Headache

I woke up with a headache. Took two acetaminophen three hours ago but it hasn't gone away.

Finally finished writing a letter to my mother. Extremely difficult to write because my anger kept overflowing to a greater degree than was ideal. I spent three days editing and calming it down before I got it to sendable levels, but it was still clearly an angry letter - just not one so angry as to make me have to feel guilty about it.

I don't suppose this is easy for them, but it is by no means easy for me either. I asked for and thankfully received vacation time from work, because I simply wasn't able to function there properly these days.

Right now I'm just exhausted. I'm going to go read Gore Vidal until it's time for #QueerByChoice chat.

Anybody here have some really fantastic hetero parents who might be willing to write to mine and provide a good role model for them? Please ask them. I really need some assistance here.

Pain

There's way too much pain in the world.

I mean, I think my life is hard to deal with lately, but then I go and chat with other people, read other people's journals and such, and it's hard to avoid concluding that actually I must be one of the least miserable people on Earth.

I want to talk right now, preferably to someone silly. But Rainbowed went away just now and I can't think of anyone else sufficiently silly.

I think I'll go read more Gore Vidal across the room. Anyone who wants to talk, ring me on AIM and I'll hear it.

Eleanor Roosevelt and the Toiletful of Gladiolas

"A dozen years ago, Mrs. Roosevelt asked me to come see her at Hyde Park. I drove down to Val-Kill cottage from where I lived on the Hudson. With some difficulty, I found the house. The front door was open. I went inside. 'Anybody home?' No answer. I opened the nearest door. A bathroom. To my horror, there in front of the toilet bowl stood Eleanor Roosevelt. She gave a startled squeak. 'Oh dear!' Then, resignedly, 'Well, now you know everything. And she stepped aside, revealing a dozen gladiolas she had been arranging in the toilet bowl. 'It does keep them fresh.' So began our political and personal acquaintance."
- Gore Vidal, "Eleanor Roosevelt," 1971, reprinted in Sexually Speaking: Collected Sex Writings by Gore Vidal

I don't get it.

Couldn't she have found a vase somewhere to arrange her gladiolas in?

Where did the Roosevelts go to use the toilet if their toilet was always full of gladiolas?