I hate August.
Not that the month itself is bad, but the month itself makes me feel bad.
I am hot, in the bad way. Hush.
We are still a one-vehicle family. Sweetie passed on the Mercedes I wrote about, although now he has his eye on a larger and newer and cheaper one. The truck has been in the shade tree shop for about 2 months, getting its cracked manifold thing uncracked.
Even if I am agoraphobic and misanthropic, I like having at least the option of leaving the house after 2 pm.
My sacroiliac is still out of whack and the doctor medz make me woozy. It hurts to sit in my knitting chair. So I'm not even knitting. It hurts to bend or twist or reach. Sometimes it hurts to stand up or lay down. This happened to me several years ago, this sudden back outage. After about six weeks, the condition somehow righted itself. It's all about the waiting.
There are still four baby angoras and the two wildies in the house. Pooping everywhere. I just got out the lightweight vac to clean up, and did two rooms until the back told me to quit, already. Fuck.
Good Things.
Watched the movie Harold and Kumar in Guantonimo. I have to agree with what the New Yorker reviewer said, which was something like - The movie is totally sophmoric and stupid, yet innocent and likable. And funny. "Doogie Houser," aka Neal Patrick Harris, makes a return appearance at the most improbable moment.
Susan thinks that Fuzzarelly Fibers are Good Enough to Sell in her shop and on her website. She's the kick in the seat that I need to get back in the studio. Once the back rights itself, of course.
I have this little imaginary box in my brainsoul that I take out when I am feeling particularly miserable. Like now. Inside this box are memories of the awful things that people have said or done to me. Long ago hurts and slights. Engraved images of car wrecks, injured animals, angry faces. My own Little Box of Pain. I've been toying with this little box lately, peeking inside to see if the world still hates me.
It does.
But, cooler and pain free times are ahead and I can merely wait for them. In the end, I am an optimist and a survivor.
