I’ve long suspected that my body has it in for me. I’ve mentioned a few of its subversive attacks in previous posts:
- My eyes misread words so often I’m beginning to think it’s my normal state of being.
- My mouth either babbles out whatever combination of words will result in maximum possible embarrassment, or else refuses to form any useful words whatsoever.
But there’s more.
Confronted with any occasion where photos are likely to be taken, my skin goes haywire. Like the last time I went for a photo shoot:
A few days before the big day I was washing my face before bed. Uh-oh. Sore spot on my chin. Yep, you guessed it. An incipient zit.
I ignored it, hoping it would go away. Wrong thing to do. Obviously feeling slighted and seeking attention in the way of misunderstood teenagers everywhere, it invited all its friends and threw a party.
Fortunately, zits don’t have many friends because they’re… well, zits. So the party stopped at three, but still. My skin had been fine for the past few months. Why now?
In fact, why ever? It should be illegal for zits and wrinkles to coexist on the same face. When I was teenager, all the experts agreed that acne goes away when you’re an adult. Well, they lied, and I want to know which way to the Complaints Department.
But maybe the underlying problem is that I’ve never actually grown up…
Anyway, I had hoped that would be the extent of my body’s betrayals. But no; this week my brain has gotten into the act, too.
Maybe it’s because of the antihistamine I took, or maybe it’s just my usual post-book recovery phase (Book 10 is with the beta readers now), but the end result is the same: My brain has buggered off to La-La Land without leaving a forwarding address.
Usually I don’t have any difficulty writing blog posts, but today finding words to string together feels like groping for a live goldfish in a vat of molasses.
(And now I’m wondering where the hell that thought came from. Why would there be a goldfish in a vat of molasses? Wouldn’t a goldfish die in molasses? So it would have to be some kind of sugar-fuelled mutant super-carp… Argh. Never mind.)
I knew I was in trouble when I looked in the mirror and there was a sign on my forehead that said ‘This space for rent’. Anybody who’s been planning to alter my behaviour with subliminal suggestions should seize the opportunity, ‘cause there are no other thoughts rattling around in my skull to interfere with the programming.
I’m not sure what all these mutinous body parts are hoping to accomplish. Do they want shorter hours? Better working conditions?
Maybe more beer would pacify them. I hope so, because without a brain to guide the action, that’s about all they’re gonna get.
Come back, Brain! I miss you! Whatever your demands are, just let me know and I’ll do my best to comply.
‘Cause the sound of wind whistling through the vacant space between my ears is really starting to get on my nerves…