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With some disdain and a great deal of steel, she begins again. |
My last entry, I believe I went on about how I had just eaten foods that made me feel wretched, how I knew before I ate them that they weren't suitable for optimum health. Well, after a dinner of grilled chicken on french bread and a rice and bean concoction, I am in legitimate pain, with the burning, pulsing band of ouch wrapping around my middle and squeezing ever so hard. I don't blame the chicken, and I don't blame the rice. I am blaming the doughnuts, and the chocolate squares, and the stress, and the well-informed indulgence. And, would you believe, that as the discomfort began to escalate, I still absent-mindedly reached for another doughnut? Quite unintentionally, I just saw the open box and my hand dove right in. Caught myself, though. Made green tea instead. It's not the same, I'll have you know. I went to the library this afternoon and returned the books I'd borrowed. That horrid Erica Jong book, the one about penises, the one I left only thirty pages in. Again, I'm not a prude, but I don't appreciate manipulation. The other book, 'The Geography of Love', I finished yesterday. A memoir written by a woman who married the man of her dreams, despite his troubled past, because he was everything she wanted and more. Cut to him developing a terminal illness and me breaking down into huge, wracking sobs, completely floored that a book could pull that out of me, thankful that M. was out when I got to the end. Wonderfully written, and I'm sure it was meant to be inspirational, but undeniably difficult to read. Speaking of books, I have had four people in the last month rave to me about 'The Book of Negroes', by Lawrence Hill (Known as 'Someone Knows My Name' in the U.S, Australia and New Zealand). I feel it's worth mentioning as every person who has raved about it are people who typically don't appreciate reading. As so many other journallers like to recommend books in their journals, I am taking the liberty of doing the same, even though I haven't read it, yet. Something tells me it will be very well received. My sister K. is a huge supporter of the book ever since being assigned it in book club. She went on to rave about it at work to one of her clients, who looked at her with sly smile and said 'Oh yeah, you might say I've heard of it. Lawrence is my brother, actually.' Obviously, an embarrassing moment, and when she told me I could not stop laughing. Anyway, read it before someone goes ahead and tries to make into a film, because you just know that's going to happen. I might be rambling, I don't know. I'm not delirious, yet, but I can pretty much assure you I'm going to be taking one of those happy pills the doctor prescribed for events just like this one. I'm pretty much amazed at how fickle our bodies are.    |
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