Will I make it to work on time? 

Went to bed sick.  Woke-up sick.  Decided, in some sort of fear-of-death Puritanism, that calling in sick would be... well, lazy.  And that would make me bad.  (As if showing up late is somehow redeeming?).  So here I am - in my underwear, with foreign things moving furniture in my abdomen, and with twenty minutes to be at work - and I am typing. 

(You needed to know that.) 

I just love this (new?) blog, with lines like, "so he invited our priest and her boyfriend the policeman over for dinner tomorrow night," and throughout using the endearingly utilitarian title 'the husband' whenever referring to the companion/lover/significant-other/canasta-partner/whatever. 

And this.  Delightful.  I hate that he is younger than me.  ; )

How to learn Swedish in 1000 difficult lessons

I'm sick.  But I'm not complaining.  You can't know that, though, because it sounds exactly like complaining.  How do I say it the way it is meant? 

There is a language I have not learned, a rapid fire rata-tat-tat of syllables that would dance and tumble from my mind with effortless precision like Nadia Comaneci, a way to tell you in perfect tens, or in spades, or in quadruplicate forms, or in two hundred ninety five million divided four ways; a way to say in one life, with one heart, just one word that cannot be misunderstood.  There IS such a language, but I am possessed of it not.  Not yet. 

In the meantime I do night school, here with my blog, alone - like an autistic trying to get through.  To you. 

Someone advised once long ago, in the pre-history of high school perhaps, to just write.  Don't think the words to death, but get them out and put them on the paper.  Make room for more; despite my fears, more will surely come - it always has.  And when more words do come, put them on the paper too.  With a flow of enough words over enough time, I might get through.  Hell, just a trickle made the Grand Canyon, after enough time. 

Enough time.  I'm sick. 

It matters less than not at all what particularly is wrong with me, or rather, my body.  It matters less than not at all the hour and the day when these words will end.  What matters is how many went before.  I could have done better, from the beginning until now.  And who knows what I'll do between now and the end. 

But I won't be a Navy pilot, and I won't be a movie star.  I'm not going to have a beach house, or probably any house at all..  I might not ever ski again.  I'm never going be able to play all the games I've learned in this life - I've spent all my time learning new games (or re-starting old ones, maybe) just so I could avoid getting too deep into any games; like life, or love, or family, or friends.  Me. 

I think it all gets stuck inside me, like an infection festering, or a poison that my liver tries to contain within itself in a futile effort to save my life.  It makes my stomach hurt - everything from my ribcage to my waist, swollen and heavy like a garbage bag full of water - and it wants to get out.  Maybe it is just sick of waiting, and since I am never going to start the flow on my own, maybe whatever is stuck is going to just come out, like in 'Alien', and there is no way to be ready for that.  There was never a way to be ready.