I'd wondered where you'd gone...
Not really. I didn't miss you at all.
I knew where you were.
I knew that you'd be back and you'd be an inconvenience.
Inconvenience. As if you were an idiot driver in my morning commute.
As if I have a morning commute.
I suppose you could call that walk from my bedroom to the computer desk in the dining room a commute. I have to navigate it in the dark and watch for obstacles in the form of several Chihuahuas and one large German Shepherd.
I didn't miss you.
I knew that you were gone merely because of the stress I was under. I've been on the edge of tears and walking the line of anger versus frustration for weeks now. I knew that was what was keeping you away.
As if you could be "kept away".
You didn't have to come back today. I have too much to do and I really wanted to do it without taking pain meds.
I have to bake some pies.
I have to meet up with the brother because for some insane reason, he's decided that he should be involved in things. And it isn't even like he's been involved in things. Like, ever. And I don't need to justify his actions with "oh, he feels guilty" because I don't goddamn care how he feels.
As I type this, the Vicodin has mixed with the muscle relaxers that I take on an empty stomach at 530 AM. The intense pain I woke up with has taken a few steps back from the "unbearable and tear-inducing" to "tolerable but I will cut you, bitch" levels.
As if pain meds actually do anything beyond taking the edge off the pain.
Well, here we are... 619 AM as I type this sentence. You're bubbling just under the surface. I knew it was going to happen because last night when I finally went to bed, I had trouble falling to sleep. Not from pain- because, fuck you, pain- but from that itchy thing. The millions of hairy-legged spiders that have been dormant for a few weeks awoke with their own version of hairy-legged Spider Restless Leg Syndrome.
I like how I act like I can control you.
Hot spots- my left wrist. My left foot.
I wonder if I can win an Oscar for that... he won an Oscar, right?
If you don't know what I'm talking about, then ouch.... you're younger than I thought.
After having to deal with the brother, I'm going to come home- wait, that's not true. I'm going to get my dad's mail at the post office, water the plants in his condo, then I'm going to come home. I'm going to bake pies and listen to "An Evening with Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer" (its over five hours long and I'm listening to part of it now) and I'm going to hang up the art prints I got at Teslacon.
And to get through it, I will take more Vicodin.
Like Vicodin actually helps.
It won't kill the pain, but it makes it bearable.
If I see one of those "chronic widespread pain" commercials, I will cut a bitch.
Like I could cut a human with these sore, weak-as-fuck hands.
I just had to Google a fibro commercial because I couldn't remember the drug. Lyrica. And the first line was: "I had chronic, widespread pain for months. It wouldn't go away. The doctor diagnosed me with fibromyalgia..."
Nice one, Lyrica. I really needed that laugh today.
Good morning, Full-blown Fibrofuckingmyalgia Flareup.
Go to Hell.