This one's going to be all stream-of-consciousness today, folks, because sometimes I roll like that. You know what I realized the other day? I don't know if people say "roll like that" anymore, and then I saw an ad on television in which they said nobody says "with it" anymore, so I'm just going to keep my mouth shut lest "kickin' it old school" falls out.
I renewed my psych medication prescription yesterday, because the last time I filled it was June 26th, which means that I missed taking it for a total of twenty-one days over the last fifty-two, which might explain some of my weeping fits and dysmorphia and fear that everyone secretly wants me to go away forever. Today is the second day in a row taking it regularly, so I have been smacked with this huge headache and excessive tiredness, but I am determined to do dishes and some laundry anyway, because this apartment is ridiculous.
Does anybody want to return our beer bottles for us? Because otherwise I am just going to leave them next to the dumpster in the alley for the dumpster divers to scavenge.
The most annoying thing right now about recovering from this hysterectomy is the scar inside my bellybutton. Every time I am sitting down in anything with a waistband or all hunched over, I feel like someone is pinching the inside of it with tiny little spider monkey fingers. As a result, I keep sticking my finger in it to get rid of the feeling. I hope this quits soon, because bellybutton obsession might not go over so well at work next week.
I cringed when I heard the word investigational on an ad, but I cringed even more when I looked it up online, because it turned out to be a real word. Recuperation has made me stupid.
Did I say something about laundry and dishes? Because that just sounds like crazy talk now.
EXCEPT THAT IT'S NOT. Sheesh, am I ever a bad influence on myself.