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I feel like I've been out sick a lot lately, and yet, I also feel like I haven't been home in months.
These sorts of feelings come with the territory when you are as terminally away-with-the-fairies as I am. (Someone recently did not know what the phrase "away with the fairies" meant, and I was slightly at a loss to explain it-- isn't it self-explanatory? The only source I've found on the Internet to back me up is this one, which still doesn't seem to quite convey exactly what I think it means. I don't think, in my case, it's quite so much that I have unrealistic expectations of life, as much as that I often forget completely that I am meant to have any expectations of life, in that I often sort of forget about life because I'm too busy thinking about the shiny. Whatever "the shiny" happens to be at that point. It's not ADD, I can focus quite intently thank you, I just tend not to think of things like, say, where my next meal is coming from, so much as I think about things like, say, the precise manner in which a particular barbarian chieftain would hold his fork during a discussion about his mother over breakfast. Completely immaterial is the fact that said chieftain is a fictional character that I just made up who doesn't in fact have a mother or a fork.)
So this morning my skin kind of hurt and my chest had moved from oddly tight to full of goo. All my joints ached and my thigh muscles hurt for no reason. My head hurt and I looked out the window at the snow falling and covering the car, and thought about how cold that air would feel on my skin-that-hurts. I couldn't face it, and called in sick.
I then spent an hour and a half half-awake and slightly delirious, giving in more than usual to my tendency to make no sense whatsoever. Z made coffee and sat with me for a little while, and I petted the cat and composed an essay about activated carbon, and thought rather hard about soup and family dynamics.
Quite suddenly at 9:30 I sat up and felt much better. Perhaps I had a low fever which broke? I don't know, as I haven't a thermometer. Z was just leaving, and I wished him a good day. I have now polished the essay on activated carbon and sent it to my sales manager, as it is precisely what I have been struggling over writing all week.
I am about to attempt a second draft.
I don't hurt now.
But I still don't quite have a grasp on the basics of things like, the passage of time... I'm not really well. But I'm at least not in any discomfort.
Somehow I stumbled across this site, discussing a series of books about a 1920s-era heiress who flies planes and shoots people, and I suddenly want quite badly to read it. Has anyone read it and is it any good?
These sorts of feelings come with the territory when you are as terminally away-with-the-fairies as I am. (Someone recently did not know what the phrase "away with the fairies" meant, and I was slightly at a loss to explain it-- isn't it self-explanatory? The only source I've found on the Internet to back me up is this one, which still doesn't seem to quite convey exactly what I think it means. I don't think, in my case, it's quite so much that I have unrealistic expectations of life, as much as that I often forget completely that I am meant to have any expectations of life, in that I often sort of forget about life because I'm too busy thinking about the shiny. Whatever "the shiny" happens to be at that point. It's not ADD, I can focus quite intently thank you, I just tend not to think of things like, say, where my next meal is coming from, so much as I think about things like, say, the precise manner in which a particular barbarian chieftain would hold his fork during a discussion about his mother over breakfast. Completely immaterial is the fact that said chieftain is a fictional character that I just made up who doesn't in fact have a mother or a fork.)
So this morning my skin kind of hurt and my chest had moved from oddly tight to full of goo. All my joints ached and my thigh muscles hurt for no reason. My head hurt and I looked out the window at the snow falling and covering the car, and thought about how cold that air would feel on my skin-that-hurts. I couldn't face it, and called in sick.
I then spent an hour and a half half-awake and slightly delirious, giving in more than usual to my tendency to make no sense whatsoever. Z made coffee and sat with me for a little while, and I petted the cat and composed an essay about activated carbon, and thought rather hard about soup and family dynamics.
Quite suddenly at 9:30 I sat up and felt much better. Perhaps I had a low fever which broke? I don't know, as I haven't a thermometer. Z was just leaving, and I wished him a good day. I have now polished the essay on activated carbon and sent it to my sales manager, as it is precisely what I have been struggling over writing all week.
I am about to attempt a second draft.
I don't hurt now.
But I still don't quite have a grasp on the basics of things like, the passage of time... I'm not really well. But I'm at least not in any discomfort.
Somehow I stumbled across this site, discussing a series of books about a 1920s-era heiress who flies planes and shoots people, and I suddenly want quite badly to read it. Has anyone read it and is it any good?
