Stormy Night

If you spend your whole life waiting for the storm, you'll never enjoy the sunshine.

Morris West (Australian author)

Most days I feel great and I live in the light of the joy of each day - except when I am momentarily ticked off with something, but that passes quickly.

Right now I am waiting for the storm.  At 0130 on the First of July I am waiting for the rain and the hail and the tempest.  I feel awful.  I am cramping and the spotting has started up again.  I can't sleep.  I don't feel like reading and I even debated opening up a bottle of wine until I remembered I didn't have one around.  That ticked me off even more.

There are too many bugs outside and the neighbours are celebrating somewhat loudly so my sitting on the porch quietly contemplating the cosmos just plain sucked.

I am grumpy and abrupt, thank goodness the house is asleep around me.  The peace I should feel is tinged with resentment.  I want to be asleep like everyone else.  I don't resent them, I am disgruntled with a bodily function.  Not the first time either.

Three weeks, no results.  How long does a uterine biopsy take?  Apparently not the less than two weeks I was given to expect.

And of course I am stewing about several other things too.  When you have a good steam going it's easy to feed it, it draws energy from the very synapses of your ganglia.  It's tough to fight your own brain's ability to sustain itself by making inferences and associations.  Even my own axions are against me tonight.

This will be a mostly pointless ramble, please stop reading.  I am not writing this for you.

Tonight I am being more selfish than usual.  I hope to get this out of my system.  I hope to fool my brain into thinking that all of the clouds have passed through my fingertips onto virtual paper.  This has worked before; I cling to the hope that it will work again.  Perhaps it will truly hinge on the Advil and hot tea, but I believe in playing all my cards when I need to.

Perhaps tonight self indulgent rambling will be my saviour.  I would throw in some sweary words and add a bit more of a diatribe, but I am well aware of how the printed word can come back and bite you in the ass and/or make you look like an ass and/or convince you that you need to be an ass to be interesting.  Since I have not lost all track of my sensibilites (perhaps I have the lack of wine to thank for that)  I think I will leave it to just writing a mundanly penned lament and move on.

So, at 0148 I will assume the ibuprofin has hit the bloodstream and the thunder has rolled away into the night...