Thus spoke the larva.
Eons ago, someone noticed the inability of the undersigned to take care of herself, something that had not even noticed and signed by then puts that as a presentation of self (and as a great way to explain why not to the contemporary kitchen). For this reason
take advantage of VB to take me to the doctor. Not in the sense that I will lead us to hand (well, I think), but in the sense that when you arrange for someone to do something then it's harder to procrastinate.
Yesterday I was in mo 'like a corpse on the couch watching television for inability to do anything else. The
all started with a weariness of the normal level, which has become an alarming nausea, which has become the feel the smell of cooked chicken as something like dead meat and preserved sprinkle dust. But I ate, making speeches alone worried grandmother ( "Come on, you're better to eat!" ).
Then I stayed on that couch squirming like a silkworm (larva of Sarcophaga Carnara) - do you remember when an isolated and these folds into two strips in place? The malaise revives my ability metaphorical. These contortions were a result of strange shock down my muscle fibers, something close to pain but not exactly pain, similar to that discomfort you feel when he is salirti fever. But I rose fever.
With a flash of clarity I have been reminded that the last (and first) time I had a similar thing happened (that they are semi-unconscious on the bed sweating cold) drink chamomile tea was served its purpose - according to the theory of Mater so I had to eat something to stop contractions of the stomach empty if no alcohol (I had had enough) and chamomile have balanced participation in this relaxation. Limped in the kitchen so I prepared a camomile, I drank half and ran into the bathroom to throw up, for the first time in my life even from his nose. (Yuck - and I mean in my life I vomited often, being a drunk person who knows no limits.) They then returned to my sofa and stay there for mo 'of silkworm for hours, to go to bed exhausted relatively soon.
Nothing excludes this malaise is a psychosomatic origin. It can be something that hits me in the stomach and somehow smell - god knows how. Yesterday evening, the smell of chicken - this time salty - knew of piss. Psychosomatic or physical, no longer understand a shit and I broke the balls (among other things because I lost a whole day study).
I woke up after a day when all I had eaten two chicken legs (and I do not know how much is left in the body, after visiting the toilet), and without the slightest hunger. I wonder now if this lack of hunger is symptomatic of a malaise that behind me I is still in the stomach or if it is simply a habit of taking (some people get used to eating 400 grams of food per meal - signed as in Germany - and who is accustomed to eating a handful of rice a day - as the majority of the global population, probably). Happy sun nibbled strawberries that go well with them. Nibbled strawberries and happiness with a child eat sweets, that of finally being able to ingest a food you like, not a food that you ingest.
What balls.
I feel very much little spartan at the moment.
Like contemporary Cornelius Agrippa knew, be debilitated is a great way to get delirious trip.
In my agony on the couch I reflected on the vulgarity of the disease, and on self, or how much - while alone in the house - I were checking the utterances of my suffering. Just as it would be more Victorian way of avoiding to let you know how I threw up from the nose, so to speak.
I then questioned the origin of my self: I should ascribe it to a prudery injected 150 years ago to my culture, or residues of a super-man who shows no weaknesses to be com-buff?
And if the two things were really one?
Such thinking has turned in yet unworthy spasm with nausea on the rise.
But most of all: I was right in a non-delusional on the social position of the pain because I am part of a culture that as a religious symbol was a guy on the cross? Difficult to be neutral when you grew up in classrooms that have idols on the wall bleeding and suffering. You have to take a position: that guy you're funny or not? Com-patisci or despise? Would lenirgli wounds or bring it down out of pity? I try
indifference: I tried it yesterday, trying to ignore half TV.
Yesterday I attended two film marathon Queer (day of LGBT cinema), and my crazy mind has also produced the failure from the outset that their friendship women & homosexuals has in it.
In the 60s a number of stigmatized groups have come out in the open (hence the birth of women studies, cultural studies , post-colonial studies ) along parallel - and often hand in hand - similar struggles. Had in common a lack of rights with respect to the dominant model (the white man caucasian heterosexual alphaman), and perhaps that you are coalition - in short, explain why this percentage is women who are in favor of male gender and ethnicity. Then I think it took over some confusion in the sense that by dint of approaching each other a few attributes have been extended to homosexuals, perverts who think from the bird, have become sensitive creatures.
But, on the only remaining social friendship between women as a class with lower status and male homosexuals as a class with lower status, there is a basic problem: the thing that unites these two categories, historical bad luck aside, is to couples with men. These two categories, normally, by definition, are not coupled. I was talking
Mater with the contemporary female desire to have a gay friend, so well known that it was parody ( "Adopt a gay too!" ), having as a prototype of the feminized gay fag who thinks refer to the wardrobe (because as a gay friend for a woman is not expected Tom of Finland, as a rule), that the friendship between two beings united by having as a joyful end to become a barbie, which is the version of the emancipated damina mock Victorian.
I also reflected on the emancipation of the female body in my delirium silkworm, watching yet another movie where the male is attractive for that status and not for the body - that is bound to be a complete elegant does not perceive the shape of her body even with all the imagination of the world. Nth white-collar status I made the basic mistrust that the complete classic man pours in me: I mean, in those fabrics by thousands of euro could be a couple of stunted pectoral and depressed that bad surprise.
So I wondered why women's emancipation is paid to develop a tendency of women to show their bodies, recognizing the sinfulness of the body non-semi-nude or naked, and not to develop in the woman's appreciation for the male nudity. In short, even in our beloved Victorian sold under the counter and seminude pictures of nude little ladies - where is the new culturally speaking? It is paradoxical that the emancipation of the female body is deciduous at the base of the new sexism, the one that wants women's bodies as objects of pleasure?
Sometimes I get the impression that history is the daughter of a series of misunderstandings.
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