and I would say, "No, this one is about fibrofuckingmyalgia" and the problem there is that now it is kind of about him, because I just mentioned him.

I'm fully dressed, by the way. I managed to get my jeans on, my shirt, my not-shiny-anymore red Docs. But still, I'm here. Typing and typing. Things ache and I'm hungry. You shouldn't go to the store while you're hungry, but I'm going to anyway. Plus, I keep stopping while typing to look over my shoulder at the TV. There's a marathon of "NCIS" on USA right now. I'm not a huge fan or anything, but you know, it isn't a bad show- as far as these silly shows go.

I don't think I can drag this out much longer. There's a double-edged sword when it comes to fibrofuckingmyalgia. When you're this physically and mentally tired, you need caffeine to get through it. But the caffeine- if you drink too much of it- can exacerbate the fibrofuckingmyalgia symptoms. Is that even a "double-edged sword"? Did I mix up my metaphors? Is that a metaphor? When did this become a grammar lesson? Is this a grammar lesson?

No, this is just a really bad excuse to keep from dragging my significant ass to the store. Although, that ass is less significant than it was before. Seven percent less significant.

Oh, look at that... this suddenly became a bragging blog. And because of that- look what I made yesterday in Photoshop with a photo I took- also yesterday.



Neat, huh? My photo, someone else's quote. I sent her the high-res version so she can get it printed however big she wants it for the school where she works as a librarian.

But yeah, I really hate this fickle stupid disease.