Fog

I see a doctor tomorrow to address all 17 symptoms I have stored on a Google Keep list labeled “Symptoms 10/2.” It could all be summed up in 3 words: I feel like shit. I guess that was 4.

Until then, I exist in the dark. The light is too much right now. Thought is too much. So are compound sentences.

I had an apple and almond butter to stave my borngry (bored + hungry) sweet tooth, but now all I can think about is maybe a second apple. I do not need that second apple. I didn’t even need the first. Damnit.

The computer screen is dimmed to the setting before it goes black. Maybe that’s too much, too.

Isn’t this fun? I can’t even fucking Netflix because entertainment these days is below me. Yes, I said it. It’s goddamn insulting. That or I don’t take advantage of the Search function, which is also true. But nobody is going to make me watch television formulated with an algorithm whose sole purpose is to get me hooked while subliminally selling me Ford, Apple and Coke products. I don’t believe in buying depreciating assets, I’m team Android, and I don’t even like soda. Your mind games don’t work on me. And I don’t need any more examples of dysfunctional drug-addicted families. GOD.

Maybe that was also too much?

I feel hungover. That’s the best way to describe those 18 symptoms. It’s 18 because now I’m pissed at Netflix.

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Wife, yogi, and cat mama living in the SF Bay Area.

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