Sunday night, to bed early, up late, lots of sleep, a long day at the office, a real blind blizzard of being tired and hunkering down to do what was needed. So I chalked up Monday to bad omens. Monday night though, again, early to bed, up this morning at the usual hour plus maybe ten minutes, a much better day, a feeling, as I was walking home, things were going better. Is this just another repeat of this "recovery" I've experienced so many times now and written about so many times now here in the journal? Who knows? But hey, I know you're just chomping at the bit for an answer.
This, I suppose, is the downside of keeping a journal. Mr. Wilde kept a journal so that he could have something sensational to read on the train. Mr. Wilde lived what would be considered, even today, an unusual existence.
And he could write like a sum'bitch, so it didn't matter.
Well, yes. There's that. I could, of course, skip to the chase, something more personal, something more intimate. Lay out my thoughts as I passed Ms. Come-Hither in the hall this afternoon, thinking to myself I'd get one of those swell Caesar salads for lunch over at the Bagel shop and eat it at my desk, not paying attention, when she grabbed me by the ear and dragged me inside the server lab to help her with her buttons. I could do that. But what would Come-Hither think, reading here, buttons undone, lipstick smeared, hoarse words spoken and now never to be forgotten?
She'd be surprised.
Not as surprised as I.
Surprised that you'd write it or surprised you that you'd lie?
Both. Of course.
That I'm futzing around here half hearted with the photography and the writing and surprised that I'm not even thinking about the Come-Hither's of my world, not even making up improbable stories? I don't know. It's going along, my world. The head has me worried, easy to tell, but it seems to be improving, barely improving. I have no idea what causes your head to go off kilter, that can last for what will soon now be a year.
The jaw operation the culprit? Nerves squashed four years now in April, coming back, feisty? Aliens outside my apartment, hiding in the bushes, beaming up dread Up Side Your Head rays in through my window, eyes, their alien eyes all nasty, like Richard M. Nixon's? The Come-Hither's, who pass so lightly along life's bright sidewalks, touch not, want not and the world starts spinning? So much to think about, so little time.
So artsy. So fartsy.
I joined Costco today. They had a rep at the company selling memberships. I picked up their buy a car through Costco flyer.
And you're going to buy one?
The thought elicited laughter.