Remy made a morning playlist. We usually listen to the radio on the way to the bus stop and often have to suffer through the seemingly synchronized commercial messages. I think that all the radio stations are owned by one massive corporation now anyway. No more switching to another station that actually plays music. Not on their watch.

Thus, after a couple weeks of urging, Remy made the playlist. It's good. The first song is "We Don't Believe What's On TV" by Twenty One Pilots. It's an excellent get-yer-ass-moving song.

I have a follow-up appointment tomorrow with my surgeon. My throat is still a little sore, but I only notice it if I think about it. I bit the inside of my cheek the other day and I smirked at the pain. I'm sure my pain tolerance won't last; the memory of the suffering is still fresh enough to be useful.

Video games! I play them. I picked up Monster Hunter World, an action RPG that promises hundreds of hours of hunting, gathering, and crafting. The biggest hurdle to jumping into the game was the monster-hunting itself. The monsters are a madman's amalgam of modern and ancient creatures, ranging from fairly mundane dragons to furry floating pufferfish-lizards. The creatures have personalities. I was worried that I would feel bad about hunting them.

Then a bus-sized iguana with festively-colored dreadlocks mauled me into the dirt and with it, any lingering remorse.

The monster hunter is retired. As of today. Hang up the armor, put away the weapons, roll up the maps, shelve the ancient tomes. Hunting beasts for so long that everything starts to look like a beast. Bad for the blood. 

Blend back into the crowd. Shuffle along, taking it easy. Enjoy the daylight, and leave the night to others.

*  *  *

Need to make more note cards with reminders to self. Need to stop relying on will power. I'll use "won't" power. It's a joke, see. Harness my obstinance. Hitch up my mulishness to the cart of self-improvement, aka suffering. It's not my preferred method, but it's so ingrained in the fiber of my heartwood that it's the most effective. More positive ways take too long.

The what-ifs become the what-nows. Pattering about looking for things to tinker with. Sore legs from moving bookshelves. Got rid of a few books too. Then this morning my mother gives me my copies of Charles Dickens and the Taber Medical dictionary. I don't know what they were doing at my mom's house. 

Turning about in my mind is a serious question. Should I stop trying to fix things? I would certainly appear more amenable to those that value such things. I'd feel much less engaged, surely, and probably speak a great deal less. There are other worlds in which I could slowly immerse myself, like a very hot bath, and enjoy my spark of warmth in an otherwise icy world.

Until I get bored.