Screw iTunes, you hear me? Screw it. I have Rhapsody, both on my computer and my Droid, and I'm a fan. Well, until I wind up out in East Jesus and the signal cuts out and I have to switch over to music stored on the SD card on my phone...but enough about my first world problems.
I discovered tonight that, much like iTunes, Rhapsody lists your most frequently played artists if you can find the Magical Hiding List Widget. So, time to give the top 5 due props.
1. The Talking Heads--Whooo, big shocker there! CAN YA BELIEVE IT? I love The Talking Heads, I love David Byrne, True Stories is my favorite movie, and I have nothing more to say on the matter.
Favorite song?
2. Robyn--Ok, I actually am surprised by this. I'm guessing that maybe this list is more like...recent listens? Because my beloved Greg Smith just turned me on to Robyn this past weekend. Anyway, she's totally rad, and I've been all "OMG CHECK THIS CHICK OUT" to anyone who comes within 5 feet of me.
Favorite song?
3. Girl Talk--This one's no secret. This is what I put on pretty much any time I have a lot of driving around town to do. When you live in Small Town, USA and don't have to drive more than 10 minutes to get from place to place, it can get annoying stopping mid-song. So why not pick the glorious ADHD Audio Theater that is Girl Talk?
Favorite...track?
4. Primus--The husband and I both have a deep and abiding love for Primus and Les Claypool. They're one of those rare bands that I discovered in junior high and still love. What more can I say, shit's solid.
Favorite Song:
5. Regina Spektor--Welp, I have a vagina. That pretty much explains it. I kid, I kid! Regina is incredibly talented and creates haunting beauty and poignant truth with her words and voice. Should you see a pink haired fat lady singing along with the radio in a small blue car, that would be me and Regina, just jammin'.
Favorite song:
Hmm. That was fun. I think this might become a regular thing. Tuesday Tunes? What say ye? Feel free to suggest a better name. I'm not feeling terribly original right now.
That which doesn't kill you is likely to piss you the hell off.
25 March 2011
On so-called "biological imperatives"
Tomorrow, I will be 30, and not once have I felt or heard the ticking of the "biological clock". Sure, there was a time when I thought I would have children. When I was a little girl who played with dolls, I thought babies were pretty rad, and that I'd definitely like to have some. After I grew out of the dolls stage, I really didn't think much about having children, just that it was something that I'd do because that's what people do, right?
High school was when I was introduced to the full reality of babies. My brother and sister-in-law had my nephew when I was a junior. Of course, I immediately loved him, redness, wrinkles, flakiness, and all. Around that time, a few acquaintances and friends became pregnant, and after the initial shock, they all seemed to be pretty psyched to be having a kid. My mind recoiled in horror that this is something that people my age, with the whole world in front of them, considered to be a good thing. Sure, it's either make the best of it or get the big A, so I suppose they were putting on the brave face, which is commendable. At that age, I can't say that I would have chosen to keep the pregnancy.
But back to my nephew. I'd occasionally watch him for a few hours so the grown-ups could do their thing, and boy, did that drive home reality fast. Around that time, I also babysat an infant and his five year old brother (who routinely kicked my ass at Mario Brothers), and as much as I enjoyed the time when the infant was calm and curled up in my arms sleeping or just hanging out and drooling on himself, it always scared me silly when he'd start crying or screaming. OMFG. The diaper is dry. I just fed him. I am holding him. CLEARLY THIS CHILD IS IN MORTAL PERIL. I had that experience with both my nephew and my infant charge, and boy, that feeling of panic does not suit my disposition in the least.
Still, I felt that once I was the ripe old age of, 25, I would be this totally different person, ready for the 9-to-5, a nice, clean-cut husband, a house in the suburbs, and a couple kids. Suffice to say, my life didn't turn out like that. At 25, I'd been dating my now-husband for over a year. We were in dire straits financially, just barely making enough for both of us to survive. Money was incredibly tight for us for the first few years we were together, so tight that when his roommate went nuts (literally) and told him he had two weeks to get out, the best option was for him to move in with me. We'd been together for two weeks at the time, and my family wasn't terribly pleased with this, but thankfully they understood that, as someone new in town, I had very few options. My roommates had just moved out on me, too. I couldn't afford my house alone. Brandell didn't have deposit money. So we made an agreement that regardless of what happened with our relationship, we'd always put our friendship first, and if we had to part ways, we'd continue to help each other until he could find another place. Thankfully, that wasn't necessary.
About two years into the relationship, we started talking about eventually (OH GOD, NOT NOW, OF COURSE, BUT EVENTUALLY) having kids. Two seemed like a good number. Eventually, we'd want to do this. Eventually, it would seem like the greatest idea ever, and we'd go for it. We'd grow up. We'd settle down. One day, the urge to have babies would start to percolate in both of us, just like it does for every human...right? A year later, we'd decided on ONE. ONE KID. THAT IS ALL. And for the love of butter, NOT NOW.
About a year later, something just...clicked. We were talking about kids, all the money and hassle involved, the patience both of us lack, the sacrifices we'd have to make, the frequent migraines we both have, the fact that both of us get very, very annoyed in the presence of anything loud, and the fact that neither of us felt any particular drive to be a parent. Neither of us craved that opportunity to nurture and teach a small human. We have friends with kids, and while we're totally fine with playing aunt and uncle for a few hours at a time, by the end of it, we're both thinking "DEAR GOD, GET THIS THING AWAY FROM ME!" I can't remember who said it first, but it was probably me. "We just...shouldn't."
That settled it, save one moment of reconsideration at the urging of a friend. She wasn't trying to pressure me, she just wanted to make sure I'd fully weighed my options, and the experiment she suggested, "Spot the Good Kid", absolutely changed my attitude towards other people's children (yes, curmudgeonly 20-something, there ARE good parents in the world), but further cemented my resolve not to have my own, there's been no looking back. We agreed that if, later in life, we felt we'd missed out on something important, we'd get involved as foster parents, or perhaps consider adoption.
