Chips and a Drink

There's no use complaining beside spilled liquids of any kind. It doesn't have to be milk. Chips are different, though. You should always complain when you spill your chips. This week will see the final hurdle in my mission to find something useful to do in spite of these infernal headaches. It really isn't much of a physical, but then, the job in question isn't what most people would consider physically demanding. Mainly, I think they just want to know that I can (1) see, and (2) say howdy without spitting on the customer's forehead. In other words, I remain optimisticin a relative waythat the current spell of unemployment won't last more than another couple weeks, if that.

I'm less optimistic that the current headache cycle will have run its course by then, but unlike my previous vocation, this one won't require getting up before dawn has even had half a chance to crack. This will allow extra time for sleep, which isn't something I'm having a lot of luck with during the night. In reality, I believe I'm now near the peak of a second headache cycle, which came hard on the heels of the first, which began halfway through July. While this isn't a normal occurrence for me, any delusions of normalcy were long ago trounced, excommunicated, and made to live with the sponges in and about Mr. Jones' locker. As they say, there's no use complaining beside spilled milk, which I've never understood any better than I understand any of those weird folk-sayings, but I continue to quote them anyway because it makes me feel important.

So on the whole, today's prognosis is a bit more optimistic than yesterday's, and tomorrow's plan is to put one foot in front of the other and muddle on. That could change, of course. I no longer seem to be possessed of the same stubborn, combative will that's won every cluster-headache battle during the past 30 years, and the simple goal of making it to the next day no longer carries quite the same sense of urgency. If you, dear reader, share my particular make and model of brain pain and find yourself increasingly unsure of its value in your own life, I can only hope that you're a solitary bird.

Still, there's a certain feeling of freedom, and relief, that comes from knowing that the time for making promises has come and gone, and with it the impossible burden of responsibility for a future that's based on such a misshapen past. As Hansel's sister Poncho so often pointed out, it isn't necessary to order the number five combo if all you really need is a drink and a bag of chips.

 

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