“SWEAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF THESE”

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(I want to get drenched this way, dammit!)

Well, more like sex dreams (dream, I should say, and nightmares, not sex nightmares, just your wacky garden variety) and waking up drenched and shivering in sweat. I figured the above more in line with previous lyric blog titles.

Yes, I dare say the 43YOV’s sick with flu or some such nastiness from her time spent in hospital. Again. I got sick the last full day I spent in hospital after knee replacement surgery. RA symptoms include feeling feverish without having a fever, but that day I really felt feverish and I was! In a way the validation cheered me, until I got home, nightmared on a continuing loop, soaked through every pair of jammies and projectile vomited the first real food I ate out of weakness.

So I’m used to the bad dreams and sweating through my loungewear, if not enamored of it. I cannot, however, abide upchucking this time. Not that it’s ever been a pleasant experience, but straining my stomach and LUNGS to throw up is not an option. I forbid it on the grounds of cruel and unusual punishment, mainly the risk in reopening my lung hole (there has to be a technical name for that). A new (one would hope) drainage tube “shall not pass” through my epidermis again while I’m conscious.

I hope whoever’s reading this can sense that the 43YOV’s regained some sense of humor after yesterday’s dour, sourpuss post about an unreasonably long stretch of celibacy and BigPharma rant. Oh, I’ll rant on about the latter but will set free, like the red balloon (but not really ’cause it’s an environment no-no), the anger, resentment, bitterness, jealousy and I must add, bewilderment, of being persona non grata to the opposite sex (with the exception of men 58 and older and they shall not pass, either).

New Rule, just difficult to enforce.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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