South Park Self

do people want fire that can be fitted nasally?

I do love my doctor. Went to see her yesterday about the five-day sinus headache, she prodded me a bit, divined the gluey mass in my sinuses by aura-reading and electro-magnetic ESP, and then proceeded to blitz me with antibiotics, cortizone in pill form, cortizone in sticking-up-nose form and ACC200, which is an ace little decongestant thingy. The chemist added probiotics by way of balance. While I am forced to re-confront the horrible truth that horse-pill-sized antibiotics taste worse than anything else I can think of offhand that I'd willingly put in my mouth, the headache was materially better by yesterday evening and is a faint, distant rumble this morning. Better living through chemistry. She also agreed that if this doesn't clear up quickly it's worth going to a specialist to see if the peculiar construction of my nasal tubes lends itself to actual excavation.

On the downside, something in the above constellation of drugs seems to inflict me with twitchy-leg syndrome, which means falling asleep last night looked more like a sort of horizontal thrash dance form than anything else. I woke up faintly surprised, on the grounds that sleep hadn't felt possible at all up to the point where I apparently passed out.

She also put me off work yesterday afternoon, which was just as well as people were starting to look confused and concerned by my apparent inability to conduct a conversation without one hand pressed to my forehead in a fainting-couch sort of pose. I am working from home today, technically, but feel pretty much justified in taking it fairly easy.

Working from home has also allowed me to ascertain that the neighbourhood tomcat who's been stealing catfood and beating up the home team for the last month is in fact occupying a penthouse bachelor pad on the roof of the garage - this is the second day I've caught him sitting up there in the sun, washing himself and looking smug. If he catches my eye he looks down his snub tomcat nose at me with this sort of arrogant "What?" look, but doesn't deign to move until I switch on the hosepipe. He's a complete bruiser, with that classic wide-faced, deep-chested tomcat confirmation, but he's about half Hobbit's size and I am increasingly impatient with Hobbit's wimpy refusal to see the bugger off. Hobbit, Godzilla-like bane of any creature he can fit under his paw. Sigh.

Now I shall spend the morning writing an orientation report, which will allow me to be restrainedly and beautifully rude in official format about all the aspects of the campus administration which have inserted themselves up my nose over the last two months. Administration is a weapon. Believe it.
  • Current Mood: cheerful better
  • Current Music: Pink Floyd
nope, the subject line definitely changed. I was groping for that quote when I wrote the post, and couldn't remember for the life of me where it came from, so I couldn't look it up. But it popped into my head while I was, appropriately enough, making a cup of tea (of course it was Douglas Adams's Golgafrinchans), so I updated to better represent the original intention. I feel this to be a legitimate editorial, but I'm sorry if it caused you to momentarily doubt your sanity ;>.
Pleasure ;>. I should have thought of Douglas Adams first off, but got distracted by googling, since searching for anything about nasal insertion currently pulls up that Neil Gaiman re-post about nasally inserted kittens, which is a lovely story and rather took up all my nasal insertion headspace for a while.