Why Do We Deny Ourselves the Things that Make us Feel Better? Or, you know, why do I do that?

I sat out for the first night tonight.  It smelled good and felt good and I felt better and it just makes me wonder why I’ve stopped making real time to sit quietly.

I’m not satisfied with my altar this year.  It needs something tall, but I don’t know what.  Maybe something metal.  Something shiny and vaguely reflective.

I’m feeling disjointed, but I felt like I should blog anyway.

Here’s the thing.  I’m really wigged out by the feeling that my body is just crapping out on me all at once.  I’m really hoping Coble is right and that it’s the dye from the CAT scan that is making me bleed like a stuck pig and have to lie on the couch all day in a coma of pain and napping, because I really don’t think I can bear to have one more fucking thing wrong with me.

And I feel like a big baby because there are people who have really serious shit they’re not going to recover from wrong with them and I’m pissing and moaning and crying and feeling sorry for myself over stuff that can be resolved.

But it’s every time I turn around another god damn thing.  What the fuck?  I have stuff to do, places to go.  And I don’t want much in life, just to be able to breathe, to not have anything funky going on with the lymphatic system, and to not resemble horror movie special effects once a month.  And I’m tired of being vaguely afraid all the time.  And I’m tired of listening to me whine about it.

So, what can you do?