Better.

[mrissa]

I'm doing much better today, and thank you all for not telling me to stop being such a wimp about my ears. Today they didn't stick anything in my ears at all, just confirmed last month's diagnosis using yesterday's tests, showed me the graphs (mrissas like graphs), came up with a plan I like, and sent me on my merry way. (That sounds more efficient than it actually was; I did read most of Too Many Cooks while waiting. But I read quickly, and it's a short book.)

With the number of things I accomplished today, I should feel efficient and accomplished. Instead I mostly feel...er. Thing. You know that adjective that ought to be there. It isn't bookish, because that's from the other side, and it isn't authorial, because that's from the other other side. It is the feeling you get when your head is full of book, and it's not being maddening, and it's not being exhilirating, it's just being busy. And you begin to suspect that this is why you do it in the first place: because other things make you happy, or exhilirated, or proud, or any of the other positive adjectives, but nothing else is just like this book-headed feeling. The standard comparison in our culture is that something you really like is better than sex, but the point is not whether it's better or worse, the point is that it's as unique, but in a different direction.