I have messed up bones.
I got into a for reals fight this weekend. Angry and angry and sad and sad. We are all okay now.
Sometimes I try to compartmentalize my headhurt and imagine what a life without it would be like. How much more I could accomplish. How much more likely I would be to actually docreatesingdanceplaybuildsewswimdrawwritemakepantssingcookbakecalltalkchatconnect than I am generally.
I have this vision of the future. In it I wear an apron, though I am not sure anything I am doing necessitates in. In it, the windows are open, the wind blows, my feet get to be bare, it isn't too hot or too cold, and my headhurt is gone.
I am not entirely sure about this, but the tiredness that sets in whenever I think about having to do things, like call my former doctors, for example, or mail a package, or even when I think about all the work that people must have done to put on the library book fair, or when I see a house overgrown with weeds, this tiredness can't be normal, must be a part of the headhurt.
Anyway, I've stopped writing in this intertubal journal because of this tiredness. I can't seem to formulate anything that tells a story.