As soon as I published my last post about not being as depressed anymore, I instantly regretted it because it opened up the possibility of jinxing myself.

I am extremely superstitious.

fuckit

On Wednesday, I went out with my brother, just the two of us. We had a couple of beers and a burger. We talked and laughed. It was fun. We plan on doing it again sometime in the future.

I woke up yesterday (Thursday) and felt like a truck had ran me over. Imagine having the worst case of the flu, like ever. That’s the best way to describe it.

I slept most of the day, too exhausted to do much of anything but to lay on the couch and catch up on watching “The Walking Dead.”

All I ate was a bowl of raisin bran the entire day. My stomach had also gone rogue on me, probably because of the couple of beers that I had. I do not tolerate alcohol well.

I went back to bed at 6:00 pm. I tossed and turned, zombies and my two visits to the mental hospital peppering my dreams. I finally gave in at about 8:45 pm and took 10 mg of Vicodin. (That is what they are for, after all, when I can’t find relief any other way.)

I zonked out and didn’t get up until 8:00 am this morning.

I am feeling a bit more human today, thankfully. I had to cancel with my therapist, which I hate to do. But I didn’t want to add insult to injury. I won’t be doing much of anything today, I reckon.

And it would take superhero strength not to be bummed.

So today, I say fuck you fibromyalgia. FUCK YOU.

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