What fresh hell IS this- Oh yeah, its fibro...

I got used to having those really good days. I'd forgotten how good I could feel and shame on me to forget that this disease is a fickle little bitch. I'd like to use another word, but I'm not British and the British use it so much better than I do. I know, I know- a few days ago (a week? I don't even know) I did a post complaining about how fickle this disease is, but I started to feel better and then I forgot again.

We all know a few of the triggers- stress, lack of sleep, physical exertion. I don't think I've been stressed and I know I haven't been physically exerting myself. I also know the weather has been changing like a PMSing fifteen year old (oh, don't get offended. You know damn well a fifteen year old with PMS is a fucking terror). I haven't slept well for a day or so because the dogs kept waking me up. They don't like it when I make duct-tape-muzzles. (OH PLEASE! You know that was a joke too. I'd never duct tape my dogs. That's what zip-ties are for. THAT'S ANOTHER JOKE, I'M ALL-CAPS-ING SO YOU KNOW I'M SERIOUS!).

Lack of sleep has given me the all-over pain. I feel like I've been thrown from my imaginary horse. I'm going to name my imaginary horse... Ol' Number Four. I drew a comic strip in the seventh grade with a talking horse named Ol' Number Four. He was a smart ass and wouldn't stay in his own little panel square. He was also a blue Appaloosa. And by "blue", I mean, actually blue, not the horse-color blue. I used a blue colored pencil. I also drew him in the style of my five year old self. Back then, my horses looked like long-necked dogs in need of orthodontia. 

I've gotten off track, but Ol' Number Four was a racehorse and even though he never stayed in his own panel squares, he won a few races. His jockey's name was Mark Book. Yeah, I was eleven when I started the seventh grade, what do you want? Shakespeare?

Back to the fibrofuckingmyalgia (the actual name for this disease). My all-over aching was killing me yesterday. And I've got this pain in my right thigh muscle that feels like Ol' Number Four kicked me after he threw me off his back. Ungrateful blue spotted horse. And then we have the weather changing. The weather flared up my arthritis- my right hand was in a painful claw, with the hot, sand-grinding pain radiating from my knuckles down my fingers and down to my wrist. Nothing would make that go away.

With that change in weather, we got humidity. And that triggered those thousands of microscopic spiders with the unshaven legs. For those who are just tuning in, I get this under-the-skin itching that feels like thousands of tiny spiders with hairy legs trying to crawl their way out through my pores. And because its under the skin, scratching doesn't help. In fact, it usually hurts because when my skin itches that way, I'm usually also sore and scratching at my skin just makes the muscles ache more.

Two things are happening this week... no wait, there are maybe four things happening. They're not stressful, so just back that truck up- "Oh, Patty, you just said you weren't under stress, but you've got stuff happening..."  Slap that one in reverse.

This weekend, I have the last ren faire of our season. Its a small, two-day faire in Illinois. Ceej is coming home from college to go with me. Monday is my birthday- 42, thank you very much. I'm the answer to life, the universe and everything (NERD!). And on Tuesday, my dear friend, Shawn, will be arriving from Australia. AND the next day, we're going to where Ceej and Kat live to see them, because they live in the same town and go to different colleges. I don't even know how much this will affect me. Effect me? Whichever. But I know that while Shawn is here, he'll want to go to Milwaukee because they have rockin' awesome museums there. Last time he was here (a year and a half ago), I was still four months away from my proper fibro diagnosis and this blog was about my knee scar, Fronkensteen.

I'm pretty sure I'm done bitching for now. My right hand is screaming a symphony and is surprisingly in key with the itching in my arms and legs (its localized there). But, I'm going to leave you with this...

There's a website called Fiverr where people will do a service or give you something or whatever for five bucks. Over on Regretsy-dot-com, a guy named Sam Cornwell was discovered on Fiverr. This was where I first found him: "My Fascination with Fiverr Continues"... it continues, because previously, April discovered Dancing Dror. We broke him. Not on purpose, but with all his orders, he injured himself somehow.

But, it was after I saw this post on Regretsy, that I decided to order myself a Sam Cornwell video for my birthday. I ordered the five-dollar version, which is a handheld camera and not quite so polished-looking. But, what I got instead was fucking art. (I did give him a "tip" for the extra work he did- which you should do even if you get the five-dollar version). I gave him our names (me and the Disabled Guy), told him of my nerd behavior, the disabled guy's NASCAR obsession and that this was for my birthday. The core topic I wanted him to address was the Disabled Guy's insistence that photography is not art. Guess what? Sam Cornwell is a photographer.

Language is not safe for work. But enjoy.