by a thread.

Migraine: Day 13.

Just got back from the doc.

Looks like it's not just any Pain Med Party, but morphine merry-go-round for me for the next few weeks.

17 days until we leave to Casa Paraíso, and I get to feel better.

If I didn't have a light at the end of the tunnel, I'd say shoot me now.

This is what our home looks like right now.

 

Ok.

It looked like that on New Year's Eve.

Now that we're on January 2nd, everything you see strewn around up there is now in it's respective suitcases.

They say migraines are mostly brought on due to stress.

You think?

Does it look stressful to you?

Mania.

I have no words to express how this all feels, so my poor throbbing brain is doing it for me.

I don't even have the energy to entertain my eating disordered thinking.

Instead, I'm just having dreams that I'm obese and can't fit into my clothes, never mind get off the couch.

The 'not getting off the couch' part isn't too far from the truth.

Actually, it is the truth.

I have decided that I'm not making plans anymore.

No point.

I just cancel them now anyway.

Fuck it.

Tears rolled down my face last night when I realized I'd be spending the majority of my time left here, on the La-Z-Boy.

This is not living.

17 days until the real fun begins, and I start to wean off the morphine.

If it sounds like I have nothing to talk about, it's because I have nothing to talk about.

This game is so boring.

Don't take me to pasture just yet.

Wait until I'm in paradise, please.

i am too big a gift in this world to feel self-pity and sadness