So I am lay­ing here on the couch at 2:38 AM with my right ankle inflamed and excru­ci­at­ingly painful — though not as painful as before — and I am test­ing Word­Press’ mobile fea­tures because I have been hav­ing a ridicu­lously hard time get­ting back to sleep. We are hav­ing com­pany tomor­row and I am sup­posed to be cook­ing and I am won­der­ing how I am going to stay on my feet. At least the food I am going to pre­pare is easy.

I wish I knew what brought this attack on. If I could be sure it was the lit­tle bit of meat I ate this past week, that would be okay. At least I would know. And if I could be sure it was the Apis — home­o­pathic rem­edy — that would be okay too. Not know­ing, though, leaves me feel­ing, again, kind of help­less in the face of this con­di­tion. I don’t like it that I have had to take colchicine again; I was so happy with how good I was feel­ing up until the attack started last night. And I don’t like the feel­ing that I must have done some­thing “wrong,” not in the moral sense, obvi­ously, but in the sense of some­thing that has set me back in terms of what I need to do to man­age this condition.

Ah well, that’s enough kvetch­ing for now. I am going to try to sleep.