I woke up grouchy today. I griped and moaned (to myself) about harvesting for a friend on FT. The whole time I told myself individualists make the world interesting. My computer ran its diagnostics about this time, which made the game that much harder. No joy there.
Thus begins day two of the Tyvaso increase. I avoided most of yesterday by sleeping on and off for 24 hours. When I was not sleeping or doing treatments I was scarfing practically anything I could get my mouth around.
Somehow during all this time, my apartment fell apart again. The man in brown delivered my meds on Monday. Two padded envelopes and a two-cat size box with my Tyvaso. Momo has a plastic fetish. He licks trashcans, munches on baggies and shreds padded envelopes by standing on them and pulling mouthful-size hunks off. So bits of envelope litter the living room.
The sink sits with cold dishwater and dirty dishes. I started them yesterday morning and never got around to doing them.
My feelings sit precariously on my sleeve right now. Nothing unusual there. Seems to happen often. I need to learn to speak up to those who do not even know they are part of my drama. Either that or move on.
Not a good day in Cindyville.
Later, Dude.
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