Ever since Grant did his early morning exit a few days ago I haven’t managed to quite get my head right.
Or maybe it’s the new medication. It has a simple name but we are never allowed to have the real thing. We have to have the generic version with the ten-mile-long name.
To remember things, I have a method, but this drug has a name so long, my method only managed to remember the first part:
DESVENS (I ask myself: “who’s that Swedish bloke?)
Then I just have to remember what Sven has or does….
When I get over tired, I start talking rubbish, as you can see.
This morning it was my turn to make an early exit, although it wasn’t all that early. It’s just that Sven’s med is giving me weird dreams that disturb my rest.
Last night I was sorting out the political parties of the United States and believe me, that could make you seriously tired.
According to what I dreamed, I managed to create 3 new parties out of the one that’s in disarray and then I chopped one of those parties up into little bits. That’s all I’m saying about it.
Could be that some of the things I’ve been reading in my book about a detective in Shanghai may be entering into my unconscious as well.
Must remember to skip over all references in those books to anything food-related. It’s a bit heavy going.
In one of my posts I mentioned, I think, that I have “telephonophobia”. Yes, there is such a thing and it seems it’s not that uncommon.
I hate the damn thing, especially the “smart” version.
Lately mine has been crashing regularly to the floor, which I am thinking maybe my way of trying to rid myself of it.
It’s seriously bashed but still functions, more or less.
Except that Virgin Mobile morphed into Boost.
Why is it that nothing is what it was anymore, exactly?
Because I have a few friends and relatives in other countries, I had a plan that covered overseas calls and I don’t think I had occasion to use it once.
Boost didn’t see fit to advise that there are restrictions with their version of overseas calls, which was somewhat embarrassing.
Coward that I am, I decided to do the decent thing and make a trans-Atlantic call and fortunately managed to say the necessary things immediately, because by the time we got to sort of chatting, it was like a version of the old beeps, in the form of a deep male voice “you don’t have enough money on this account “. End of call.
Cheeky buggers. They have my damn credit info.
I know, “What’s App”, Zoom, “Face Time” and all that.
All I want is a telephone that makes phone calls, does not take pictures of my feet or my ugly face and doesn’t call people at random that I have no intention of talking to, etc etc.
Or better yet, no phone. Email will do me fine.
Apparently my phobia is to do with my self-image.
So say the shrinks. Perhaps they are right.
Consciously, though, I am always afraid of calling someone at a bad time and being a nuisance.
Anyway, my early appointment was with a new pain clinic. I’d decided this was going to be my last attempt and I went there feeling exhausted. Waiting in the office, suitably distanced, of course, I caught sight of the little tab I have on my bag, which is a picture of a long-since-dead cat.
For a moment, I was afraid I was going to start to weep, so I did some deep breathing and cast my thoughts elsewhere, which for once worked. (Maybe “Sven” is working)!
The appointment went as well as those things can. For once I felt listened to and taken seriously, so maybe they will come up with a plan. If they do, it will a great thing and if they don’t, I’ll be no worse off. But I think they may at least come up with something.
Now I just have to think positive about getting my Covid shot tomorrow. Everyone says “do it” and I always do as I’m told.
Grant indulges the cats terribly. Blackie demands “nip”.