Sunday, November 3, 2019

Some, but done for the night.

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The toilet is clean.  The second load, when... if... it is dry will herald bedtime.  A shower taken.  A few other little things, tiny projects, such as watering the plants then hanging them.  Leaving them in the tub, in the winter, can and almost has killed them.  It doesn't sound like much, but was more than it sounds.

I am hoping to wash the bathroom, take another shower, start dishes, and get the trash out, tomorrow.  Trash is vital.  The rest is a hope.  Tired.  Should rest well.  A few pickled eggs and a fatted coffee to ease the crash.  Blood sugar was quite nice just now.  I'll remember the other insulin when I check laundry, as I go to bed.  Good night.
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Oops.  It has been a while, but I went a bit over on insulin.  I woke a few hour after going to bed in pretty serious distress.  Thankfully I keep glucose tabs up beside the bed.  They are already open, as when crashing dexterity, even strength, can be gone.  Absolutely glad I had them up and arranged.  There is no way I would have made it downstairs.  I couldn't get out of the closet area, or get up.  Wicked close call.

I ate some number, then made it down to have a glass of milk and shake off the last effects.  Back to bed.  I am probably lucky I am so sensitive to drops?  To wake from a dead sleep?  Good night.

4 comments:

  1. This is how it sometimes gets while reading your missives. I read the first few words and almost immediately found myself singing them to the tune of "Paris is a Lonely Town".

    ("The toilet's clean . . . A second load . . .")

    Fortunately (or unfortunately) I was unable to come up with a rhyming second line. I have no talent as a lyricist.

    And no, this is not due to my medications. Honest. I've always been this way.

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  2. How very interesting. You do realize I add music often. Perhaps I have explained why? The time I died the longest, and remembered over there, I recalled that we communicated in song. I can't always think to write in song, but it will always be in my mind that correct communication is in song.

    Is it just here or is that your way? Perhaps you have found a link to heaven you did not realize, either way?

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  3. If it can be said that Heaven tortures . . . or at least teases . . . it's in the fact that I've often dreamed of wondrous music. But, at best, I've only been able to pull a scrap or two back with me into the waking world. Just enough to tantalize. I can even describe the record store in my dreamworld where I could find the music, and I welcome any dream which takes me to that neighborhood.

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  4. Wait, my friend, until every soul you meet is vastly superior to that record store. They will design such music, but precisely for your ears. As will you. Somehow, all the music combines. You can have personal talks, group conversations, and always is praise to God being... sung? It seemed so. It all seemlessly intermingles. You will see, someday, if my memories are memories, and correct.

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