Am wobbling on the cusp of a flare, undoubtedly due to all the celebratory Fourth of July beer and a bad stressy week at work. I’m consistently amazed by how my body does this insta-collapse thing at the first due-south twitch of unruliness: roiling gut pain? Trouble concentrating? Unsanctioned and unorthodox liquidity in the bathroom? Get thee back to bed, my brain shrieks. Stay there till 2 p.m. Then, and only then, weakling, you may have some pudding. And I meekly comply, because at this point in the process my brain is usually still functioning decently.
But overall, a wobbly weekend means I postpone all my planned day activities in favor of sleeping/eating peanut butter with crackers/reading comfort books like A College of Magics and The Princess Bride, cancel my evening activities in favor of the above, or keep my activities and soldier through them with a grim face and many, many trips to my host’s/the restaurant’s/etc.’s bathroom. I am sure this is very endearing. Wobbly interludes are not nearly as bad as true flares, but they still suck.
To which you should all rightfully respond well, that’s what you get when you poison yourself with booze, dear.
Yes, I know. Luckily, though, my gas is back, which usually means my gut is wobbling in the direction of recovery. Yay for me, but too bad for poor A.
It is 102 out right now. I don’t know what the heat index is, and I’m staying inside with a toilet and an icepack. Hurrah for air conditioning, refrigeration, and the Internet.