BLEEEEAAAAAAH . . .

The mysteries of the human body abound.

How can I be hot-flashing and sweating buckets one moment, then shivering and chilled the next?
How can I be healthily hungry one moment, eating with gusto, then nauseous and convinced the stomach pains are going to kill me the next?
How can I be laughing and talking and coherent one moment, then miserably wishing the headaches would just put me out of my misery the next?
How can I be perfectly vibrant and capable one moment, then totally incapacitated the next?

And above all, why do the next moments always have to happen when it's an enjoyable and balmy 72-degrees outside?

***

ANOTHER DREAM . . .

Ancient dorm rooms. Communal dinner. Ziploc baggies filled with leftover peas and canned corn. An overstuffed refrigerator with no room for the leftovers. An elevator that only goes from the seventh floor to the eleventh floor, and back again. Getting off at the wrong floor and having to walk back up to the tenth. An office building. Running down halls, walking up stairs, hiding in alcoves, then running again. Making sure the lights are turned off in the room we're not using. Hatching a plan to hide her guitar so the monks won't get it. Taking inventory of my books. Trying to figure out to whom I lent which book. Trying to figure out how to get the book back without being murdered, for the danger is great. Thinking to myself, "I'm never going to get out of this office complex." Wondering if the others saw him reach for my hand as we ran. Reminding myself to ask him about it when we get out of the office complex with the book, the guitar, and the leftover canned vegetables. Asking Appa about the meaning of life.