Last summer, I was working at a call center when I, for lack of a more fitting term, completely lost my shit. I was constantly anxious, and the depression that I'd gotten a pretty good handle on over the past few years came roaring back with a vengeance. I immediately got involved with my county's Behavioral Health program. Soon, I realized that if I was to have any hope of being a functional person, I was going to need to be on an antidepressant for the rest of my life. Quitting for a year and a half or so (pregnancy plus breast feeding time) would likely result in a nasty downward spiral, culminating in horrible postpartum depression.
My fibromyalgia diagnosis absolutely cements it. I can't imagine the pain I'd endure carrying a child to term with absolutely nothing to mitigate the pain I already have just lugging my carcass about. Once the child was born, even if I opted out of breast-feeding to resume my medications, what would I do on the bad days? Sometimes, a gallon of milk feels like the weight of the world. Lack of sleep makes my symptoms worse, so until the baby started sleeping through the night, I imagine I'd be pretty miserable on a daily basis. And the migraines. Oh god, the migraines. Mine last anywhere from hours to weeks. How the hell could I possibly care for a helpless infant in that state?
I know that my husband would do his best to help, but he's got his own set of issues, physical and mental, and it wouldn't be fair to him to have to constantly pick up my slack.
But you know what? I'm 100% fine with all of this. I simply do not want to have a child. I will be a proud aunt. I will be a good godmother. When I have the spoons, I will give my friends some free babysitting so they can enjoy the luxuries that I have every day, like an uninterrupted shower, a chance to sprawl out with a book, or go to the mall or grocery store, or hell, spend time with other adults.
Brandell and I agree--we love our life as it is. We have my family, for better or for worse. We have an amazing chosen family of friends. We have our cats, who we love and spoil--who ARE our furry, mostly self-sufficient, quiet, cuddly kids. And most importantly, we have our freedom. Not only can we do what we want, when we want, we can do absolutely nothing at all, and I swear to you, that is my most cherished freedom.
So no, I'm not some evil child-hater. I believe that people who truly want and have the ability to care for children are the ones who should have them. We are not those people.
High school was when I was introduced to the full reality of babies. My brother and sister-in-law had my nephew when I was a junior. Of course, I immediately loved him, redness, wrinkles, flakiness, and all. Around that time, a few acquaintances and friends became pregnant, and after the initial shock, they all seemed to be pretty psyched to be having a kid. My mind recoiled in horror that this is something that people my age, with the whole world in front of them, considered to be a good thing. Sure, it's either make the best of it or get the big A, so I suppose they were putting on the brave face, which is commendable. At that age, I can't say that I would have chosen to keep the pregnancy.
But back to my nephew. I'd occasionally watch him for a few hours so the grown-ups could do their thing, and boy, did that drive home reality fast. Around that time, I also babysat an infant and his five year old brother (who routinely kicked my ass at Mario Brothers), and as much as I enjoyed the time when the infant was calm and curled up in my arms sleeping or just hanging out and drooling on himself, it always scared me silly when he'd start crying or screaming. OMFG. The diaper is dry. I just fed him. I am holding him. CLEARLY THIS CHILD IS IN MORTAL PERIL. I had that experience with both my nephew and my infant charge, and boy, that feeling of panic does not suit my disposition in the least.
Still, I felt that once I was the ripe old age of, 25, I would be this totally different person, ready for the 9-to-5, a nice, clean-cut husband, a house in the suburbs, and a couple kids. Suffice to say, my life didn't turn out like that. At 25, I'd been dating my now-husband for over a year. We were in dire straits financially, just barely making enough for both of us to survive. Money was incredibly tight for us for the first few years we were together, so tight that when his roommate went nuts (literally) and told him he had two weeks to get out, the best option was for him to move in with me. We'd been together for two weeks at the time, and my family wasn't terribly pleased with this, but thankfully they understood that, as someone new in town, I had very few options. My roommates had just moved out on me, too. I couldn't afford my house alone. Brandell didn't have deposit money. So we made an agreement that regardless of what happened with our relationship, we'd always put our friendship first, and if we had to part ways, we'd continue to help each other until he could find another place. Thankfully, that wasn't necessary.
About two years into the relationship, we started talking about eventually (OH GOD, NOT NOW, OF COURSE, BUT EVENTUALLY) having kids. Two seemed like a good number. Eventually, we'd want to do this. Eventually, it would seem like the greatest idea ever, and we'd go for it. We'd grow up. We'd settle down. One day, the urge to have babies would start to percolate in both of us, just like it does for every human...right? A year later, we'd decided on ONE. ONE KID. THAT IS ALL. And for the love of butter, NOT NOW.
About a year later, something just...clicked. We were talking about kids, all the money and hassle involved, the patience both of us lack, the sacrifices we'd have to make, the frequent migraines we both have, the fact that both of us get very, very annoyed in the presence of anything loud, and the fact that neither of us felt any particular drive to be a parent. Neither of us craved that opportunity to nurture and teach a small human. We have friends with kids, and while we're totally fine with playing aunt and uncle for a few hours at a time, by the end of it, we're both thinking "DEAR GOD, GET THIS THING AWAY FROM ME!" I can't remember who said it first, but it was probably me. "We just...shouldn't."
That settled it, save one moment of reconsideration at the urging of a friend. She wasn't trying to pressure me, she just wanted to make sure I'd fully weighed my options, and the experiment she suggested, "Spot the Good Kid", absolutely changed my attitude towards other people's children (yes, curmudgeonly 20-something, there ARE good parents in the world), but further cemented my resolve not to have my own, there's been no looking back. We agreed that if, later in life, we felt we'd missed out on something important, we'd get involved as foster parents, or perhaps consider adoption.
