I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with weather conditions. I have seven different apps telling me what’s the pressure, from which direction the wind is blowing and what is the expected temperature. In the morning I turn on the radio to listen to the forecast. Then I spend the day appalled by the level of inaccuracy. I mean, what’s the point? It’s not like the technology can tell me that today I will not feel like someone reached inside my skull to apply a gentle but incessant pressure on my brain. Just behind the eyes. Not painful, but constant, gnawing pressure which is not helped by the fact I smoke a pack of cigarettes on an empty stomach.
Riding a bike while listening to Judas Priest in such a condition proved to be a very bad call today. I did survive, though, which I consider a worthy accomplishment. I should start eating breakfast, stop smoking and binging on coffee. I should hydrate more. Also use moisturising cream.
I read somewhere that I am at an age when I should pay more attention to my neck. The neck, apparently, is a bitch. You can’t hide from your neck and when you’re pushing thirty you should worry less about the weather and more about nourishing your neck.
The thirty thing struck me as weird yesterday as I was watching Northern Exposure. I never thought I’d be Maggie O’Connell’s age. That was not supposed to happen. I cannot be the same age as Fleischman. Ed Chigliak cannot be 10 years younger than me. I mean, I was like eight when we first met and it’s bizarre, to say the least. Just as bizarre as the fact that John McClane has a son who’s my age.
All would be well if those invisible hands giving my brain an unpleasant shiatsu would go away.