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Happy All-American lightshow day!

My painting table is upstairs, where it has been reborn into a computer/writing desk. Odd, I suppose, but now I don't really see myself painting at it at any point in the near future. I'll find a different place to paint, should I be so inclined in these future weeks.

Sharkman carried the table up the final staircase a few days after Lesley and I nearly broke our backs getting it out of the basement. The day prior to getting the table in my room,  puddle of condensation left by Sharky's drink nearly obliterated 5 handwritten pages of Oliver, the novel that has eluded me for nearly three years. It seems that the floodgates have opened, allowing me to gain better insight into the first part of the book--William Thornton. The father of Oliver, the husband of Alice, the friend of Ernest, and the ghost overshadowing every waking moment of this entire production. This was the fallen log stopping me in my tracks, and now its gone. Anyway, Sharky never apologizes, not by saying it, anyway. He carried the table, and that is apology enough.

My tics have been fairly bad the past few days. moter-wise I'm within typical range but still fairly wild; not quite the usual actions of my rebel mind, but within the bounds of what I've experienced before. Oddly, I felt a painful crunching sensation in my neck yesterday followed by a peculiar tingling numbness on the left side of my face along my jaw. It has not quite left me, but it is not quite so concerning at the moment.

Had to take flexeril yesterday, and the two nights ago at one in the morning. It's frustrating. Vocal tics are becoming more pronounced and diversified. THe word "tarp" has been added to my daily mix od clucking and "tisk-ing." Both medications I have been recently prescribed have absolutely destroyed my stomach, and I am not eager to try another.

That's the end of my early morning ramblings, begun at 5 AM and ending at  8.

Good morning, and goodbye.