A spider is only as dangerous as you allow it to be
Come into my parlour, sit down and lie back against the webbing. Don't worry, it'll hold your weight. Then don't mind me as I pounce and suck you dry of your life-sustaining blood. Yeah, that's about it.

Oh, let's not forget the bit about eating energy and vomiting blood. Relax, it's not consumption, nor has it have anything to do with Mimi or Violetta, poor ducks what were left to waste away because the sulpha drugs hadn't yet been discovered. Still, those girls could sing when under duress....Eh Tardi! But still nothing compared to Gilda who was still able to sing about the purity of her mother waiting in heaven AFTER she's been 1) stabbed repeatedly, 2) stuffed into a sack, and 3) thrown in the river. Oh yes, she also forgives her father, the assassin who stabbed her and whats his face who ravished her in the first place.

The past is meant to be left behind, not obsessed over
No, I'm having my energy ate, and my blood sucked away because I'm forced to stand or walk. I can't sit down because if I sit, I won't get up, and I can't go through life sitting. I'm still eating advil like it's candy - NC - where the hell did you get the ones with codeine? Where? Where?!

Then spiders. I have images of spiders - something to do with spiders crawling around in the warm corners of the shoebox, Shelob in LOTR, Spiderman the musical closing, and the sneaky way some spiders crawl around before stinging their nasty toxins into you. Sometimes I just despise spiders. That and inflammed muscles what impinge on nerves in the lower back.

So yes, I'm irritated. You would be too if you couldn't turn your body without warning twinges that threaten to fell you. Alright. I must salvage this state of mind before I enter the death spiral. Forthwith, I shall give myself 5 items to be irritated about, then I shall use the one thermonuclear option to make this bad mood and pain dissipate like so much vapour, but first the list of five.

1) People who can't help but sour milk with one glance
2) People with doubts who can't keep it to themselves
3) People who don't know what they're doing but do it anyway
4) People who don't respect obvious limits
5) People who are oblivious to their surroundings 

Antidotes: The trends in the e-stock market, patience, and remembering that never enough is simply a state of mind. The trouble is remembering when it counts.

Now for the thermonuclear option: Dr. Rockit's version of Cafe de Flore on repeat. The past is the past, and the present is the present, and yes they are connected but seldom as strongly as in CdF.

An economy version of the Kinetic Stir Desk
Today, I am losing the plot because my back hurts, my brain chemistry is attenuated by double doses of acetaminophen - which by the way I just realised doesn't really do anything for inflammation - so I'll just have to switch to double doses of ibuprofen. Although there's something I read in a Scientific Paper about how shutting down the inflammatory response too soon can actually retard the healing process. As the original Little D's murv used to say, "The good body knows best, you shouldn't be giving it those nasty poisons that don't do anything".

Well, Murv's body might know best, but mine doesn't.

Gaps appear everywhere, fortunately duct tape
covers many of them up.
Unfortunately, I don't have the strength of mind that Murv had. In fact, I'm weak and feeble and can't deal with the gap between reality and expectation. Ideally, I'd give a shrug of my shoulders and step back from the gap into reality, reframe the experience and find some comfort in being true to myself. Instead, what I really want to do is to say screw integrity, make it personal, make assumptions and then don't do my best, and instead retreat to bed, sulk and eat ready to melt chocolate on white sheets. So there it is. Losing the plot means I fall even further behind in what I'm supposed to be doing, the fear in  my head builds and I fall headlong into a downward spiral that leads straight to the mucky morass of unworthy thoughts and unfounded anxieties. Fuck it. Fuck the downward spirals of life. If I'm going to enter that particular cesspit, I shall dive into it, not spiral. At least then, I'll have made a decision and e.x.e.c.u.t.e.d on it. But of course I shan't enter any morass even if metaphorical. They're messy and nasty, sticky muck clings to you and you never quite shake the smell off you once you enter.

Must. Find. Equilibrium. Again.
So there you go. There are gaps in my knowledge, gaps in my reality, gaps in by vertebrae, and most unfortunately, none between my nerves and inflamed muscles. No, I shall not name the Gap that Ms. Weldon speaks of here because I don't even know whether the gap exists, so why be like Agatha (that's Agatha Christie by the way) and waste tears, effort and waves of sadness over a missing budgie which happened to be hiding in a vase. "What a waste, Agatha, what a waste of tears", her mother said, words to take to heart. I shall take my words of encouragement where I find them. Also, Uncle Rico reminded me of what actually happened, and really in this case, you can only take it at face value because to do otherwise would completely undermine the reasons you braved the possibility of falling into the gap in the first place. It doesn't feel good, but that's the way of it. What a waste, what a waste indeed.