Last summer, I was working at a call center when I, for lack of a more fitting term, completely lost my shit. I was constantly anxious, and the depression that I'd gotten a pretty good handle on over the past few years came roaring back with a vengeance. I immediately got involved with my county's Behavioral Health program. Soon, I realized that if I was to have any hope of being a functional person, I was going to need to be on an antidepressant for the rest of my life. Quitting for a year and a half or so (pregnancy plus breast feeding time) would likely result in a nasty downward spiral, culminating in horrible postpartum depression.
My fibromyalgia diagnosis absolutely cements it. I can't imagine the pain I'd endure carrying a child to term with absolutely nothing to mitigate the pain I already have just lugging my carcass about. Once the child was born, even if I opted out of breast-feeding to resume my medications, what would I do on the bad days? Sometimes, a gallon of milk feels like the weight of the world. Lack of sleep makes my symptoms worse, so until the baby started sleeping through the night, I imagine I'd be pretty miserable on a daily basis. And the migraines. Oh god, the migraines. Mine last anywhere from hours to weeks. How the hell could I possibly care for a helpless infant in that state?
I know that my husband would do his best to help, but he's got his own set of issues, physical and mental, and it wouldn't be fair to him to have to constantly pick up my slack.
But you know what? I'm 100% fine with all of this. I simply do not want to have a child. I will be a proud aunt. I will be a good godmother. When I have the spoons, I will give my friends some free babysitting so they can enjoy the luxuries that I have every day, like an uninterrupted shower, a chance to sprawl out with a book, or go to the mall or grocery store, or hell, spend time with other adults.
Brandell and I agree--we love our life as it is. We have my family, for better or for worse. We have an amazing chosen family of friends. We have our cats, who we love and spoil--who ARE our furry, mostly self-sufficient, quiet, cuddly kids. And most importantly, we have our freedom. Not only can we do what we want, when we want, we can do absolutely nothing at all, and I swear to you, that is my most cherished freedom.
So no, I'm not some evil child-hater. I believe that people who truly want and have the ability to care for children are the ones who should have them. We are not those people.
23 March 2011
Tu-tu Tattoosday!
After my earlier post about spoons and learning to evaluate reality before agreeing to every offer of fun times that comes my way, I decided that the spoon tattoo was definitely happening. I got a quick shower, put on a fun outfit, decided makeup was unnecessary, and got the hell out.
So, we got to Diabolik Ink and I discovered that Bob, my usual artist, wasn't working today. However, Erik, who did Jenny's tattoo about a month ago, was available. This sort of caught me off guard. Bob's been there every time I've been in since the first time he tattooed me. I sort of stammered out "Well. Uhh. You're good, right? Duh, what am I thinking, of course you're good, Jenny's tattoos look awesome." GOD ALMIGHTY AT THE FLAVOR OF SHOE LEATHER. He seemed unfazed by my unintentional rudeness, and we talked about what I wanted. He got the initial drawing done, and Brandell and I left to go grab a burger since we'd barely eaten and I'd hate to pass out, and when I got back, I decided to be a mega-dork and email myself with some content for this post. LOL
Currently sitting at the shop waiting for Erik to prep everything. I'm getting a spoon on the inside of my left wrist. Told him why, and the drawing came back with some red liquid in the spoon. Spoon with meds? Fuck yes, even better. So yes, I am tattoo-cheating on Bob today, but this...this just had to happen. I feel like it's important to cement my new reality in my head in a very real, permanent way. It will be a reminder to consider how I actually feel and my current mental and physical state before over committing. That sometimes, it's ok to put my needs first. And I'll always have an extra spoon when I'm running low.
Right about then, Erik bee-lined for the door to smoke a cig, so I followed him out for "Smoke 'em if you've got 'em" time. We went back to his booth, and I saw he'd added a red and orange sun behind the spoon. Oh sweet lord, yes.
See, all I'd told him earlier was that I'd recently been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and wanted a tattoo of a spoon. He didn't know what fibromyalgia is, or about the whole "spoons" concept, or that being diagnosed after three years of misery really is like the dawn of a whole new life for me. As he worked, I explained all of this to him, and we both thought it was definitely...interesting that he'd come up with that without any input from me.
What I'd requested as a simple line drawing just grew and grew in complexity and color and depth. This is by far one of my most beautiful tattoos, hands down. It's number 10 for me, and I hate to say this because it almost always jinxes me (the artist moves to a bigger city), but I think I've found MY artist.
There's just no words for how much I love it. The detail is impeccable. The treatment of transparent and reflective surfaces is unlike anything I've ever seen. Holy balls, Batman, this guy is GOOD.
(Never mind the mirror images, I was screwing with FXCamera on my Droid and wound up getting a better picture than the previous one. LOL)
After a trip to Big Lots in which we purchased everything but what we meant to purchase, we stopped by Captain D's to pick up some dinner. We were both beat.
After we ate, Brandell used the cat as a pillow while I took my meds and changed into my pajamas.
...I gotta say, it was a good day.
<3
So, we got to Diabolik Ink and I discovered that Bob, my usual artist, wasn't working today. However, Erik, who did Jenny's tattoo about a month ago, was available. This sort of caught me off guard. Bob's been there every time I've been in since the first time he tattooed me. I sort of stammered out "Well. Uhh. You're good, right? Duh, what am I thinking, of course you're good, Jenny's tattoos look awesome." GOD ALMIGHTY AT THE FLAVOR OF SHOE LEATHER. He seemed unfazed by my unintentional rudeness, and we talked about what I wanted. He got the initial drawing done, and Brandell and I left to go grab a burger since we'd barely eaten and I'd hate to pass out, and when I got back, I decided to be a mega-dork and email myself with some content for this post. LOL
Currently sitting at the shop waiting for Erik to prep everything. I'm getting a spoon on the inside of my left wrist. Told him why, and the drawing came back with some red liquid in the spoon. Spoon with meds? Fuck yes, even better. So yes, I am tattoo-cheating on Bob today, but this...this just had to happen. I feel like it's important to cement my new reality in my head in a very real, permanent way. It will be a reminder to consider how I actually feel and my current mental and physical state before over committing. That sometimes, it's ok to put my needs first. And I'll always have an extra spoon when I'm running low.
