The Little Things

(A bit of detail from the new piece.)

It's Tuesday--already and only just, feels like--and I should start studying today for the patho test I have next week. There's a lot of material to cover and it's going to be a bit of a grind. But no matter. I found a great deal on 3x5 cards at the dollar store, so I'm all set.

Last night Dave and I had Chinese food (spicy garlic broccoli and tofu chow mein) for dinner and then we went by Costco's optical department to order new glasses. Dave got three pair, two regular and one pair of sunglasses. I got new lenses put into an old pair that I never wore and, when those come back, I'll probably have new lenses put into my current glasses. I also ordered some trial contact lenses just to see if I want to get back on that horse. The entire transaction took forever because the woman fitting us was not having any luck with the register. She was moderately inept--I've had good service in Costco's optical department, but this wasn't it--so we had to wait on two managers and ultimately had to pay for our glasses with two separate transactions.

After, we picked up a few things (avocados, cauliflower, tomatoes) and came home.

I've been drained of energy recently--my vampiric allergies, even medicated, drain me of energy--so I changed into my pajamas and got into bed to watch a couple of episodes of the newly released season of Bob's Burgers (love that show). It wasn't too long before I got up and had second dinner (Chinese food, man, white rice and vegetables does not stick to your ribs), brushed my teeth, got back into bed and was asleep fairly quickly.

I got up a few times in the night, was up for several hours, then went back to bed.

I've got an appointment with the therapist this afternoon, in about an hour actually. I don't have anything in particular to talk about this week. I'm started to feel a bit like I'm spinning my wheels in therapy. It usually happens when I outgrow my therapist. Might be time to start looking for someone else.

Here's a poem:

Spring

Edna St. Vincent Millay 

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know.

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

The spikes of the crocus.

The smell of the earth is good.

It is apparent that there is no death.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.