Thanks to the F-word being spectacular, some progress is happening with organizing moving, and I'm no longer completely fucking basculated by the process of shifting my ever-fattening bum to Luxembourg. I am sick, however. Went home and did another possession-holocaust there, and the dust that was kicked up in the process - well, I'd say the dust did me in, but how do you feel about environmental allergies? Food allergies I'm not going to delve into the psychology of, because some food makes me die apparently, and I see death as a physical problem at least as much as a psychological problem. But I can't help but wonder if there's some psycho aspect to environmental allergies.
For example, I was allergic to cats until Lexie moved in to deal with the mice problem. Before she came, I resigned myself to three weeks of misery while my body adjusted, but nothing happened and I felt fine around her. Indeed, I loved the munchkin from her first moment in here. (She was crazy last night, by the way. The full moon was making her pretend to be a vicious tiger. God, that cat rocks.) And I realized, prior to Lexie my principal experience with indoor cats had been at one of my madder aunties' houses when I was a kid, a house where I didn't want to be because of the bad energy between her and her kids, and ever since then I'd avoided them or dosed myself with allergy pills if I couldn't.
And obviously I don't want to be throwing out my possessions and packing. It's the fucking pits. So I reckon my body is pretending to be deeply offended by the dust when in reality it just wants to go back to fucking bed, where I am taking it now.