On one level, oh Sweet Lord, I want a shower. To this there are challenges and warnings, but I have faith in Saran Wrap, paper tape, a portable shower head, and a growing "who cares" attitude that is building up a head of steam. The lower part of the incision is doing its gravitational obéissance and leaking, and then there is the whole no shoulder thing.
On another level, but really pretty perpendicular, or lateral, or... the same, I need to figure a way to stop this eating in my sleep business. Waking with a spoon laden with Carbsense Peach yogurt kind of latched onto your pajama top is... well, hell, we've reached the point of BORING. No marinara sauce, no sushi, no chocolate oatmeal (my *waking* favorite meal of the moment). Just weirdly gelled and separated Carbsense Peach yogurt, neatly spooned, and attached mid-boobies.
Other messes are harder. Like, if I keep giving away all my love and possessions, do I have to fit the suicidal paradigm?
If Fred actually helps me with the budget for 2012, and yes, I DO know that it's essentially JULY, does that mean anything? And if he doesn't, and I stick to my threatened ultimatum of arbitrarily assigning weighted financial responsibilities according to my guilt-driven whims, does he really hate me that much?
If Marmy doesn't overcome her resentment of my treatment of her herpes infected eyeballs, I may just melt into nothingness. She wants me; I want her -- yet all we can accomplish are mutual sexy eye winks and finger-nose kisses. She has this thing where she loves no one but the boy cats from around 5 AM to noon, when serious sleeping commences for her, them, and most of the inhabitants of Marlinspike Hall, the Haddock family's ancestral home. If you've not heard of the Haddocks and cannot locate Tête de Hergé on MapQuest, don't feel bad -- the world is getting bigger every day, and we're just in another part of it.
Anyway, Marmy Fluffy Butt *will* socialize with humans after 5 PM, but only in one room, and only when she is standing on the floor, ready and able to make a run for it. Around 10 PM, she's a delightfully uncomplicated creature, who will do the flop and let you play with her warm belly. Anyone at all can pick her up, love on her, be utterly silly with her and have her trill-and-twirl her way right into their hearts... except for moi. I get a clear hiss and a glimpse, plus a whiff, of the tartar and tooth decay we have to highjack her to the vet for next.
She's no fool. She's seen three of her dearest friends go off to the vet and not return. So when I bring my supplies to treat her funky eye, and those supplies still smell of vet smells, I am not to be trusted.
Dobby is still with me, though he grieves. I am crying too much, too much the fool, and losing my focus. The focus should be Dobby's derrière, it's need for a light and deft whacking. Every encounter requires a few minutes of brushing, as well. Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten has no messes (beyond hairballs -- he's a Maine Coon who abhors being brushed) except for a small daily requirement of pounds and pounds of bonito flakes.
Messes? I guess not, not really. These probably fit the bill better:
Why turn the page of a mediocre novel?
Who cares if you need more pain medication?
Thanking a person is nothing. Showing by some sort of doing, that's the ticket. But how do you get out of the crap of this tit-for-tat nonsense? How are you, you, trapped in that tit-tat nonsense more than anyone, not hurt when there's no light in the eye, back? There's no spark of memory, recognition, nothing?
What's the answer to "How are you able to sustain such good spirits?"
I've had a strong and very compelling urge to drink -- single malt whiskey only. Sudden, strong, compelling, and always ignored. I don't drink.
I have a mess with the IRS, or will, if I don't file soon. See, I don't *need* to file... don't owe, nothing of that sort. But I have crap to report and haven't taken the blessed 5 minutes to do it.
The surgery I need on my eyes, that I've just been putting off until the Shoulder Saga ended, hahahahahaha, has become messy because Propionibacterium acnes is one of the more horrid complications. When I see the good eye doctor again, she will likely laugh at this mess I've built in my mind from reading the silly interwebs.
I am switching from the very small amount of methadone that I was on (15 mg/day) to fentanyl patches. But I forgot about tapering down the methadone and just switched. I cannot count the number of eyes that I've watched roll and loop-the-loop when I launch into "My Mess" speech after hearing that.
Am I a lumbering pharmaceutical? Am I my WBC count, my sed rate, my CRP?
There is no one to whom I want to give the beautiful gold jade-y and celadon-y green red ruby earrings that R brought me from Iran. What a pisser of a reason to have to stay alive, that I don't wear gold. I wear silver. That doesn't impact on the giving-them-away part of things, except to say that figuring their weight in love is complicated by lack of use. And thus, I am saved, left to my messes.*