No, that was just how it felt. I woke up having somehow worked up a nasty headache; woke again not too much later and fed the cats, trying to not open my eyes too far or make too much noise, fled back to bed and tried to run away from it.
Doesn't work. If you make your migraine chase you down, it's just that much more angry once Slumberland kicks your vagrant, furtive self protesting out into the daylight where it can get at you once again.
And so it went for me. I'm up now, coffee brewed, two slices of toast made, one eaten, two ibuprofen, working on the next slice of toast (with butter and, o wonder of wonders, grape jelly), and the hammering of my fingers on the keys is like unto the hammering of hammers on my skull.
I'll be back later, when my life has less resemblance to a bad acid trip as described by Dante or possibly Spider Robinson.*
* "[...] in the distance, a toad farted ominously." S. Robinson.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago