Having my head is like being the worshipper of a pagan god. It becomes angry for no apparent reason and strikes me down with pain. I attempt to appease it in a variety of ways: water, food, caffeine, hot showers, heating pads, painkillers. I provide it with offerings in succession, creep out backwards and on my haunches, and then prostrate myself for some indeterminate period to await my head's response. It appears to be content for the nonce.
This weekend should be packed full of fun: chili, pie, parties, and a visit from the wonderful boyfriend. The only problem is that before I can reach any of that, the journal must go out. Must. Go. Out. Tomorrow. Or else.