Of course, as I think about it, my pharmaceutical gluttony might have something to do with my current feelings of loginess and blech.

Hmm

But the headache is gone, so whatever.

And the sneezes concern me because, while it's not unusual for me to sneeze once or twice every now and again, I never sneeze more than that unless, A. I'm dusting, or B. I'm sick. Since I haven't dusted a damn thing in, I don't know, forever? (The cats have been writing "Wash me" in the dust on the shelves because they think it's the most hilarious thing ever, only it looks more like "Waaasdjlsk" because they can't spell, and writing with paws in dust isn't easy, but they don't care because they still think it's funny, and they are assholes.) I suspect impending sickness is responsible for the nasal explosions.

I've been downing Airborne like it's my job, and I've consumed obscene amounts of OJ, but I am apprehensive. The last time I had a serious cold, it turned into the Martian Death Flu (NOW WITH ADDED MUMPS!). I've been feeling not quite right for several weeks, which is how it started the last time, only I'm under more stress now than before, not to mention the fact that I don't sleep, well, at all anymore, and so help me GOD, if I get that horrific mump thing again, I'm just going to kill myself. That, I'm afraid will be the final straw, the one that snaps me in half.

I realized today that the question of a psychotic break is no longer one of if, but when. And it won't be the result of another major tragedy or disaster, but of something relatively small, like running out of paper clips or catching a bad cold. I don't know yet what shape my breakdown will take. I don't know if I'll start crying and not be able to stop, or if I might just huddle in a corner clasping my knees, rocking back and forth and singing Christmas carols in a high-pitched and shaky voice for hours on end, or if maybe I'll run screaming down the street, naked and waggling my naughty bits at passers by. The possibilities are endless. But whatever form this psychotic break takes, it's going to happen, and there's nothing I can do about it, and that is that.

I'm actually pretty calm about the whole thing, because after I realized that a breakdown is imminent and unavoidable, I had another epiphany. I realized that whenever the meltdown occurs, I won't be around for it, at least not in any meaningful way. I mean, sure, physically I'll be taking part; flinging feces at people or setting orphans on fire or whatever sort of mad things a person does when they flip. Mentally, however, I will have checked out. When the shit hits the fan (as it were), I'll be far, far away on the mental equivalent of a deserted and peaceful island. And then someone will come alone and pump me full of Thorazine and lock me away for a very long time in a padded room. That should probably terrify me, but I actually find it quite comforting. Right now I can't think of a single thing lovelier than chemically-induced catatonia. As far as I'm concerned, this breakdown can't happen soon enough.

*****

In other, unrelated news, news that isn't really news because it's old news, but news that I didn't share at the time because I'm lazy and forgetful, I spent a lovely weekend (before the most recent spate of badness) in the Hocking Hills (Which I dubbed the "Rockin' Hills" while making the appropriate rockin' hand gestures, because I'm a total dork and I drank a lot that weekend) marching about in the woods looking at nature. Many BEvERages were consumed, many games of Chubby Bunny were played, and much hiking was accomplished. I had a lovely time, despite the seven billion other people who also felt that a weekend in the Hocking (Rockin') Hills was just what the doctor ordered. Everywhere we went, we were surrounded by people. Thankfully, they mostly huddled around the gift shops and ice cream stands at the entrances to the park-y areas and at the scenic views which were easily accessed and didn't require much in the way of hiking or physical exertion to enjoy. Down, down, down in the gorge, the other people were fewer and farther between, so that was nice. I don't know exactly how much walking and hiking and climbing we did, but it was a lot, and each night I slept like the dead, a rare thing indeed these days. So that was nice.

While we were there, I noticed a great many people spending quite a bit of time attempting to capture the nature with their complicated-looking photography equipment. Personally, I do not dig the nature photography. I'd rather be there and see it for myself, and I've yet to find a picture of some majestic natural thing that did the thing justice. I mean, okay, I can understand taking pictures to remember a time in your life, to capture a moment spent with friends and family, something at which you can look years later and remember the good times. I get that, sure, and I've been known to take a picture or two like that from time to time. But the serious-looking photographers in the Hocking Hills weren't taking those sorts of pictures. You could tell from the way they fiddled with their needlessly complicated cameras and the way they meticulously set up each shot that they were going for some sort of amazing and artistic photo. And I wouldn't even have a problem with that, except there were rows upon rows of these photographers at each scenic view, all of them taking the exact same shot in the exact same manner, and really, what's the point? If all you want is a lovely picture of some nature, then buy one at the gift shop, for fuck's sake. If you're going to take an interesting picture, maybe from a unique angle or of something not normally photographed, okay fine. But why waste your time taking the same picture a million other people have taken a million other times before? I just don't get it. But then again, I just don't get most of what other people do, so there's that.

*****

In other other news, though still not news in that it's old news, though newer than the last bit of news, the weekend following the Hocking Hills weekend, despite the events in between, was quite pleasant. Or rather, the weekend sucked, but one good thing made it significantly less sucky. I got to meet a Diaryland person I’ve been reading for quite some time, so that was awesome. And I got to see another Diaryland person I’ve met before, but hadn’t seen in a while (Which is completely ridiculous since we live so close, you know? The next time we have a Club outing, you are totally coming and that’s that), which was also awesome. And I also got to hang out with the lovely Ms. Oldmaid and another friend of hers, which was also quite awesome. (I would link to people, but with all the locked and deleted diaries, I’ve lost track of to whom I can and cannot link, so I don’t link to anyone. You guys know who you are, and I know who you are, and that’s all that matters, really.) We spent a lovely afternoon talking and hanging out at the Surly Girl Saloon (To which I will link because it is awesome, and if you haven’t ever been, you should. Also, I am investing in a thesaurus because, seriously, how many more times can I use the word “awesome” in a single paragraph? Or “also,” for that matter. Limited vocabulary, thy name is Lynnda). The outing made a grim and maudlin weekend decidedly less so, and for that I thank all of you lovely ladies.

*****

The cats have been extra affectionate of late, and at first, I assumed it was because they sensed the tall kitties were sad. ("Tall kitties" being the term by which they refer to humans. Cats are incredibly self-centered and arrogant little bastards, and as such, they tend to think of all living creatures in terms of cats: tall kitties, small kitties, barking kitties, flying kitties, etc.) Now, however, I'm wondering if their increased affection is motivated more by self-preservation than a desire to comfort. I think they counted heads, realized the cat population was rapidly dwindling, and decided they'd better take steps to ensure they wouldn't be the next to go.

For a while, we had four cats. Then we found a home for Tiny Kitty, and she disappeared. Then Richard disappeared, and now I think the other two cats are wondering which will be the next to disappear. I think they've noticed that they no longer have to fight for a place on the good chair next to the window, that they don't need to fight over rubber mice because there are more than enough to go around, and that there aren't lines at the litter box anymore. Perhaps they think that I've finally made good on my promise to start hurling them out the window if they don't shape up. Who knows. Either way, they're clearly sucking up, and while I might criticize them for being selfish little shits with an agenda, a fuzzy kitty in the lap is a nice thing indeed.

You'd think, though, if they really wanted to suck up or they were truly trying to comfort me, they'd stop writing rude things in the dust on the shelves. Assholes.

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