There has been no chocolate consumption for four days. I cannot taste anything. I eat far too much chinese soup from around the corner. It's hot and salty. I can feel the salt, slowly sucking me dry. But I can't taste it.
I've cried twice today. Boy pug decided to pee on my lavender down blanket. And the sofa cushion. Right in front of me. From the computer I see a furry foot up in the air. I yell. He runs and crams his bum under my bed. He can't understand why Girl pug can wee in the house, yet he can't. I gather up the blanket and my mildewed work shirts and head down three flights of steps. I can hear my lungs on the way back up. Not my breathing..my lungs. My nose was whistling earlier this week. Now my chest is musical as well.
Girl pug wees on a green chenille throw on my armchair. This is my second cry. I'm achingly exhausted. The weekend has been spent hovering over Girl pug, doling out antibiotics, changing wee wee pads, carrying her up and down three flights of steps carefully, afraid my torn muscle will rebel. I have slept only four hours at a stretch. I am out of Tide. I am out of quarters. The wee throw will have to be dealt with at another time.
I should have some tea. My good friend indulges in this daily. Tea is a ritual for her. I think her daily cups calm her, center her in preparation for, or in response to, her day. I can't drink hot beverages. I stand shivering at the bus stop nightly, nursing a Frappucino before work. The baristas been warned even in the dead of winter I will be getting frappucinos, and not to push Spiced Pumpkin Lattes or the like on me.
Tonight will be a night of naps and showers, as I try and make it until 4 am for work tomorrow. Another good friend has started making herbal soaps, and I am an eager lab rodent. Cleary Sage soaps, Pear/Ginger shampoo bars, and soon French Green Clay soaps have been cluttering my bathtub rim. I don't like using them after work. They seem far to precious to waste on flour and sweat, and are relegated to my morning (evening) showers.
Oh, and I have come to the conclusion they are now making up the plot to Days of Our Lives as they go along. This is to ridiculous for even ME to handle. I'm expecting Stefano's stuffed, taxidermied corpse to be in that armchair.
There has been no chocolate consumption for four days. I cannot taste anything. I eat far too much chinese soup from around the corner. It's hot and salty. I can feel the salt, slowly sucking me dry. But I can't taste it.
I've cried twice today. Boy pug decided to pee on my lavender down blanket. And the sofa cushion. Right in front of me. From the computer I see a furry foot up in the air. I yell. He runs and crams his bum under my bed. He can't understand why Girl pug can wee in the house, yet he can't. I gather up the blanket and my mildewed work shirts and head down three flights of steps. I can hear my lungs on the way back up. Not my breathing..my lungs. My nose was whistling earlier this week. Now my chest is musical as well.
Girl pug wees on a green chenille throw on my armchair. This is my second cry. I'm achingly exhausted. The weekend has been spent hovering over Girl pug, doling out antibiotics, changing wee wee pads, carrying her up and down three flights of steps carefully, afraid my torn muscle will rebel. I have slept only four hours at a stretch. I am out of Tide. I am out of quarters. The wee throw will have to be dealt with at another time.
I should have some tea. My good friend indulges in this daily. Tea is a ritual for her. I think her daily cups calm her, center her in preparation for, or in response to, her day. I can't drink hot beverages. I stand shivering at the bus stop nightly, nursing a Frappucino before work. The baristas been warned even in the dead of winter I will be getting frappucinos, and not to push Spiced Pumpkin Lattes or the like on me.
Tonight will be a night of naps and showers, as I try and make it until 4 am for work tomorrow. Another good friend has started making herbal soaps, and I am an eager lab rodent. Cleary Sage soaps, Pear/Ginger shampoo bars, and soon French Green Clay soaps have been cluttering my bathtub rim. I don't like using them after work. They seem far to precious to waste on flour and sweat, and are relegated to my morning (evening) showers.
Oh, and I have come to the conclusion they are now making up the plot to Days of Our Lives as they go along. This is to ridiculous for even ME to handle. I'm expecting Stefano's stuffed, taxidermied corpse to be in that armchair.