Future Will Bring
It's been Sunday now for at least the last three days, the fleeting thought I'd have to go to work tomorrow followed by the realization it's Thursday or Friday or today; so I relax, put my feet up on the bed or a chair and pop another pill. I'm clear headed, have good energy, the sleepiness is improving (it should, you pig, after all that time in the sack), the swelling is slowly receding, the soreness is going (I think) and it's Saturday, one more day to recover before returning to work.
I take it you're not going over to Wondercon in San Francisco to say hello to Lorraine and Wilson?
Not like this.
Later. Just before five, back from walking (slowly) down to my breakfast cafe (I drove over this morning) to find I was too late for lunch. I'd taken a full dose of Vicodin around ten, since the soreness was pretty strong, and wondered if it might wear off and the soreness kick in even worse in the middle of my trip, so I put a backup dose in my t-shirt pocket just in case. I am now back and I feel good, the soreness much reduced and the pills in the t-shirt unused. One of life's hints you're making progress with your disease.
The spoken, the unspoken; the physical, the mental; the real, the imagined: who knows which on this first day of May approaching spring? Let's just say it's been a good day and I'm going to have a drink, the first since last weekend. Let's just see, whatever malady may be leaving, what the future will bring.
By the way, this is May Day, is it not? It was a day of celebration before the filthy Communists stole it from us, but since the Communists have been replaced by Terrorists, maybe we can steal it back. Run around a Maypole stark naked in the afternoon drinking Ouzo and Cerveza Select (a tip of the hat to the coming celebration of the 5th) shouting to the goddess and cutting up?
What? Well, this is California. It isn't just hot tubs and peacock feathers in the suburbs around here, you know, but serious transcendental shit: dancing in the sunlight with ribbons in hand to welcome in the spring would fit right in. I degenerate to babble when all I've got left to run is a picture of Emmy cat at the top of the page and the whiskey is kicking in.