Loud-mouthed liberal feminist. Anarchist knitter. Tequila-drinking artsy-smartsy fat chick. Bluesy folk-rock singer-songwriter. Rebel with too many causes. Quirky eclectic pagan poet. Paradoxical intuitive smartass. Sarcastic brainiac insomniac. You know, for starters.


Home again and sickly.

While I was off frolicking with pagans in the hinterland, I managed to catch myself some cooties, and I'm now nursing a pretty fierce illness of impressive proportions. I am trying to figure out what the gift of this experience is, but fuck that. I'm sick, I'm cranky, and I have no interest or ability in putting this in some kind of "big picture" perspective. I can't see any of that enlightened bullshit at the moment, because I am coughing and congested and my nose looks like a lump of loosely cohered hamburger some fast-moving passerby threw in the vicinity of my face.

Do I seem bitter? Yeah, I totally am.

I expect thoughtfulness sans vitriol may return when my immune system comes off strike. Which, for the sake of my remaining sick days, should be very soon. Please, gods.


Tony R said...

I hope you get better soon! Your body is a living temple of love, and it needs care, what more enlightenment is needed? ;)

Tari said...

Thanks, sugar.

My body *is* a living temple of love. A living, snotting, cranky-ass temple of love. And sometimes love ain't pretty. I should remember that.