Sleep was a total exercise in futility.
When everything hurts from moving 12 times your body weight across 9 or so hours…”rest” isn’t gonna happen. Just throbbing fucking everything.
…By 7:30 am, I gave up, dragged my pillow to the couch and screamed as I sank into the couch cushions. Then, I yelled again as I got up for tea about half an hour later, then again, about thirty minutes after that. By 10:00, I was exhausted further, just from hurting. The actual act of “hurting.”
Rejoining the world at-large, I managed to finally brush my teeth, and joined Ma at the town house to art direct one of her main bookcase walls in the living room.
…I do love me an architect who sinks a full wall of shelving into a home for the pure purpose of showing off as many sexy volumes of classic, bound text, in as many genres as you can fathom. Directing that to look like just the cluttered, half-hazard home to an eccentric Lit Professor, takes time. Hours and hours of it. Luckily, its something I totally dig doing, and it was the right amount of light physical manual labor to help loosen the death-clutch of muscle seizure, but not influence anything further.
Done, and done.
…And so is m’day.
Off for some more “Studio 60,” and yelling in pain, as I flip flop back and forth on the sofa.
Being out of shape really blows, you guys.
~D
