Yesterday there were three micro-naps through the day, and by the end of the second one my brain was largely back to what I will loosely call normal (but actually mean at median functioning for me). My posture improved, my energy was soaring in small fits, and I was optimistic again. All was well, as well as all could be, with the exception that the rash that had broken out under my arms was still present, if improved. I voiced these observations to Shannon, who was driving us along a road lined with fields of clover.
“…so it’s all much better except for the armpit hives.”
The moment sang with a crystalline chime that I hadn’t heard for ten days, and I was beset with visions of what an armpit hive must be like; I pictured skeps on legged platforms, clustered at the corners of the fields, armpits (sans shoulder, sans arm, some hirsute, some shaven, one with a tattoo) hovering industriously over the clover, buzzing to and fro. I saw armpits back at home base, shaking and spinning in tight circles to communicate to the other armpits where the deodorant fields in flower might be found. There were pitkeepers (not apiarists, but axillarists) with hooded coveralls and cans of smoke coming round to harvest the hives.
It’s lovely to be healthy again.
Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry