Well here I am again, lost in the jungle of my thoughts. It seems that I have too much time to think on my hands, and alas, think and think I do. Think of life, think of boredom, think of illness, think of unreachable freedom, and as always the person who has not called.
This weekend marks weekend number 2 (or is it now 3…?) of my Sex and the City marathon. It also marks the end of Levaquin (yay!), and the full beginning of Sporonox, aka potential-liver-damaging drug. So it sucks…not that I ever had any intention of spending my time in perpetual alcoholic euphoria or anything, but now I feel like since my liver is under siege by some antibiotic bastard, I can’t lighten up and have a drink with the girls once their exams are done.
All avenues of fun are unreachable – I am divided by the Moat of Illness. I’m on one side (the outside) and fun and friends and living like a 23 year old is on the other side where the castle is (can you tell I’ve been reading too much historical fiction? Can you also tell that I clearly have too much time on my hands to think this in depth? Sadness, I tell ya).
I guess it can be established that I hate thinking. I officially hate my brain for making me venture into corners of my self that I’d rather not have to deal with, think of, or listen to. Doubt plagues me. Why am I doubting? For no reason, I’m doing it for something to do, and trust me I’m doing a great job because I feel like shit about myself.
I hate thinking. I hate thoughts. I hate that as a woman, I am not a simple minded creature; I hate that I know I am creating problems in my head that don’t have to be there – because they don’t exist!
I hate that I’m even writing this. But hey, as long as we’re honest….1,2,3 it’s me.