I'm dying.
Would you stop that, you are not.
I'm not? dang it. Some days it would be easier to get up and go about my day if I was on hospice and my time was short. Makes the reality that I have years before my time is up a little more palatable.
Depression does that to you. Smothers your brain in a thick layer of soupy goo that slowly submerges you. When you realize you are in over your head and open your mouth to scream for help, it all runs in and drowns you.
My arm is not responding to the treatment. I am frustrated and angry and heading over the panicky-how-the-hell-am-going-to-function-with-one-arm falls.
I have an arsenal of medications to take and right now I am too afraid to take any of them. So I am blogging. Less side effects. I have to go to physical therapy to see if that will help with my arm.
Looks at one of you.
Doesn't this sound like our lives are weirdly syncing up in some bizarre way? cue the twilight zone music.
Anyway, time to haul the horses back in after they bolted out the corral door and settle them down and get back to writing. My arm has healed enough to do that. I can't comb my hair or wipe my arse but I can type.
I have one last night of work and then I will unleashed the kracken and see what lurks in my head after all this car accident stuff.
heh...usually awesomely wicked cool stuff...cause there is something about the night that just amplifies my writing...and the same is true of mental darkness.
Stay tuned.
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