Right about then, Erik bee-lined for the door to smoke a cig, so I followed him out for "Smoke 'em if you've got 'em" time. We went back to his booth, and I saw he'd added a red and orange sun behind the spoon. Oh sweet lord, yes.
See, all I'd told him earlier was that I'd recently been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and wanted a tattoo of a spoon. He didn't know what fibromyalgia is, or about the whole "spoons" concept, or that being diagnosed after three years of misery really is like the dawn of a whole new life for me. As he worked, I explained all of this to him, and we both thought it was definitely...interesting that he'd come up with that without any input from me.
What I'd requested as a simple line drawing just grew and grew in complexity and color and depth. This is by far one of my most beautiful tattoos, hands down. It's number 10 for me, and I hate to say this because it almost always jinxes me (the artist moves to a bigger city), but I think I've found MY artist.
There's just no words for how much I love it. The detail is impeccable. The treatment of transparent and reflective surfaces is unlike anything I've ever seen. Holy balls, Batman, this guy is GOOD.
(Never mind the mirror images, I was screwing with FXCamera on my Droid and wound up getting a better picture than the previous one. LOL)
After a trip to Big Lots in which we purchased everything but what we meant to purchase, we stopped by Captain D's to pick up some dinner. We were both beat.
After we ate, Brandell used the cat as a pillow while I took my meds and changed into my pajamas.
...I gotta say, it was a good day.
<3
22 March 2011
I'm not usually one for these things. I take them in secret shame and only post them when they're accurate. LOL
You were born during a Third Quarter moon
This phase occurs in the middle of the moon's waning phases, after the full moon and before the new moon.
This phase occurs in the middle of the moon's waning phases, after the full moon and before the new moon.
- what it says about you -
You like to make up your own mind. You may find it hard to relate to mainstream opinions on issues, and you definitely don't always like what's popular. You can work out solutions and give birth to big ideas when left to yourself, and other people will be impressed with your conclusions even if they're not sure how you arrived at them.
What phase was the moon at on your birthday? Find out at Spacefem.comYou like to make up your own mind. You may find it hard to relate to mainstream opinions on issues, and you definitely don't always like what's popular. You can work out solutions and give birth to big ideas when left to yourself, and other people will be impressed with your conclusions even if they're not sure how you arrived at them.
Alarm fail.
Well, suffice to say, my ass is NOT in Tallahassee right now. I set three alarms. All of them were within two feet of my head. I also had Jenny call me twice, and did not hear the phone right next to my head, either. Fail, fail, fail.
I guess part of my problem is that the post I made last night got me thinking. I thought about what's mandatory, what's obligatory, what's optional, and what I really, truly, legitimately want to spend my spoons on.
Time, effort, and energy are precious commodities to anyone, but doubly so when one runs smack into the reality that it's not a matter of laziness or being antisocial...the mind is willing but the body says FUCK THAT.
For example: Can I comfortably sit on a bar stool or stand for 4-5 hours? Hell no. Can I drink with everyone else? LOL, no. Do I enjoy being sober around drunk people? Do I even have to answer that question? Do I really think I'll be able to spend quality time with the person I came to see? Yeahhhh no. Will I be relaxed and comfortable in a loud, unfamiliar place? Not at all. Logical conclusion? Send regrets and possibly a thoughtful gift.
Today, I'm going to Diabolik Ink to set an appointment to have the Tree of Life I had outlined over a year ago filled in. It's effing huge. It goes from the ankle to the knee on the back of my left calf, and is wrapped in a banner that says "I have seen in a forest of myself little books from tall trees", a quote from Release, my favorite Blackalicious song. I'm going to have the artist add in some wisteria to the branches, too. And if there's an artist free today, I'm going to have a wee spoon tattooed on my left wrist. It just seems like the thing to do.
I suppose it's time to break free from my mentality that I'm a shitty friend if I can't make it to all the things I say I will. I get so excited, so very very excited, when I hear about fun things to do. I don't consider my limitations. I don't think about the realities that said situation will entail. I need to learn to say "That sounds like fun. Let me get back to you on that." and stop agreeing because the annoying-ass idealist who lives in my brain forgets my current reality.
I guess part of my problem is that the post I made last night got me thinking. I thought about what's mandatory, what's obligatory, what's optional, and what I really, truly, legitimately want to spend my spoons on.
Time, effort, and energy are precious commodities to anyone, but doubly so when one runs smack into the reality that it's not a matter of laziness or being antisocial...the mind is willing but the body says FUCK THAT.
For example: Can I comfortably sit on a bar stool or stand for 4-5 hours? Hell no. Can I drink with everyone else? LOL, no. Do I enjoy being sober around drunk people? Do I even have to answer that question? Do I really think I'll be able to spend quality time with the person I came to see? Yeahhhh no. Will I be relaxed and comfortable in a loud, unfamiliar place? Not at all. Logical conclusion? Send regrets and possibly a thoughtful gift.
Today, I'm going to Diabolik Ink to set an appointment to have the Tree of Life I had outlined over a year ago filled in. It's effing huge. It goes from the ankle to the knee on the back of my left calf, and is wrapped in a banner that says "I have seen in a forest of myself little books from tall trees", a quote from Release, my favorite Blackalicious song. I'm going to have the artist add in some wisteria to the branches, too. And if there's an artist free today, I'm going to have a wee spoon tattooed on my left wrist. It just seems like the thing to do.
