Of Twos and Tacos

13,388 Days Alive

2.5 Hours of Sleep

1 Malfunctioning Body

Today is the twenty-second day of the second month in the year 2022. 22/2/22 if you’re using the non-American date order. Pretty groovy numerological thingie or something.

Look, most days I consider myself lucky I remember my Zodiac sign. I don’t know the order of the other nine, but I know Gemini and Leo, as they are the signs directly preceding and after my birth sign.

I’m yammering. Oh well. You’re along for the ride, aren’t you, reader?

I wish I was more positive. I wish I wasn’t often perceived as a fucking “fibro warrior” that strives to keep a positive outlook. I have coworkers asking me “who died?” because I’m not my “normal” cheerful self.

Sorry, Livia from accounting, if you ask me how I’m doing and want a more detailed answer than “alive”, you’ve got disappointment headed your way.

Sorry Kevin in IT, I didn’t mean to tear up, half-crying in frustration, when the system went down.

Sorry, team members, I’m having trouble completing my workload because it never ends and I feel like bloody Sisyphus (spellings vary but this is the one I know).

I’ve barely been able to sleep in days from pain. I even took some leftover tramadol I had to try and get some sleep last night. I got about two and a half hours from it.

I miss my heated blanket. I have a heating pad. But it isn’t the same by a long stretch. The heated blanket, on low or medium, was the perfect warmth to ease my muscle aches without having to resort to the Awful Smelly Stuff. Aka Tiger Balm and Biofreeze.

Anyway, my mental health is in the dumps because my stupid meat suit is throwing a bitch fit.

I think I’m going to try and go swimming this weekend. Or something.

I’m going to bed. Perchance to dream, as one might say.

Take your meds, folks.