I was up early enough to spill my early morning thoughts onto the screen. Thanks to feeling unwell, though (and an obnoxiously loud, yowling cat), I was slow to follow my routine. The predictable headache is now accompanied by an upset stomach, a complaint I rarely have. I think I will blame yesterday’s much-larger-than-reasonable breakfast at the Track Kitchen (after leaving mi novia’s car for service) and last night’s pizza (delivery) for the latter complaint. If the discomfort lasts long, I will return to bed and sleep it off; perhaps several Tums tablets might help.
Reporting one’s maladies to people who have better things to do than read about them is bad form. I will stop, then, at least briefly. Instead, I will write something completely unrelated.
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We watched Good Grief last night, a recently released film written by, directed by, and starred in by Daniel Levy (who was a major character in Schitt’s Creek). The film—a romantic comedy to a limited extent but more a dramatic expression of coping with loss—was well done, but I think I just was not in the mood for it last night. Mi novia liked it quite a lot; I appreciated it and was glad when it ended. From what I’ve read, the critics are raving about it; very positive reviews. I may have odd taste in film, so if I were someone who had not seen the film and was looking for feedback about it, I would go with the critics.
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Nothing excites me this morning; I suppose I am reacting to feeling unwell, but I suspect I am allowing myself to think unhappy thoughts—thoughts I should refuse to think—to crowd out more upbeat thinking. Headaches tend to do that. They intrude on one’s positive attitudes, quickly spinning webs around them like spiders on speed. The webs are thick and surprisingly strong, so cutting through them with psychic scalpels is a long, tedious, and difficult process. I suspect there are pills that cause the webs to loosen and melt away, releasing positive attitudes that overtake the intruders; I want some of those pills. Happy pills.
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Once again, I feel discombobulated; my thoughts have no cohesive links. They are not worth sharing, even with myself. So I shall stop again. I look forward to a time when I can write something of which I can be rightfully proud. That time is not now.