I suppose it's time to break free from my mentality that I'm a shitty friend if I can't make it to all the things I say I will. I get so excited, so very very excited, when I hear about fun things to do. I don't consider my limitations. I don't think about the realities that said situation will entail. I need to learn to say "That sounds like fun. Let me get back to you on that." and stop agreeing because the annoying-ass idealist who lives in my brain forgets my current reality.
Well, I should be in bed...
I'm supposed to be on the road to Tallahassee by 10am with Jenny, Jeff, and Brandell. I'm definitely better than yesterday, but I still feel like I was beaten by a bag full of hammers. TJ left to go back to Denver today. I spent a good chunk of my afternoon speed-crocheting a dice bag for him. Steve came over for a few minutes. The day was pretty chill, but I have no idea where it went and I don't feel rested at all.
So why the hell am I even considering this trip to Tallahassee? New Leaf Market, my dears. It's literally the closest thing, both in distance and in concept, that we have to a Whole Foods around here. And while B and I aren't afraid of trans fats and yellow #5, we dig the meat selection there (all the normal critters, plus lamb, goat, bison, venison, rabbit...the list goes on) and all the fancy cheese. Food snobbery and being a fatty tend to go hand in hand. We've made the agreement that we're going to choose things that don't take long to prep or cook. We spend way too much money eating out, and hope to rectify that.
I also want to pick up a few home remedies for fever blisters. I was born a carrier because my mom has 'em. I had my first one at 16, and this, my darlings, marks #2. Yes. Less than a week until my 30th birthday. I'm going to turn 30 with some shit on my lip that's got some shit on its lip. RUDE. I've been running damage control with medicated Chap-Stick, and so far, that's kept it at bay. Thankfully, I have propolis on hand, which is a natural, bee-produced anti-viral, anti-bacterial, anti-fungal WONDER SUBSTANCE. Seriously, that shit took care of an abscessed tooth at one point. Lysine and licorice powder are also on my to-buy list. FULL ON ASSAULT.
So I'm going to just...shut up and go. I have a Monster Java in the fridge, and Brandell's word that he'll drive on the way back, so I can totally do this. It's making me rethink other things I've committed to over the next week or so and wonder--is this really the best use of my spoons? Well, what the fuck else would I use them for? But that? Really? Sigh. I'll strike a balance one day. Until then, I'll do my damnedest not to over commit myself, and drive that lesson home by making myself keep the commitments I make when humanly possible.
I guess the fever blister really drives home the point of my current stress levels. The last time I got one, it was one of those worst case scenario times...for a 16 year old, at least. I guess I'm a bit more frazzled than I'd like to admit. Lately, I haven't even wanted to bother calling bullshit on scenarios when it's greatly deserved, which is highly out of character for me. I've forgiven when I probably should have stuck to the promise I made to myself. I've taken a deep breath and let some dumb shit go. These are all probably things I should have been doing all along. The only problem is, when I don't speak up, I internalize shit and stew about it. I have an incredibly hard time truly just letting shit go. It burns a fucking hole in my gut until enough time has passed for me to lose some of my give-a-damn. It can be hours, it can be years. And don't tell me to journal that shit, because it would all go right here (pen and paper writing, at least in the quantity that would take for me to purge this foolishness, is hell on my hands) and I would lose friends and alienate people. The fucking quandary of the thinking woman, I suppose. It's a shame people don't respond well when you grab them by the face, stare into their eyes, and say "YOU ARE BEING STUPID".
Aaaand cue my back hurting like hell again. O hai, PMS. Joyyyyy.
/Negative Nancy
So why the hell am I even considering this trip to Tallahassee? New Leaf Market, my dears. It's literally the closest thing, both in distance and in concept, that we have to a Whole Foods around here. And while B and I aren't afraid of trans fats and yellow #5, we dig the meat selection there (all the normal critters, plus lamb, goat, bison, venison, rabbit...the list goes on) and all the fancy cheese. Food snobbery and being a fatty tend to go hand in hand. We've made the agreement that we're going to choose things that don't take long to prep or cook. We spend way too much money eating out, and hope to rectify that.
I also want to pick up a few home remedies for fever blisters. I was born a carrier because my mom has 'em. I had my first one at 16, and this, my darlings, marks #2. Yes. Less than a week until my 30th birthday. I'm going to turn 30 with some shit on my lip that's got some shit on its lip. RUDE. I've been running damage control with medicated Chap-Stick, and so far, that's kept it at bay. Thankfully, I have propolis on hand, which is a natural, bee-produced anti-viral, anti-bacterial, anti-fungal WONDER SUBSTANCE. Seriously, that shit took care of an abscessed tooth at one point. Lysine and licorice powder are also on my to-buy list. FULL ON ASSAULT.
So I'm going to just...shut up and go. I have a Monster Java in the fridge, and Brandell's word that he'll drive on the way back, so I can totally do this. It's making me rethink other things I've committed to over the next week or so and wonder--is this really the best use of my spoons? Well, what the fuck else would I use them for? But that? Really? Sigh. I'll strike a balance one day. Until then, I'll do my damnedest not to over commit myself, and drive that lesson home by making myself keep the commitments I make when humanly possible.
