I really did mean for this next post to be a book list update. In fact, I started writing it a month ago and now it sits in limbo awaiting completion and posting. But in all honesty, I'm much to tired to ponder just the right words to describe my recent reading experiences. And really...does anyone care what I have to say about my literary adventures? I don't write them as summaries or recommendations to the readers of this blog anyway. I could never truly convey what a particular book does for me in just a few paragraphs! And although I write much better than I speak (at least I think so) I must describe such works passionately--and I simply cannot do that without the use of my gesticulative Italian hands! No, I write these blogs as a reminder to myself what joy or pain or education or inaneness (is that a word?) a work provokes. And although I'm too exhausted to venture into the deep waters of self-actualization (I hate that term) via disquisition exploration, I do want to write. For now, I will abandon the pretense of critic and scholar and simply vent about my current state of being. As some of you may know, I have suffered various and misdiagnosed ailments. Last year, my latest diagnosis, fibromyalgia, left a bad taste in my mouth. In my opinion, "fibromylagia" can be loosely translated to mean "a condition in which the patient experiences moderate pain and fatigue, but for which there is no treatment." I couldn't care less what they call my problem--lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, chronic fatigue, fibromyalgia--just FIX IT! So, my often overbearing mother continually reprimands me for not taking a more "proactive" approach to my health and seeing the doctor once a week. I've just gotten so fed up with the entire situation and do not need the stress of sitting in a waiting room for an hour, paying a $30 co-pay to hear, "Sorry to hear that you're not feeling well and the medication isn't doing its job, but there's nothing else I can prescribe for you." I'd rather just suffer silently (well, not so silently when you consider that I'm writing about it here.) One of the difficulties of late is the toll it's all taking on my attitude and alacrity. Not only do I feel as if I exist in a fog, but I don't have the desire to get out of it. Yet, it's not a depression or the blues. It's more like a vexation. It's not in accordance with how I see myself. I'm a Scorpio for God's sake! And if that isn't enough already, I was born in the year of the Dragon. I'm supposed to be free and uninhibited. Passionate and energetic...irrepressible. And I am...on the inside. I feel as if I'm not fulfilling my destiny. Not that I give a fig about fate and prospect. After all, I'm a true believer that I am what I say I am. It's the doing that's the hard part.