Are Killing Me
Wednesday. I spent yesterday in bed with my feet up, arriving pretty much on time at the Jack London Square Amtrak station around nine-thirty in the morning, had the cab stop on the way home to drop off my film at the camera shop downtown so that I could pick it up later this afternoon, said hello to Emmy, "hello Emmy" (my landlord said she'd yowled at the top of her lungs for the first few days I was gone) and then crapped out like an old fart after a long journey.
Today much the same. A walk down the street to hit the money machine and have breakfast, a drive over to Safeway for plastic garbage bags and toothpaste and what I guess were other necessary items, although I can't quite remember what they were, back on the bed wondering why the feet felt weird and tingling and asleep and the right leg was feeling as if it too had streaks of sleep inside, wondering if I shouldn't take another week off and just totally crap out. Sleep. Take the sleep test. Sleep some more. See if my head wouldn't clear. See if I couldn't get my act together to BART over to San Francisco and buy film developer and stuff and then come home and sleep some more, get to the developer later. Much later. And then sleep some more. Forget buying a car, it would take too much energy. This is not my definition of ambition, I suspect it's not yours, but what the hell? It's a plan.
Leaving now to pick up the film and attend the Ladies and Gents Who Lunch Happy Hour at PCB. I'm tired, but I don't think I'm so tired I can't get together with good company over a Guinness.
Thursday. Odd, how I coddled myself during my vacation this last week feeling not all that well and then I go back to the office today and come out feeling pretty good. Must have been the Guinness last night. Or something like that. This is turning into a medical screed, old fart crashing and burning. One should have better manners.
Tomorrow Friday, thank god. These long weeks are killing me.
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