I guess the fever blister really drives home the point of my current stress levels. The last time I got one, it was one of those worst case scenario times...for a 16 year old, at least. I guess I'm a bit more frazzled than I'd like to admit. Lately, I haven't even wanted to bother calling bullshit on scenarios when it's greatly deserved, which is highly out of character for me. I've forgiven when I probably should have stuck to the promise I made to myself. I've taken a deep breath and let some dumb shit go. These are all probably things I should have been doing all along. The only problem is, when I don't speak up, I internalize shit and stew about it. I have an incredibly hard time truly just letting shit go. It burns a fucking hole in my gut until enough time has passed for me to lose some of my give-a-damn. It can be hours, it can be years. And don't tell me to journal that shit, because it would all go right here (pen and paper writing, at least in the quantity that would take for me to purge this foolishness, is hell on my hands) and I would lose friends and alienate people. The fucking quandary of the thinking woman, I suppose. It's a shame people don't respond well when you grab them by the face, stare into their eyes, and say "YOU ARE BEING STUPID".
Aaaand cue my back hurting like hell again. O hai, PMS. Joyyyyy.
/Negative Nancy
21 March 2011
The Rise and Fall of One Magnificent Weekend
Now that I've become conscious of what's going on with my body, I'm learning pretty quickly that there's two sides to this coin of feeling better. I decided to have my birthday party a week early this year. My dear friend TJ came to town this week, and since I'm going to be out of town on my actual birthday, why not rally the troops to hang with TJ and to celebrate me getting hella old?
So, me and 12 of my nearest and dearest got together Saturday night. Since I can't drink due to my meds and I'm slightly bitter about that, the party was BYOB. Thankfully, if I take all my meds together, it's like taking a trip without leaving the farm, so I was a good little patient. My husband grilled hot dogs (and veggie dogs) and Kristin brought potato salad and her AMAZING olive dip--seriously, the stuff is THE BEST EVER and if you eat enough, you smell like a salami the next day the first time you sweat. God, I love garlic. Pretty simple spread that required very few spoons to get together. I even bought my cake, which would have been unheard of previously. So glad I did though--Publix Bakery makes a damn fine Caramel Pecan Crunch cake. Leftovers? There are none.
I'd had some fancy-pants party outfit planned, but I wound up staying in my t-shirt and cut-off shorts. I dunno, I guess my priorities are slowly but surely rearranging themselves. I wanted to be comfortable and have fun with my friends and not have to act ladylike in the least.
And the guest list--oh good god, some of the finest human beings I know. Brandell and myself, OF COURSE, and TJ, who lives in Denver and we get to see him maybe once or twice a year, Jenny and Jeff, who brought Rock Band and always make for a lively gathering, Eric, the fantastically hilarious artist who I hadn't seen since training class at the failed experiment which was my employment at Convergys, MY GREGGIE PIE, who's been my BFF since age 12, drove up from Jacksonville. I spent a good portion of my night attached at the hip to Greggie, including making Two-Headed Snuggie Monster while watching Gorillaz: Demon Days Live at the end of the night. And of course, Jared and Steve and Scott and Samantha and Kristin and all those fantastic people who make my world go 'round. Try to show me a finer group of human beings and I'll call you a goddamn liar. I'm so grateful to have all of these people in my life, and to have them all show up to celebrate with the old gimp who's politicking on the alcohol? I feel loved. <3
So, we stuffed our faces and played some Rock Band, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't indulge in a bit of herbal refreshment. Hey, if this were California, I'd be prescribed it by my doctor to help mitigate my pain, so why the hell not, especially on a night when pain is the last thing I need. And god, that was good times too. There's something magical about the campfire circle, how it can take a group of people who don't know each other and turn them into friends by the time the joint's out. Especially those moments when everyone is quiet and you look at the faces of those around you and think of how lucky you are to be surrounded by these people, folks who probably never would have come together were it not for that one common interest.
And since I wasn't drunk at the end of the night, Brandell and I got all the food put away and the house mostly restored to its pre-party state. I crawled into the bed and was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.
Yesterday morning, the other side of that coin came down HARD. The grocery shopping trip/Kohl's run (because TJ needed a party outfit, ain't that sweet), what little party prep there was, plus being all over the place all night, sitting in uncomfortable positions, and generally acting the fool took its toll on me. My back was screaming. Muscle cramps and spasms that reached into my lower abdomen and hips. I spent most of the day trying to find a comfy place to sit. Couches? Fail. Comfy computer chair that ALWAYS helps my back? Well, I found the exception to that rule. I think the most comfortable place I wound up was sitting on the edge of my bed, a pillow behind me, leaned up against the wall. Thus, I spent a good chunk of yesterday after Greggie left in my room crocheting. Not a bad deal, if you ask me. Still, the pain was nearly unbearable, even with all of my meds. And...I just had to deal. I distracted myself as best I could. More importantly, I accepted that after a big, busy, active day, this will likely be the fallout.
So, lesson learned. Go on, have fun with your friends. Do the things that you want to do. But don't overestimate your spoon count. Schedule relaxation time, and if you can't schedule it, take it anyway. People will understand or they won't. It's that simple. I feel incredibly lucky that I do have so many understanding, supportive people in my life. Anything that enhances my gratitude for what I do have and the things that are going right can't be entirely bad, now can it?
So, me and 12 of my nearest and dearest got together Saturday night. Since I can't drink due to my meds and I'm slightly bitter about that, the party was BYOB. Thankfully, if I take all my meds together, it's like taking a trip without leaving the farm, so I was a good little patient. My husband grilled hot dogs (and veggie dogs) and Kristin brought potato salad and her AMAZING olive dip--seriously, the stuff is THE BEST EVER and if you eat enough, you smell like a salami the next day the first time you sweat. God, I love garlic. Pretty simple spread that required very few spoons to get together. I even bought my cake, which would have been unheard of previously. So glad I did though--Publix Bakery makes a damn fine Caramel Pecan Crunch cake. Leftovers? There are none.
I'd had some fancy-pants party outfit planned, but I wound up staying in my t-shirt and cut-off shorts. I dunno, I guess my priorities are slowly but surely rearranging themselves. I wanted to be comfortable and have fun with my friends and not have to act ladylike in the least.
