May 21, 2018

i can't word

This post is going to be disjointed, cobbled-together snippets.

The Lamictal is working now ... it's taken full effect, and I can tell, as I mentioned, by the fact that I cannot word.  I can't find names and I forget words I know.  Earlier this morning, I forgot someone's last name less than three seconds after they told me.  I do strange things like walk around holding a bowl I picked up earlier while setting about normal tasks, tidying the kitchen, putting away utensils.  Holding a bowl.  For no reason.

The effect on what must be my language centers is also giving rise to what feels like apathy regarding writing, posting here.  I have nothing to say now.  "My gut tells me it's temporary and is part of the adjustment period, and it will pass," P.J. said.  She said she had absolutely nothing whatsoever to base this on, but that woman's gut feelings are almost always spot-on.  It's kind of eerie.

This isn't emotionally-based silence.  I've leveled out nicely, but I've also been holding on to anger and annoyance.  I've had dizzy spells that weren't related to hydration.  It's an adjustment period.  Always an adjustment period.  I adjust to the things that anger me, decide I don't care about them any more, let them drift away.  Hobbies.  People.  Worldviews.  None of this is good, and it might be based in defense mechanisms.  I hope P.J. is right and they all come back to me, washed back up like flotsam that once was precious cargo.

Here are the things I care about right now:

I think I need to start using "free and clear" detergent because I keep getting a rash on my arm and I think it's coming from my dress sleeves.  I wear fall clothing in the summer because my office is always cold in the mornings.

We helped the kid finish his Julius Caesar Clue game last night.  P.J. added multiple globs of paint to Calpurnia, who proved to not only need nudity masked but was then nipping prominently because she's made of cold metal.  We rendered her bodice as modest as possible, given that this will be presented to a classroom full of ninth graders.  It's going to be touch and go here.  I learned that adhesive spray comes off of vinyl easily, but not hands, and that if you're gluing two bits of card stock back-to-back, you have exactly one chance to get it right because they are forever married and bonded after that point.  That spray shit is good.

I Googled myself this morning and opted my information out of everything that doesn't cost a lot of money to obtain.

We continue to struggle to get Chester to eat.  The chicken tenders are still mildly acceptable, but eggs are off, as are ham, pulled pork, chicken and rice, hot dogs, lunch meat, cheese, and Blueberry Pancake Captain Crunch.  Rose is getting fat off of our attempts.  However, last night we had rib-eye steaks, and we made an extra and cut it up for him, and steak is now his New Favorite Thing.  He even licked P.J.'s fingers afterward.  So now the fastidious little son of a bitch has selected rib-eyes, though we're making another pot of beef stew tonight in the hopes that he'll broaden the category to Beef In General.  We tried that Buddig beef in the little pouch a few days ago, but I doubt that counts as meat from a cow.  He prefers fewer parts per million of rat.  "I'll have the rib-eye, rare, without so much rat in it."

I don't give a shabby leather pouch of desiccated guano about the Royal Wedding.

The kid's dance performances last week have left me with a few earworms, such that I had to go out and find one of them on Spotify and add them to a playlist I named "Mix Tape", which currently has three songs in it.  Worst mix tape ever.  But I'm rocking out to "No Roots" by Alice Merton because the bass is phenomenal.  It almost makes up for three eternities of "Good Morning Baltimore" from Hairspray.  That one was textbook ear rape.  We've ordered the DVD of the performance and I will not tire until I have found software that will allow us to neatly snip that bit out of existence.

I now own a curling iron, a clothes iron, and a heating pad that all heat up in less than a minute.  This pleases me.

That's it.  These are the things on my mind, other than worrying that the muse seems to have gone on extended vacation.  I don't for a moment imagine anyone would be terribly bothered if I stopped writing, but I mind.  I do not like what it would portend.  I've said before that the meds shut down the parts of my brain that want to kill me, and that there is collateral damage that cannot be avoided.  That the meds are now encroaching on whatever parts compel me to write is nothing short of horrifying.

Leave them alone.  That's my china shop.  Please be temporary.  Please take your bull and leave.  You break it, you buy it, motherfucker.

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