(no subject)

I really wasn't going to eat any of this ice cream today. I swear. It's the cough's fault.

I innocently crawled in bed a half hour ago. 10 minutes later the godforsaken-cough-that-refuses-to-die showed up. So, I finally got up to take my oh-so-no-delicious codeine cough syrup. Which I need to eat with so that I don't get sick. Since my stomach was already in pain today, figured I shouldn't risk it. I started off with pretzels, not so bad. But, since it's that time of the month, the salt made me need sugar.

And now, here we are.

Fucking cough.


ETA: I really shouldn't read the information that comes along with prescriptions. I'm on another 5 day course of prednisone under some theory that it may help get rid of whatever's stuck in my lungs/chest. May increase the risk of stomach bleeding. Fabulous. My poor system . . . between the prednisone, the codiene, the steroidal inhaler, protonix, zoloft, the hormones, and Allegra-D . . . it must be so damn confused.

ETA2: Back to bed, having a serious amount of guilt for finishing off that pint of ice cream. No doubt looking in the mirror tomorrow morning will not be a pleasant experience. *sigh*

(no subject)

I really need to start tagging my entries. But going back and re-tagging years worth of entries seems a bit . . . well, overwhelming.

Last night's dream: The boring part involved traveling, somewhere, and forgetting to pack a million things. Might have been a conference, but mom and grandmother were involved, so that wouldn't make complete sense. I forgot medication, bras, shoes, and a ton of other stuff. A couple of friends from my days in dance were there and I was to be sharing a room with them. As they did in real life many, many years ago, they were fighting. Which was always pleasant to be in the middle of. Yada yada.

The, uh, less boring dream. I have no idea where I was, might have even been en route to where the previous dream was taking me. Met a family with at least one son. (Don't remember the rest.) He was a virgin. And raped me. Then the mother beat me (I have visions of being bloody on every limb and surface of my body) for deflowering her virginal son. No one I spoke to would listen to me, or care, about what happened. I was being blamed by the family, the town, and so on. There was lots of screaming and crying . . .

So, uh. Yeah. Way to go subconscious. Wonder what Wendy will think about that one. It may or may not beat the battle of the vampires. (Don't ask.)