Nap Queen

I NEED to get out and walk today…every day, really. It’s April, fer fuck’s sake—shouldn’t we be having some glorious, perfect spring weather by now? Wasn’t March supposed to come in like a lion and retreat like a lamb? What’ve we got now? An indecisive cat, that’s what! I want to go out. Nope, changed my mind, let me back in. And repeat.

Will the weather comply with my walky needs this week?
Today: Foggy and might even rain but…ya know…who can say. Might reach 54º unless it doesn’t.
Wednesday: Definitely a good chance of clouds. It’ll conceivably rain and temps won’t get above 45º but they could. Who knows?
Thursday: low 60s but dismal with potential downpours, sweat and no cookies.
Friday: I WANT sunshine but the weather motherfuckers are tragically ambivalent. There MAY be a sun up in the sky. There may be a deluge of sno-caps too—who can say? Temps in the low to mid 50s are predicted.

I only mention it but I’m ready for Hallmark card levels of spring weather NOW. Low to mid 60s, light breeze, puffy clouds—ya know, beach walking weather!
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Yesterday, I was Nap Woman—able to fall into a dead sleep without the slightest effort. This was after a stressful couple of weeks where my blood pressure was through the roof. I was off chemo (an inflating element) until the BP got reasonable, began TWO different kinds of BP drugs and attempting to chill the fuck out. That last bit wasn’t so easy given that, at any goddamned moment, I might have a stroke and, ya know, complicate the fuck out of my ongoing, never-ending recovery.

Yesterday, the BP had come down enough (and had been for a couple days) that I was given the all clear to go back on chemo. Yea me. I showered, got dressed, had my coat on—I was ready to go for my walk and then I crashed. Like…totally.

I did zero rehab exercising or anything else besides nap. I guess I’m not emotionally ready to take on any fresh and scary health challenges at the mo.
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I am, however, obscenely bored with myself now. All I do is rehab (and not enough of that), recover and read. Currently, I’m outta books. Yes, I’ve got some potentially excellent ones on hold at the library but Bast only knows when they’ll come in.

What if I wrote my own book? This could be something to do in these vast deserts between can’t-put-it-down ripping yarns. What would I write about?  Would it be fiction or non?

Definitely fiction—I’m trying to escape reality not wallow in it.

Would I write a mystery? Aren’t all stories a bit of a mystery though? If we know how a tale ends, would we bother reading it? Maybe. It depends on how creative and interesting the author is.

Would I write a space adventure? Doubt it—I don’t have the science chops to pull that off. A medical thriller? Fuck no—that’s my life. I’m looking for distraction from Med World. A bodice ripper? Oh please, I’ve lived too much to enjoy or believe, let alone write, that sort of inane pablum. An old timey western? Nope. I think Blazing Saddles and Cowboys and Aliens already covered all the important snarkosity. Fantasy? I’m not really into trolls, fairies, vampires and wizards.

Obvs I need to give this more thought. Maybe Blazing Aliens? It'll be a story of a group of Venusian friends who decide to visit Earth on a ski vacation.