Yesterday we had a lovely afternoon back in the dang emergency room. I ruptured an ovarian cyst and had a pretty unpleasant ultrasound, but I’m mostly feeling better now.
And here I thought I was done with ol’ wandy.
Here’s Carissa, watercolor on 7×10 watercolor paper.
When I woke up this morning I could feel the eyes on my skin, crawling all over me, making sure nothing I did was missed. I don’t like the feeling. I showered as hot as I could stand it to force my body to forget about it, but that didn’t work. I pulled my clothes on my still-damp body and headed for the kitchen for breakfast.
The meatloaf had eyes in it. I decided to pass on breakfast.
I flopped on the couch and dug the remote from under the cushions. I hit he power button and tried to zone out in front of daytime television. It didn’t work. Court shows are only so distracting.
When I signed up to be a guinea pig for this experiment, I didn’t think it through; it just seemed like an easy way to take a year off. I should have read the fine print telling me that I never got a day off.
After nineteen weeks of being watched, I can’t escape it anymore. Cameras and sensors and mics, oh my.
Fiction for Tues Truthiness at TBP
War and Peace rested solidly on her nightstand, glaring blindly, innocuously at her. She felt a twinge of sadness at not having picked it up for weeks, after reading six pages and six pages alone. She reached out a hand and lazily caressed the cover, tracing the letters with her forefinger.
“Soon,” she whispered.
She couldn’t remember when the title had first come to her attention; something about it being an extremely long novel. It seemed like a challenge, meant for her, but it was never a book that crossed her mind at any of the bookstores, never suggested by Amazon when she finished another story on her Kindle.
Then last month it was there, in a place of honor on one of those long tables at a yard sale, waiting patiently for her to show up and bring it home. Waiting for her to lavish hours on the words inside, curled up in her reading chair, toasty warm beneath her reading blanket.
The nurse knocked once before entering the room, pushing the tower of vitals monitoring equipment.
“Honey, you know you have to leave your patches alone if you want to heal up well and be able to read that book. Lie back and let me tape them back, please. We just want you to get better.”
She sighed, and with a last longing glance at War and Peace, lay back and closed her eyes for the nurse.
I’m allergic to many things, among them mold, mildew, pollen, cats, and birds.
The only one to normally bother my eyes is cats, but we learned last night that it’s been a banner month for mold around here with all the flooding. Six times the normal levels, in fact.
This morning Ian brought me two kinds of eye drops at work, which I quickly dripped in. Who cares if someone walking by wants to complain that they think I’m doing drugs? My poor, poofy, watery eyes needed some relief. I got some, I took a nap this evening, and that probably wasn’t the best thing to do, because now they’re scratchy again.
I feel like I have been rubbing our friend’s cat, Jack, all up in my face. I’m really allergic to poor Jack.
Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.
Do you know how hard it is for a makeup junkie to not wear eyeliner?