Today was a sick day. I spent the entire day reclining in bed in order to avoid the painful task of holding up my own head.
A day like this drives me nuts. When I cannot stay awake long enough to write a cohesive thought, let alone keep both eyes focused and staring in the same direction for more than five or ten minutes, I become irrationally depressed. I am a compulsive creator. At any given point when I am not at my full-time job, I am likely involved in the act of creation. I am writing a poem/weblog entry/whatnot, knitting a scarf/armwarmers (my knitting repertoire is presently limited), taking photographs, building a desk, designing a website, etcetera. If I am not giving at least partial attention to a creative project, I feel useless.
In brief, I continually seek out creative opportunity in order to stave off feelings of failure and to use every second my short life has to offer before the finality of death.
No! It's my sunny and hopeful disposition!
No, I'm kidding. It is my overwhelming anxiety about my own mortality.
Things were becoming dire when I told the cats that I was going to change my whole life and run away and become a beat-boxing carny, and I was going to quit my job and knit appliance cozies for a living, and I was going to lose my motherf-ing mind if I did not create the beginnings of a zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I found that if I took a short nap, I could sit upright for a good fifteen minutes before the pain began to draw down from my face into my shoulder blades, so I put my little Olympus Stylus 790 SW camera beside my bed, slept for a while, and when I woke up, voilà! The afternoon sun was bright, which was perfect for picture-taking from a sickbed.
The photograph above is of the tangerine-coloured duvet cover we bought off a sale table. I had been eying it for two weeks, thinking that it would definitely be gone before I could buy it, but nope. Strangely, most people do not have tangerine-friendly bedroom colour schemes. Or rather, other people often have colour schemes they adhere to, and I tend to just buy things that grab my attention, which explains the deep fuchsia cover I have on our aqua couch.
Oskar tried to act like HIS windowsill was HIS and HIS alone, but he is literally only half the size of his fellow apartment cat, who thinks that everything Oskar does is solid gold.
The cats, Oskar in black and Onion in frankenkitty, spent two hours glued to the windowsill after
Onion has this thing he does where he spasms his lower jaw up and down while he twitches his whiskers and makes this sound that goes something like ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack. I know that it means he would rend the head from that little robin hopping on the lawn, but it makes me happy nonetheless.
And then, because I thought I could handle standing up to take a few close-up shots, I went back to bed and promptly fell over. For reals, I fell over, or at least I assume that I fell over, because shortly after I took these pictures, I lost consciousness and woke up drooling with my face mashed into the Palinode's side of the bed. Luckily, none of my drool got onto our new tangerine duvet cover, because it was kind of crusty in the way that only a dehydrated, semi-invalid's drool could be.