Migraines and other excuses

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

I know what you are saying. “Anita, you said there would be a review up on Monday. Why must you suck this much?”

I don’t know. I ask myself that question, too.

But my goal is to have two book discussions online each week and I will probably have to start next week. But I promise more consistent content is coming your way, my beloved readers.

But here is why I failed you yet again, dear friends. I got hammered with a migraine on Friday. I hadn’t had one in years – so long, in fact, that I no longer had any of the medications that help me with them. I think the last time I had one was in 2007? Maybe?

Not sure, but I do know I should have gone to the urgent care center and got one of those shots that stops migraines, but I told myself it had to be just a bad headache. Nope. It was a migraine. So I did what migraine sufferers were forced to do in the past – I slept it off, in a dark, silent room, with only occasional moments of lucidity. Today was the first day since Friday wherein I felt sort of human.

But on the bright side, I didn’t end up puking AND Mr. Oddbooks got lots of peace and quiet this weekend.

So just stick with me a little bit longer, Oddbookers. I still have energy and a ton of books to discuss. I just need to catch up from these lost few days.

Again, in the pipeline, I have Wrath James White, an Edward Gorey biography, Jim Goad’s sex book, writings from insane people, and an autobiography from a Warhol Factory member that made me feel very… unsettled as I read it. Stay tuned, 2012 is totally the year I will suck less!

2 thoughts on “Migraines and other excuses

  1. I am excited about this Warhol Factory bio… I have such the thing for Andy Warhol and that whole incredibly crazy little empire he built.

    1. I read Ultra Violet’s book and she was okay, a little self-congratulatory for my tastes.

      The book I am going to discuss is Mary Woronov’s Swimming Underground. She’s got a very unusual mind. I felt a little unhinged after reading it.

      I feel myself going off on a Factory tour via books. I loathe Warhol – he was a fascinating leech who managed to make his hosts think they were the parasites. But those around him were very interesting to me now, after reading Woronov.

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