Ten hours…

Ten hours.

Ten godsdamned hours in that forsaken hotel.

My fibro picked today to assert itself over my body, remind me that it is a broken machine. Things burn, sting, and throb—some all at once. My head hurts, feeling like it has been inflated wrong.

… heads shouldn’t be inflated at all though, should they…

I plan on collapsing into bed when I get there. I’m in too much pain to eat. The only reason I am able to function at all right now is that I had my dear sweet Zappy—you know, my tens unit—in my bag. Enough muscles have been zapped into painlessness that I was able to get into the bus and train.

But I still won’t be home until ten thirty. An hour from right now.

And tomorrow is going to suck. I’m definitely in trouble with the boss. My only comfort is that I am not the only one in trouble.

… time to wait for another bus.

I’m homebrewing now:

Bleach bathing bottles for more homebrewing.

If you told the me of last year that I’d be doing this, I’d tell you “No way, I ain’t no kind of hipster like that.” (Seriously, those exact words.) But here I am, cleaning and bottling, lovingly tending a colony!scoby named after Iggy Koopa, making fermented fizzy lifting drinks.

It’s the hobby I didn’t know I needed. In addition to giving me healthy drinks, homebrewing my own water kefir brings me much needed relaxation. The process becomes almost automatic, until the moment where I have to pick a flavor — then things get exciting. There are so many options, from plain apple to the allure of elderberry. It’s the real world equivalent of a crafting profession, and the grind is good.