I think I may have had a seizure recently without realizing it. In my sleep, as it were. I say this because of two bits of evidence: first, the right side of my body was sore like the dickens, and second, I had bitten my tongue severely on the side, just like the seizure in Dorothy Lane Market. In fact I only realized I had bitten it because of the small stream of blood trickling from my mouth when I got ready for work. That's when I noticed the tenderness of the tongue... on the right side of the tongue, as you'd expect from my case, and it looks like it must have hurt something awful. I believe I heard once that human saliva (many forms of saliva actually) have certain healing properties. Perhaps that's why a body part, such as the tongue, that is constantly immersed in it can heal with such rapidity.
Indeed even now the scar has subsided, although I am sure it will be a day or two before I break fast on anything more challenging than yogurt or perhaps a soft banana. Not quite there yet.
I was all ready to post pictures of my colonoscopy, but it appears my printer's software was lost in The Great Wipe a few months ago, I'll have to look into that. Pretty useful thing, a scanner, unless you want to instagram everything.
Still, the possible seizure worries me. Why didn't I wet myself, like in Dorothy Lane? That's what the girl in the gas station did, it was only after that that I found out it was common and many people having seizures do lose control of their bladder... or worse. I should count my blessings that I didn't shit myself. One good thing about anti-depressants, you can't take a dump if you don't have anything already.
I guess I'll make an appointment with my doctor and see if there's anything up I should prepare myself for.
Re-reading some books I've always loved. Neil Gaiman and P. Craig Russel wrote and drew an amazing short story about Creation's first murder, and not only who did it to whom, but why. It casts Lucifer Morningstar as the ultimate anti-hero, which is somebody cast as the villain against his desires even when he was just doing his job.
I've also picked up the first of what would have been a trilogy of books from Diane Duane, The Book of Night With Moon. The reason this book is special to me delves deeper than the story, and I guess it doesn't matter anymore, but it is still very satisfying to read about a coven of witch-cats who live in the New York subways and protect us from evil machinations.
There was a sequel, Off to London to Visit The Queen, which wasn't as good, and the planned self-published The Big Meow, which Duane was trying to get off the ground before self-publishing became as easy as it is, and it went tits up in a big messy way that I'm not going to recount here, because I contributed to its "kickstarter" in hopes of having the perfect birthday gift for somebody I cared about.
Things do not always turn out so kind.
Also I watched Penny Dreadful on Showtime tonight and they had two dicks in it.