That's My Bix!

This morning, it is a balmy 20 degrees, up from negative eight million, and it feels as though the world is waking up. Although it isn’t, really, and it’s all Mother Nature’s clever ruse. She’s just resting, filling her lungs to blow a breeze so cold it makes your soul shiver.

And I, however, have the beginnings of a baby migraine. Mickey fickey genetic makeup that causes these mini breakdowns inside my head. I suspect sometimes while I am watching the explosions when I hear cymbals, the fragments of light like ice crystals into my eyes, that these are stories inside my head that I never wrote down. They are fighting a way out of my head no matter what I do. I’m terribly remiss about writing sometimes and I suspect that this diary is one way that I can alleviate the guilt of not writing those little brain movies down.

Esteban’s tour of duty at Chez Parents is almost over. They will be returning from Cancun on Saturday and then I will have to relinquish my annexation of the middle of the bed. I’ve been doing ballet at night, it seems, reenacting the pirouettes of my dreams between cloudlike sheets. The new bed does not have a headboard nor a footboard and is so high that it seems a bit like a pedestal. Last night, I dreamt that I slept on a wedding cake, a bride fallen asleep inside a pillow of tulle, waiting for her little plastic groom. Mrs. Havishsham combined with Princess Aurora while some unseen voice sung Cotton’ the fabric of our lives..

I ran out midmorning for some Advil Migraine and an institution-sized bottle of Diet Coke. It seems to have staunched the flow of agony from behind my right eyebrow. I no longer feel as though my head will implode with a nice meaty squick sound. Now there is merely a wooden clothespin there, but I can live with that. And I can sit here without sunglasses on, which was making my coworkers wonder if I had gone Hollywood all of the sudden. They were my lovely new CK sunglasses, so I can understand their concern. And I’m wearing my Bad Girl t-shirt from Torrid today with red hoodie and my hair is all crazy. I look like a sell out. Or like I’m coming down off something.

I should have known that there was a migraine in the staging area of my head. I’ve been all light sensitive since yesterday and this morning, I was driving to work with the radio off (cymbals’ the cymbals hate me. They are everywhere, lurking with their wicked friends’drums, people with screechy voices and the piano keys that live above middle C) and thinking to myself, which is a dangerous thing right there but incredibly scary when there are these words in my head that are trying to bust outta da joint, and suddenly, I thought about this picture that Hez took of me talking to Pamie at Journalcon last October. I look all inbred and freakishly shiny and my head decided that the picture needed to be a panel of a comic book and the thought bubble coming from Pamie would read ‘My god, is there a light shining directly out of her chin?’ and the thought bubble coming from me would be ‘I think I just made a poopy.’ And I then I almost crashed the Monte, because I was laughing at the sheer comedic genius that exists in the word ‘poopy’.

I have been wondering for a while why the Dreadbaron calls me a ‘total freakazoid’ in his diary profile. However in that one instance, it all became clear.

I think I just made a poopy.

Umm’.

I can’t help it. Still funny. Even with the headache. Or perhaps because of the headache. I don’t know. It is a mystery. I think I’ll just go back to listening to the Etoys song over and over and being mad at people for having the audacity to talk in conversational tones.