Woke up in a fine mood, bolstered no doubt by my out-and-about-ness yesterday. So my left shoulder and neck shimmer with pain like a sunbaked road in Death Valley. A pox on pain. Pain, schmain. I’m so “been there, done that” with pain I feel positively de Montaigne-ish about it (chronic kidney stones, poor bloke; heard it feels like pushing a baby out your penis. Yikes.). Even as I counted out the eight methotrexate pills to down this Monday morning, a totally non-cocky confidence bloomed within. I and my tummy would persevere.
And persevere we will, despite side effects that mimic the stomach flu that’d flown the coop yesterday. And just last night my lower belly fluttered with fluttering butterflies of lust when a friend offered to bed me (knowing full well his state of living several states away prevented said bedding). Can a woman be cock-teased? The wording appears malleable, as does the state of my stomach.
Silver lining? It produced a post, and with much less pain than a kidney stone. Yowza. That’s one tiny hole.