Today was somewhere between slug and sloth. I napped earlier in the day and I napped just before 10. 10 is when the cats get fed so you are guaranteed to get woken up. Waking up from a short nap is a fuck of a lot harder than waking up from a normal sleep. A normal sleep is something mythical that fucking unicorns have. My sleep was not normal ever, except maybe when I was younger and crapping into nappies. People used to say it was because I drink coffee … nope, sorry, you are wrong … it was crushing existential dread. I would not drink coffee and still only sleep for three hours and I would feel like crap, so I knocked the experiment on its head. Being awake and full of coffee is closer to being human.
I have currently stopped drinking coffee. Why? Continual loose bowel movements that made me feel like I had moved permanently into the bathroom. Yes, this is TMI. I am a writer who writes emotional poetry and confessional blogs, so strap in. Or … you’re welcome … if you slipped on the effluent and landed here before. I am not pooping so much and I do not have so much acid in my stomach, so not so much reflux. This is the slow painful comedy of being forty-plus.
Lacking energy could be attributed to the coffee if there were not days where I did have energy. No one knows anything about health here in the US. No one can afford to see a real doctor so they tend towards guessing at what might be wrong and trying anything that looks like it might vaguely work. I drink ginger tea and have cut almost everything that lands in the shared space of a tasty/bad for me Venn Diagram. Some days my energy and my butthole agree I am doing the right thing and sometimes they do not.
Why is this here on a site ostensibly about writing? Because this shit is a baseline fucking thing that should be handled. Even at 30 it was not this hard. I suppose it is all grist to the mill that turns out writer bread. Tomorrow be a whole other adventure.