#276: ON THE MEND AND MISCELLANY AND SZYMBORSKA

On the Seventh Day of Illness, I slept. On the eighth day, I arose, and, lo, I was refreshed.

I have been feeling so craptastic lately, that despite my sinuses and headache and cough and red eyes, just having enough energy to make it past lunch at work today feels fantastic. I can breathe better than I have been, and although my lungs are nowhere near what they were before the virus hit, I am now experiencing an oxygen high. There is a clarity, a sharpness, to my thoughts and experiences today that was dearly missed during my sinus pressure-induced stupor of the last week.

The first thing I noticed this morning when I woke up was that the water did not hurt my skin when I took a shower this morning. Showers have been painful this week. No matter how low the pressure was set, the individual streams of water felt like pins needling my sensitive skin. Teeth gritted against the inevitable, I would sit on the bathtub floor, set the shower head to dribble, and soap as few areas as possible so as to avoid setting off more nerves than necessary. This morning, the water felt hot and good spreading itself across and down my tense back, working to unknot muscles that had become used to bracing themselves against repeated coughing.

In short, I'm feeling much better, I'm on the mend, my chickens are hatching.

On top of feeling a hell of a lot better this morning, I stopped off at a local convenience store before catching my bus to work this morning so I could pick up some cigarettes. (Naughty, naughty, I know, but my two- to five-a-day habit is not so heinous. I checked my longevity online, and according to the test, I will live to 83 despite the fact that I smoke, in part, because I don't drive a car. So if any of you tsk-tskers out there are drivers, screw you if you're thinking of sending me any advice about quitting smoking. CARS KILL). I asked the man behind the counter for my brand, which they can never find properly because the name and kind requires a whole paragraph of speaking. After a couple of minutes, he found them. He was just about to hand them over when he looked at me suspiciously, squinted one eye, and stated, I'll need to see some ID, ma'am. YES. YES YES YES. YESYESYESYESYESYESYESSSSS. I asked him, Are you serious? Yup, he replied. This is ridiculous, but I love you, I told him as I handed over my driver's license. He spent a few seconds looking back and forth from my license to me before saying, Seriously. 1972? I grinned, Oh yeah.

Seriously, how cool is that? I was ID'd this morning for cigarettes at the ripe old age of thirty-two years, 107 days. So, not only am I healthier, but I'm youthful, too.


I urge you to go and read Politiko's latest entry. Then I urge you to call your mom and talk about big purple dildos.

How long will you live?

Remember Lite-Brite?


I never follow these, but I did it and thought what I found was quite funny. Here is a book meme I found via Keri Smith:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.

Here's what I found. My quote is from Ted Hughes: Poems Selected by Simon Armitage:

I did not like it.


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"Under One Small Star" by Wislawa Szymborska

Szymborska's Nobel lecture

Elan MorganComment