Passing

The episode seems to have stabilized with the caulking of the extraction room windows. I am still tempted to continue calling the unexplained source episodes, "Mania," but only tempted. Still feel like I need another word for ^it^ unless I am properly medicated. I'm mostly comfortable accepting the BP as a misdiagnosis and. . . Do I really care what the folks who have rejected me call ^it^? With that acceptance, my comfort zone with letting my early therapy soupify further grows. The whole has been replaced by pills in the current evolution, anyway. Those pill bottles all look alike. Sorting them is irrelevant unless I choose to get back on that particular bandwagon. For now, I am trusting Hubs. best beloved sis and a precious few of my most trusted peer supporters to let me know if I need that measure again. They think I am holding steady. Setbacks happen.

The foam sealant I used to fill the bigger gaps between trim and brick is pretty neat stuff. I might be getting a few artistic inspirations on more creative use of the stuff. Maybe. We see what grows. For now, there is a shitload of caulking yet to be done.

The wind is howling today. Nothing unusual there. This is the southern tip of North America's infamous "Tornado Alley." There aren't allot of windblocks to slow the escalation of winds across the thousands of miles of the Great Plains. That's one hell of a wind tunnel. As I watch the tire swing dancing in the wind outside my window, the winds howlling as they leak through the cheap, antiquated windows are calming meditation winds for the psychic winds within.

Time to resume caulking on the honey barn. A playful sidebar between Hubs and I is whether or not I'm going to let him have the building when I am finished. The sidebar started as a ploy to penetrate his executive isolation at his work station. Time's a-wasting, Honey Bunch. But. . . It would make a neat cottage. You can still call it a "honey barn" 'cause that's where your self-extrtacting metaphorical Honey lives.