Friday, 22 July 2016

I forgot who was here this morning and came down late to breakfast in my customary and probably completely inappropriate bedhead, skintight baby blue lycra boyshorts and a fitted green t-shirt that says Pint-Sized Sex Machine on it. Saw Sam, August, Claus and Joel sipping tea at the island and turned around to go back up.

Good morning, Bridget, Claus said without looking up from the newspaper. Eyes shot all around the room.

Good morning, I tell the room as I decide to own it. This is my house. I head to the coffee pot and contemplate third degree burns to take the focus off my skin burning from Joel's eyes. I can feel them. But when I look back at them only Sam is staring at me like he's never seen a girl before. I'm not sure how to take that so I leave it.

Later, during a break Joel asked me if I dress like that all the time around the house. I frowned at him and said, Of course not. We have a pool now. Usually I just wear a bikini. 

Claus, for the record, has a military-issue poker face. Iron fucking clad. I want lessons.


Russian doctor today too. Double-bonus. Anyone else want to come visit me? I put on actual clothes because I don't need any more comments from him about how he can fix whatever he deems wrong with me via plastic surgery. My blood pressure is up a little but not enough for anyone to be sounding alarms and I've already stopped taking the anti-convulsants for my headaches. I gave them three months and fuck it all to hell. Debilitating migraines are a cakewalk compared to the side effects of the medicine, which were supposed to go away but steadily got worse.

I'm running out of ideas here.

Claus thinks if I 'reduce stress' the headaches would go away.

(here's. the. eye. roll. yup. do. it. slow.)

I just stared at him until he admitted he knew that it sounded ludicrous. I'm anxious by nature. Which puts it so mildly it's laughable, I'm a worry-knot of the highest order. Pills don't help. Booze helps but I'm not going to give myself more problems or stick a band-aid on a open fracture. Fuck it all. At least sex works. For now it's the only thing that works.

Hence the t-shirt this morning.

And I'm not sorry.