Monsters in My Head

What I think at night, before bed, is often not what I think in the morning.  Last night, I watched something on YouTube that made me cry tears of. . . ?  I decided that I was very Irish.  I watched an hour, or maybe more, of films made of Irish singers and groups all pulling at the old heart strings.  "Oh, Christ, I will post these on the blog in the morning," and I thought I knew what I would say.  But nights being what they are, things change.  I didn't sleep much.  Shooting pains in hips and back all night long.  When I listened to the song I was going to post this morning. . . I was not in the same mood at all.  And the words I thought I'd write have vanished like last night's sleep.  

Up in the dark, I scanned the headlines.  Habits are hard to break. . . but the only stories I read were about tunnels and caves on the moon and which sandals were the best to spend the day in.  Curiously, Birkenstock has come out with a pair of sneakers that have the same cork sole as their sandals.  I bought a new pair of running shoes yesterday at REI and asked if they had those Birks in the store.  Not yet, the hippie girl with the pink hair and septum ring told me, but she was intrigued.  

Oh. . . and I read an article on no-jump HIT workouts.  

I avoided everything but headlines on anything to do with the presidential race and politics in genera.  I just can't.  

So what am I thinking about this morning instead of the pulling of the heartstrings?  An adjustable bed.  I've thought about it for awhile now, but I put off buying one because I think it will be another anchor.  I mean, how would I sleep when I was not at home?

Cue the laugh track. 

And, of course, if I got a King to replace the one in my bedroom, I'd have to get the split mattress thing so that when someone spent the night. . . . 

I'm giving up reading the "Wellness" stories, too.  Everything is killing me, apparently.  Snoring will give me brain cancer and affect my penis, and according to one source, "The penis can be seen as a barometer for the whole health of the person." This according to Dr. Rachel Rubin, a urologist and sex medicine specialist in Maryland.  The only good life is one devoid of food and drink and electronic devices.  And if I want to be happy, it seems, I will need to move to Scandinavia.  I need to be practicing sex, but only if it is safe, and unsurprisingly, one shouldn't grip too tightly when masturbating.  Really.  I read that, too.  

I'm doing everything wrong.  

I still haven't gotten to the self-help books yet, though, nor the guided meditations.  But Dickens' "Bleak House" is apparently something I must read since I haven't.  It is, by many accounts, his unheralded masterpiece.  

It is impossible to go out to take photos here in the afternoon now.  The roads are melting with the heat, and now the humidity is unbearable.  Perhaps I should get out early in the day and write my blog posts when it is too hot to go outside.  But habit. . . . 

I would be a different person in the afternoon, maybe, if my journal writing at the cafe is any indication.  

Last night's thoughts are coming back to me.  Oh, yes. . . I'm a completely different person this morning.  Last night, all thoughts were confessional.  Nope.  Not this morning.  Sorry, but there is too much fuel and fire there.  It would be foolish if not self-destructive.  Self-immolation has no appeal to me now.  

Summers are like this I remember.  Summer here in the sultry south were most dangerous for romantic relationships.  Summer's alone are just as bad.  I spent one summer alone with an ice cream maker pretending I was having fun.  I probably should start buying but flowers again, though.  Flowers and frangipani might improve my mood.  

As for my back. . . if they could fix those, Larry Bird and Charles Barkley would still be playing basketball.  

I know. . . I've posted this before.  No matter.  I don't think anyone ever listens to what I post anyway.