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Thursday, August 14, 2003

The Dance Club Upstairs.

There were 87 Advil in the bottle now there's 30 left
I ate 47 so what happened to the other 10?
Why do you suspiciously change the subject and break my concentration
As I dump the bottle out and I count the Advil up again?
—They Might Be Giants, "Till My Head Falls Off"

It's one of those weeks where I'm washing down Advil with my cup of coffee. Last night I considered washing some down with a second glass of wine; decided that was counterproductive. I try not to take painkiller drugs if I can avoid it; I don't have headaches enough to make a habit out of it, anyway, but you know how I needlessly worry about these things.

Sometimes I try visualizing the pain away; concentrating, imagining that I am just a rose with dirty water on top of me, and a gentle rain comes to wash away the pain. That does work, occasionally. Other times, I just can't stop visualizing being made into perfume, which frankly isn't very comforting.

And then there are the days when my thoughts on rosebuds stray a little, um, lower. Which is another matter entirely. No jewelry for me, thanks; I've got a headache.

11:08 AM PST (link)