2004-02-06 - 11:10 p.m.
I've been feeling cracked and frayed and ragged this week, fighting some kind of low-level illnesss that's afflicted me with periodic waves of dizziness and nausea that aren't bad enough to justify staying home, but bad enough to leave me feeling thick-headed and tired and oddly tearful. I have hat-hair and bad winter skin and a cracked boot-sole that sucks up disgusting slushy wetness with every step. I poked myself painfully in the eye with my own hair, slipped on ice, got chewed out by my manager for something that wasn't my fault, and had a pathetic bad dream in which a bowl of salad was my only friend.
All week the mechanics of putting together even the simplest sequence of actions - go to the bank, *then* the drugstore, and *then* get dinner - have defeated me, leaving me finally to follow the path of least resistance, which is usually going straight home, with whatever I was supposed to do left undone.
And just in case I needed any more incentive towards paranoia in my life, these are from my recent horoscopes in The Toronto Star:
"Life is fragile and danger always lurks in the shadows. There is no way of knowing how many disasters we have unwittingly avoided."
"You may well wonder if you have crossed the line into delusional paranoia. The information that someone is giving you is continually wrong. It can easily be dismissed as accidental, but the sheer frequency of it makes you wonder. Take a closer look."
"Hard as it may seem to put recent slights completely out of your mind, you must. Whether they were done deliberately or just chance is irrelevant."
"If anyone has any sense, they won't mess with you right now. Your thought pattern has been infected with some contagious pessimism from the people you are talking to."
La la la la la la.
