Mama Called the Doctor

I called about my exhaustion and the shot. I don’t know what if anything they can do, but it is really impacting my life and I can’t take two more months of this nonsense.

I’m waiting for my haircut, now. I was hoping to get in early, but I don’t know if I got here early enough.

I might as well have had my coffee at lunch. Around 2, I fell apart again and ate garbage just to stay awake. It sounds ridiculous because it is.

I’m going to blow up like a balloon if I don’t get a hold now.

We’re listening to what sounds like The Who on the radio. These ladies are probably in their 50s and 60s, so that’d be about right.

I like this place. They do a good job.

Elton John, now: Daniel my brother, you are older than me, do you still feel the pain of the scars that won’t heal, your eyes have died, you see more than I…

My lips are trembling. I know that sounds erotic, but it isn’t meant to. Why would my lips be trembling right now?

In my 30s I went to a place across the street. I can’t remember what it was called, but they were younger girls, younger than me, maybe. Then she sold the business, my hairdresser moved to New Durham, and for some reason wouldn’t answer me when I said I’d travel there (she was working out of her home). Maybe she thought I was crazy.

But I really liked the way she cut my hair, and who cares if you have to drive a little ways every 8-12 weeks? Oh well.

Okay, it’s officially my turn, now. Except it isn’t, yet.

Anyway, my PCP is supposed to get back to me tomorrow about next steps.

I’m basically out by 7:15 every night. And even with a whole night of uninterrupted sleep, the fatigue doesn’t improve.

At this point, chronic fatigue syndrome wouldn’t surprise me. I could fall asleep right here, right now. Even with the talking. Even with Billy Joel.

Alright. Goodnight, readers. Closing my eyes. No I’m not, no I’m not, I’m just kidding.

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