Gotta make a move to a town that's right for me.
Town to keep me movin',
keep me groovin' with some energy.
Irony of ironies. I am in a major funk and yet Funky Town is apparently the place to "keep me groovin' with some energy". Lies. Damn lies. Those catchy beats just aren't cutting it. No amount of keytars and 80's mullets are going to make this mood move on.
Fatigue has hit with a vengeance. As have migraines, chest pain, leg pain and back pain. Not only did my leg scan came back unclear, but I didn't even get a superpower out of the deal. If I have to be injected with radioactive material the least it could lead to would be a superpower. Hell even glowing in the dark would have been useful during my frequent nightly trips to the loo. Especially if I wasn't going to get any answers out of the deal. $500 later and my leg still feels like someone took to it with a crowbar. Fatigue also means that my brain capacity has hit rock bottom. A tweet is now akin to War and Peace. This blog post is just gibberish. And I am so proud to admit that I forgot to wash the soap off before I got out of the shower today. I am in major woe is me mode.
Avert thine eyes people. I am wearing my whinge on my sleeve today and it aint pretty.
It seems my autonomic neurologist was right and I hate that. Excessive laughing does indeed turn out my lights. As does singing. Prince did me in with his infectious beats. I survived Kiss but When Doves Cry was the kiss of death, literally, as my heart decided filling and emptying is overrated. Apparently singing and a beating heart is too complex for my body these days. Time to buy it one of those "I'm with stupid" t-shirts. Most days I'm okay with it, but of late it's starting to shit me. Laughter is the best medicine and now I can no longer laugh. Call me crazy, but that seems a rather harsh and stupid symptom for Bob to choose. The universe really has a perverse sense of humour.
For those who follow FB or Twitter you'll know that my furry shadow Thor has been unwell, and this has added an extra level of funk to life. Watching your beloved dog hardly able to walk, his rear legs collapsing, is heartbreaking. He's trialling steroids and they've helped a bit but he is still unsteady. Sadly he has also withdrawn. Where once I couldn't pee, shower or breathe without a furry shadow, now I'm doing it solo. Though Freyja is trying and has started to take over his companion duties and is now starting to wait outside the shower. Unfortunately, she doesn't have quite his placid demeanour. My slow dressing is not to her liking and I now bear some lovely 'hurry up' claw marks on my belly, thigh and, OMG, map of Tassie. I did wake up to him asleep next to my bed the other day, but it was a one off and hasn't been repeated. This has not helped my mood.
I am now waist deep in funk.
I've tried my usual tricks. 80's rock, an early dark chocolate Lindt bunny, Dorothy shoes, Dorothy's Slippers lip gloss (thanks Gladys), bad scifi, and even dyed my hair bright red. But all to no end. The funk persists.
Seems I am going to have to ride the wave.
But nothing says I can't pout and stamp my feet until it ends.
Oh man I can't even sing along to this. Bah humbug!