Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

hardish hardly hardlike hard stuff; sga rec.



I'm so tired. I'm dumb with tiredness. I barely slept last week; I didn't sleep last night. Went to the doctor's this afternoon with a laundry list of miscellaneous bleargh: bleak insomnia, trouble swallowing, the sudden materialization of acid reflux (burning, burps, and madness), reflux-related vomiting, nosebleeds, did I mention insomnia. And my blood pressure's still up, and my heart rate, while the rest of me is down with depression. It's all so much fun that I want to twirl until I collapse in a lifeless heap. I was so stupid with tired this afternoon that I forgot the word "hypochondriac" in the middle of telling my doctor that I might just have fatal familial insomnia. I gave my doctor, who is an extremely nice guy, printed web articles for his reference. Why not. It's incurable, but at least I'd have the satisfaction of saying "I told you so" before the dementia hits.

Meanwhile, I look at my inbox, the one that I started fresh in May of 2004 when I got a new computer and adopted the Mozilla mail client, vowing at the time that I'd never let it get full again, that I'd reply to anyone who wrote me. Today: 1120 messages, 170 unread messages, 502 unanswered LJ comments, and countless e-mails from incredibly nice people who will probably never hear from me, dating back to...May of 2004. Go, me.

I swear to all three of you who've read this far that this isn't a whining post. It's actually just the witless filling of time between now and nine-thirtyish, which seems a good time to go to bed. I'm trying to stay awake until it's time to go to bed. Because once again I have Ambien, sweet Ambien, and some hope that my neural network might be back online again tomorrow.

liviapenn saved my life this morning, possibly literally, because if her extraordinary, moving, life-affirming story Small Primes and Square Roots hadn't been there at 5:22 a.m. when I pried myself from that useless mattress, I might not have been uplifted enough in spirits to even lift my head, and could have walked off a curb and into the path of a whizzing male-ego machine with open windows and ear-walloping stereos, death death death.

When really I'm meant to die of fatal familial insomnia, which by the way is a second-cousin relative of Mad Cow, also known as Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, because who doesn't love typing a phrase with the words "bovine" and "spongiform" in it. FFI isn't cow-transmitted, though. Which is good to know, though "She died by cow" might not be a bad epitaph. I'll bequeath my LJ password to a trustworthy someone, who can rename it that, and leave my words as an electronic legacy, so that someday when literary historians are writing their dissertations ("Web Journaling's Millennial Infancy: A Synchronic Study of Performatives in the Social and Semiotic Matrix") they can amuse themselves by citing me:
She died by cow. "hardish hardly hardlike hard stuff; sga rec," She died by cow's Journal (World Wide Web: LiveJournal, 2005), September 21, 2005, E424536.
And my god I can't wait to sleep and escape the lemurs that have set up camp in my bathtub, and the squirrel that keeps running up my leg. There is a very loud amusement park right in front of my present lodgings. Um. Good night.
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