No, I Shouldn’t be Home at All

I should be at the Cas­tle, painting.

The damned ankle thing has trig­gered a flare. I was real­ly, real­ly try­ing to get through this move with­out one. Dammit.

I was­n’t able to get to sleep last night because I was hurt­ing and had­n’t real­ly eat­en enough. (Note to self: the sleepy meds WILL NOT WORK unless tak­en with some sig­nif­i­cant amount of food. Appar­ent­ly, a piece of toast does­n’t count.)

I did­n’t real­ly get to sleep until after Sam made me eat some scram­bled eggs this morn­ing. Then I had a few hours of that weird, half-in-half-out REM sleep that results in vivid, dis­ori­ent­ing dreams.

Lat­est stu­pid body trick: I can nib­ble crack­ers con­stant­ly, or eat some­thing more sub­stan­tial about every two hours—or deal with nausea/reflux/general nas­ti­ness. Great. 

Relat­ed to absolute­ly noth­ing, I nev­er thought I’d say it, but I want more user pics. I am slid­ing into shal­low­ness. Eeek!

Cyn is Rick's wife, Katie's Mom, and Esther & Oliver's Mémé. She's also a professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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