Art imitates life imitates art imitates life, it seems.
On Salon this morning, I read a discussion about Black Widow in the new Avengers movie, and one sentence immediately leapt to my attention:
"We assume that bodies are standard issue, that they’ll do whatever we ask of them, whenever we ask it. With any complication or miscommunication between what we want and what we get, there is a profound sense of sabotage..." Libby Hill, Salon on-line magazine.
The full article will give you context and has zero to do with MS, but assuming our bodies are standard issue, except they're not and never were, but we do often look for something/someone to yell at.
Which is made more complicated by MS not really existing, so there's not really anything to yell at. At least with Ebola you can sneer at a virus; people who practice Oriental medicine regard MS as "the name you Westerners give your symptoms."
Last night, I thought it would be a good idea to get some "idea stubs" recorded, a computer version of "get stuff on paper" but since my handwriting nowadays is nearly unusable, in both the reading and the creation of the writing, it's computer or nothing. Except this morning's "tying" (monster air-cools there) and the seemingly unraisable temperature of my hands from their cold and unworkable state is making me want to just bail.
Which leaves the little stuff that I thought it would be "good for me to do" undone. Not what I had hoped for last night.
No, I'm gonna quit this and see what the nearly-19-year-old cat is squalling about in the next room. I can't focus on much, especially when I'm trying to read, the state of which is nearly at the air-quotes "read" level, but I can at least see if the cat's dish is empty. Which it usually isn't, but she surprises me sometimes.
Wife is mooing at the cat. Cat is squalling at God knows what.
Time to go.
Our problems should all be so good, eh?
Figure out what the cat wants.
That's hard enough for anyone.