I'm watching videos. I love how Michael McDonald's beard makes him look like his mouth is just opening and closing without forming shapes when he sings. Like a restricted fish. I think it's just the top lip. Or maybe he doesn't actually move his mouth much. Who knows. It's amazing how that voice comes out of such a little escape hatch.
Anyway. About half an hour ago, I was at the doctor's. Maybe more like an hour and a bit ago. Losing the plot. It's a fallacy that your host is able to talk to anyone in any situation. I used to be all wibbly around authority figures but that's largely disappeared from my repertoire now, and I'm known for being able to talk absolute shit to absolutely anyone and feel like I'm making a positive imnpression. I should add that it all gets deconstructed later and I actually become myself and get to know the other, and once this has happened I never remember how I behaved when I first met the person. The one exception to the confident codshit rule is the minute I walk into a doctor's surgery. I immedately feel like I won't be believed and I shouldn't be there anyway. I get so nervous I can't speak and I have to fight back tears. TEARS. From the woman who wishes she cried like she used to, instead of getting angry, which is what she always does now and always used to wish she could do. Self-pitying and self-righteous don't really come into it. I think hormones might. The doctor (Hakes? It's another new one) heard and probably saw enough to recommend changing my pill. They're pushing the implant there, though, and this new pill is constructed very similarly, so it's basically a trial run, and if I don't die, they'll tell me to get a piece of plastic in my arm.
Anyway #2. My bank balance is, for me, extremely good. Before that provokes an outcry, it's not good per se. It's just really good for me, because I'm on target. And you have no idea how unhappening that happening usually is.
To quote Brook: In other news...
Fizz had her lady parts removed yesterday and is recovering on the sofa. She was a zombie dog last night. She didn't even wag her tail when I came home, which she had done for Rich, who took her to the damn vets' in the first place. My god, the guilt I felt when she left yesterday morning, full of excitement at the thought, could it be? A first-thing walk. Before breakfast, even. As time would have it, the vets' didn't open at half 7 like it said online. It opened at 9. Richard sent me a picture of Fizz out and about, which I must have read in my sleep because I found it last night, looking to delete my messages.
This morning, she ate sardines out of my hand then got up to select the best bits from her bowl, mainly the cheese and liver, and have a drink. Relief. And not just for me, I'd imagine. Her belly was going bonkers last night. The poor thing was just managing to grow her beautiful coat back and now she's got a bald ... bit. I'm not sure what that particular part of her is called. Back belly. Abdomen? Phneh. I know it's necessary. It's just not pleasant seeing your first lady dog in pain, out of it.
Dur brain is what my brothers and I called each other when we were kids. It's how I felt after I messaged Rich to tell him what an utter flid I'd been at the Doc's. And now I know how Joan of Arc felt, la la la la. The image is a total steal but I love it. It's what happened when I typed Dur Brain into google images. It's a sign that I have to turn my dur brains into iron mans. Definitely.