And the guest list--oh good god, some of the finest human beings I know. Brandell and myself, OF COURSE, and TJ, who lives in Denver and we get to see him maybe once or twice a year, Jenny and Jeff, who brought Rock Band and always make for a lively gathering, Eric, the fantastically hilarious artist who I hadn't seen since training class at the failed experiment which was my employment at Convergys, MY GREGGIE PIE, who's been my BFF since age 12, drove up from Jacksonville. I spent a good portion of my night attached at the hip to Greggie, including making Two-Headed Snuggie Monster while watching Gorillaz: Demon Days Live at the end of the night. And of course, Jared and Steve and Scott and Samantha and Kristin and all those fantastic people who make my world go 'round. Try to show me a finer group of human beings and I'll call you a goddamn liar. I'm so grateful to have all of these people in my life, and to have them all show up to celebrate with the old gimp who's politicking on the alcohol? I feel loved. <3
So, we stuffed our faces and played some Rock Band, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't indulge in a bit of herbal refreshment. Hey, if this were California, I'd be prescribed it by my doctor to help mitigate my pain, so why the hell not, especially on a night when pain is the last thing I need. And god, that was good times too. There's something magical about the campfire circle, how it can take a group of people who don't know each other and turn them into friends by the time the joint's out. Especially those moments when everyone is quiet and you look at the faces of those around you and think of how lucky you are to be surrounded by these people, folks who probably never would have come together were it not for that one common interest.
And since I wasn't drunk at the end of the night, Brandell and I got all the food put away and the house mostly restored to its pre-party state. I crawled into the bed and was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.
Yesterday morning, the other side of that coin came down HARD. The grocery shopping trip/Kohl's run (because TJ needed a party outfit, ain't that sweet), what little party prep there was, plus being all over the place all night, sitting in uncomfortable positions, and generally acting the fool took its toll on me. My back was screaming. Muscle cramps and spasms that reached into my lower abdomen and hips. I spent most of the day trying to find a comfy place to sit. Couches? Fail. Comfy computer chair that ALWAYS helps my back? Well, I found the exception to that rule. I think the most comfortable place I wound up was sitting on the edge of my bed, a pillow behind me, leaned up against the wall. Thus, I spent a good chunk of yesterday after Greggie left in my room crocheting. Not a bad deal, if you ask me. Still, the pain was nearly unbearable, even with all of my meds. And...I just had to deal. I distracted myself as best I could. More importantly, I accepted that after a big, busy, active day, this will likely be the fallout.
So, lesson learned. Go on, have fun with your friends. Do the things that you want to do. But don't overestimate your spoon count. Schedule relaxation time, and if you can't schedule it, take it anyway. People will understand or they won't. It's that simple. I feel incredibly lucky that I do have so many understanding, supportive people in my life. Anything that enhances my gratitude for what I do have and the things that are going right can't be entirely bad, now can it?
18 March 2011
Mania, mania
Won't you lovelies join me for a swim in a sunny sea of serotonin?
I have no idea if this is a common experience for fibromyalgia patients, but wow, I have been obnoxiously upbeat and energetic since my diagnosis. I'm currently also being treated for major depression (possible bipolar) and generalized anxiety disorder. I'm agoraphobic. I get frequent migraines. All of these conditions have created the perfect storm of unpleasantness in my life for the past 5-6 years, slowly but surely, culminating in the utter paralysis of the last year.
In 2007, my husband and I were liberated from food service by a sizable insurance settlement. In the last few months at my job as a manager/cook at a delivery restaurant, I'd noticed my back, shoulders, elbows, and wrists hurting more than ever. I chalked it up to repetitive motion injuries from the job, that I hadn't had long enough to recover between shifts of flinging around fry baskets and huge quantities of chicken and the incessant cleaning that goes in to keeping such an establishment from becoming utterly disgusting. But whatever, right? I was out of there.
That winter, I started having frequent bouts of bursitis in my hip, so severe they'd wake me up from a dead sleep. And a few months later, when we were moving from our shitty rental house to our current Frankenstein house of fabulousness, I'd get nauseous with such frequency that my husband wound up telling me to go to the new house and stay there, to put stuff where it belongs as they bring it, and just...hang out in the place that has the clean toilets and plenty of places to stretch out. I felt so miserably guilty about that. I knew I was sick. I knew something was wrong. I've never been the type of girl who stands back and lets the men do the heavy lifting, so it wasn't just guilt about failing to help my husband, I felt like I'd failed the very essence of who I am. I went to the doctor several times, but they couldn't find any reason for my nausea. I tried everything they threw at me, but nothing helped. When the nausea reappeared with severe lower abdominal cramping, I was sent for a CT scan, which showed everything in fine working order. I sucked it up. I learned to live with it.
That's when the decline started to become painfully apparent. I almost entirely quit drinking. Fifty percent of the time, alcohol, even one beer, would cause severe back and stomach cramps, and a headache about 80% of the time. Shooting for that magical 20% of good party times ceased to be worth it.
Well, in this town, there's nothing to do but go out and drink and/or eat. Really. We have a movie theater and a pool hall, and that's about it for entertainment for adults after 9pm. So I became pretty reclusive, and still am.
As a lifelong slob, I'd vowed to myself not to let my new house get as dirty, cluttered, or otherwise befouled as my previous residences. I did really well for awhile. But that's fallen off, too. Doing the dishes, cooking dinner, sweeping, vacuuming, all the normal household chores mean severe pain within the space of minutes. I go through periods when things aren't as bad and I actually have some damn energy, and I give the kitchen a huge once-over and reorganization, become really aware of what's in the fridge and pantry and cook like a wild woman. These are my favorite times. My husband, my friends, and I are all huge foodies, and it makes me really happy to be able to feed people well, to see the simple joy that the perfect bowl of chili or fried chicken or coconut rice pudding can bring to the people I love. I've been cooking since I was old enough to see over the counter by standing on a chair, and it's the only household task I've ever truly loved. But I couldn't do it anymore. Sure, I'd cook a big meal or bake a cake when it was a special occasion or someone's birthday, but these efforts always felt herculean and leave me drained for at least a day afterwards. This, my friends, is when I should have known that something was seriously wrong.
