The strain of the unreal...

My neighbor chastised me about my negative attitude toward the turnout of my first Chocolate Scotcheroos.  I had sent some over to her house and both she and her son wolfed them down.  They had no problem with the lack of fluffiness and were not bothered a bit that my topping was crumbly rather than smooth.  Still, I am not interested in posting photos of my flat-but-still-tasty Rice Krispie treats.

Amos also offered to eat them.
I declined.
I had another today.

In the wee hours of the morning, I struggled with great writhing, nausea, and weakness.  One would think that taking my medication would be routine, but I am missing far too many doses of the Erythromycin.  I take my meds at 6:00 AM, 12:00 PM, 6:00 PM, and 12:00 AM ... or thereabouts.  Yet I keep finding the clock near midnight and only the 6:00 AM slot empty.  SIGH.

When I finally feel deeply asleep after noon, I had a terrible, horrible, deeply distressing game.  I awoke trembling and crying and called and called until I could reach someone who would tell me it was not real.  The thing about this dream was that it was a ludicrous plot.  One that could never take place in my life.  And, yet, it was more real to my body and mind than my own life was/is.  It is difficult to explain.  A wretched way to wake, though.

To be perfectly honest, I wish I could hear it again.
And again.
"The dream was not real, Myrtle."

I am rather exhausted at the moment, but I am afraid to go to sleep.  Silly Myrtle.