You would think from looking at the surface of things that life in the little yellow house would be serene, if just a little cluttered. The clutter, actually, is books and music and art and dog toys and the usual pile of shoes by the bed. All good things, yes? And yet, last night, my head exploded seven time. Yes, I am one of those rare humans who had exploding head syndrome (a very real thing, Google it if you don't believe me). I had thought it was through with me. The Sleep Association says it is entirely stress related, they think. What could be causing all this subterranean stress, the cowwoman wonders. Perhaps it is because it is freaking December and she has not bought a single Christmas gift? Could it be the massive avalanche of leaves in the front yard, as well as in the gutters? Could it be the sinful refrigerator, happily growing wonder drugs on long forgotten produce? Could it be the fourth round of mega-antibiotics that have her limp as an overcooked noodle and as ambitious as a rock? Could it be her father languishing in the hospital, weak as a newborn? I am just so glad that I don't have to stress that this is temporal lobe seizures, since I had an EEG last year that showed, wonder of wonders, my brain is NORMAL! You could have fooled me about that. I am just going to keep swimming, here. Maybe tackle the fridge today. One thing at a time. Get out the easy Christmas carols and noodle at the piano for a while. Start a new pastel. Take a bath. Help someone else this afternoon. Warm milk tonight before sleep. Calm down the earthquake within. Yes. Oh, and pray.
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