The title is a reference to my previous post about Lyme disease-inspired word salads.
Lyme-wise things have been pretty awful for me this summer. I’m extra weak, dizzy, exhausted, and — grossest of all — super-duper sweaty. Apparently heat brings the spirochetes out of hiding, rendering me useless, stupid, and boring as all get-out.
That doesn’t stop me from writing, or at least thinking about writing. It’s a positive distraction in a world of pain and confusion, and something I go to automatically when life is impossible. When I was a small girl I would force myself to stay awake so I could tell myself stories. And thus an author — and a lifetime of insomnia — was born.
