If you leave those crochet washcloths I made a few years ago over the radiator for a few minutes, it can then be used as a short-lived heating pad. I am a brilliant woman. Becoming an engineer…it’s finally sunk in after dating them for years, I guess. The heating pad is because I’ve had insane cramps for days now. It reminds me of being too sore to move back in high school, lying in my loft bed, I Love Lucy on low, changing the shadows with scales of grey.
I remember one night, when Steph and Stuart had spent the night. Stuart was on the floor, and Steph and I in my bed. We sang worship songs.
The first snow of the season has come, and I’ve been watching footprints fill outside my window over the last eight hours. It’s only been a few months, but I’d forgotten how much it sparkles in the light. I can understand why Disneyland uses bubbles; the gleam is almost perfect. The last dog-walker’s imprint is still visable, but the cement has been sifted over with crystals.
I told Steve I’d be up at 10:30am, but then I played Terraria again. And now I’m writing. Mostly I’m writing because I can’t sleep with my leg going numb off and on. It’s making me nuts. Plus, walking around a bit has been helping the cramps. And while I am still bingeing on The Simpsons, that intro song has been haunting my dreams. I may catch the sunrise again…daylight savings out to get me…
A flaw has been found: Matt doesn’t eat raw cookie dough. I’ve decided I’m still gonna let him hang around. I’ve gotten used to him.
My leg keeps going numb and I’m considering amputation. I’m made of pitiful. My ovaries have obviously been concocting some bioterrorist weapon which has been slowly released into my bloodstream over the last three days. I might die. Someone make sure my grandma gets the Dr Seuss painting after I’m gone.
I’m embracing new ideas. New friends are helping me along. I’m kinda proud of myself.
Gangs of New York feels like a good bedtime movie tonight. My body hates me and won’t let me sleep, so I might as well get warm on the couch. Maybe if I smoke, I’ll pass out. Tolerance breaks have been helping, but this is more that I need to forget the pain. It’s unlike kink and cutting-pain only works for me when I can control it. Cramps are not working for me.
New prints have been left in the snow while I was writing. The world goes on around me, passing by me without notice as I do the same to them. When I’m out in the world I hope I’m aware, active, and considerate. While I’m alone at home, especially when working on writing, I am the definition of narcissistic. I think of Mary Oliver’s phrasing:
“It is six A.M., and I am working. I am absent-minded, reckless, heedless of social obligations, etc. It is as it must be…My loyalty is to the inner vision, whenever and howsoever it may arrive. If I have a meeting with you at three o’clock, rejoice if I am late. Rejoice even more if I do not arrive at all.”
I burnt chili yesterday for the first time since I wrote the recipe. I was having trouble walking with the cramps and let it sit too long without stirring. I talked to a gal at Planned Parenthood, and she said cramps may be rougher than normal because of stress.
Matt’s taking me to his office Christmas party. It falls on his birthday. It’s the day after Dan Adams’ birthday.
Gotta try to sleep. It’s almost 5am, and that means Steve is at least expecting me to call in five and a half hours. And I haven’t smashed in a week or more. I really need a car or my own cartridge…I miss Link. I’m sure he misses me, too.