Throughout all of this, every time I went to the doctor, all my vitals were exactly where they needed to be. I've seen no less than 7 different doctors/PAs in the past three years, and not one of them has said an unkind word about my weight. All my blood work has come back beautifully. When I asked one of my doctors to test my blood sugar so my mom would stop harping about YOU'RE FAT. YOU GET LOTS OF URINARY TRACT INFECTIONS. YOU HAVE DIABETES., the doctor laughed and said he would have already done so if he thought there was the remotest possibility that I do, but humored me anyway out of pity.
So, I had this notion that, as the doctor who was trying to figure out why my stomach was stuck on "reject" mode had stated, I was healthy as a horse. So, I'm not proud of this in the least, but I started blaming my fat for all of my aches and issues. And I shut up about them. I took on more than I could handle, and did ok at first, but in no time, I was letting my friends down left and right. More guilt. Clearly, I'm too fat to maintain a social life. As a proud fat activist, I am so ashamed of myself for letting myself buy this bullshit for as long as I did. But fuckin' ey, I'm going to own my shit, good, bad, or ugly.
Because of the frequent migraines and back aches, I'd been looking for a new doctor. The practice I'd been going to for two years refused to treat me for migraines any longer unless I booked an appointment with a neurologist and had an MRI. I'm self/unemployed (more on that some other time). I don't have money for that shit. I understand that they wanted to make sure we weren't missing a brain tumor or anything, but they didn't bother trying to understand my side of the situation. Better to have someone out there in debilitating pain than have to possibly deal with a lawyer, right?
On my second doctor-finding attempt, I wound up in the right place. Dr. Wonderful has been practicing medicine for 30 years, both as an MD and in the psychiatric field. He's the only physician in his practice. The office doesn't accept or bill insurance, at all, period, so office visits are only $60, and the urinalysis I had to have last visit was $25 (compared to the $130 I've been charged elsewhere). This amazing man has chosen to operate this practice for the people who can't afford or don't have insurance, people who likely don't have annual check-ups, and are likely to come in with acute symptoms as well as chronic conditions for which they're currently undiagnosed/untreated. I wound up there on Day 7 of a migraine. He spent, literally, 45 minutes with my husband and I, discussing my migraines, my general health, everything under the sun. He proposed that I simply have so many headache triggers that the bastards never leave, and gave me prescriptions for each of my symptoms and scheduled a follow-up appointment for a month later.
In the meantime, I was getting to know my dear friend Wendy, also a fibromyalgia patient. It impacts so much of her life that I decided I'd be a bad friend if I didn't just google that shit and learn a bit about what she's dealing with. And that's when the bomb dropped. I kept reading, page after page, about the symptoms and diagnostic criteria for fibromyalgia. My pulse was racing. This new information--all of it--was describing me. After some discussion with Wendy, I decided to print up a 6-page symptom checklist I'd found, fill it out, and bring it to my follow-up appointment with Dr. Wonderful.
The morning of the follow-up appointment, I had an appointment with Dr. Curmudgeon, my psychiatrist. I explained that I had wide-spread pain, as well as frequent headaches and migraines, and asked if I could change antidepressants from Pristiq to Cymbalta, since they're both SNRIs and Cymbalta works wonders for pain in some patients. Much to my surprise, he immediately agreed and wrote the prescription. I had to have my annual blood work done immediately after my appointment with Dr. Curmudgeon, and when the nurse was verifying my meds, I had to tell her that as of one week from that day, I'd be on Cymbalta and to maybe put that in my info instead. She asked why, and I told her about my issues, and she said "Oh honey, that sounds like fibromyalgia. I have it, too."
That afternoon, when Dr. Wonderful walked into the exam room and asked how I was doing, I told him that I was pretty sure I'd solved The Mystery of the Never-Ending Headache and handed him my questionnaire. He read it and said "Yep, I think you're on to something." He, my husband, and I talked for 30 minutes or so about my symptoms. He wants to do some blood work at my next visit to test for Epstein-Barr's Syndrome just to be sure, but when we checked out, I saw it there on the diagnosis line on the paperwork, in black and white, Fibromyalgia.
Prior to my appointment, I'd already had my big freak-out about all the things a fibromyalgia diagnosis might mean for me. My husband offered to drive. I was completely numb. It was real. Oh dear god. I actually do have fibromyalgia. I didn't freak out or cry. I completely surprised myself. The farther we got from the office, I realized what a positive thing this actually is for me. The prescriptions in my hand meant that I now had tools to systematically obliterate my symptoms. Never mind the impending narcotic haze, I thought about the weekend I had planned (going to the Azalea Festival with my girls), and how I knew now that even if I was short on energy, not being in pain would mean that I would have the bodily fortitude to drink an energy drink, then get out there and have fun. The plans I have for my birthday (8 days left of my 20's, y'all!), the trips I have planned, all the projects I want to work on, just...everything opened up to me in that moment.
Then I started thinking about all the guilt I've been carrying. Guilt for preferring sitting at my computer to most everything else because of the comfortable chair that fully supports my back. Guilt for not doing more with my friends. Guilt for all the times my husband has needed a back rub and I simply haven't had the strength or energy. Guilt for flaking on plans because I was sick or in pain. Guilt for not visiting far-flung friends and family more. Guilt for letting my house stay far messier than I'd like. A huge weight lifted. I hadn't been a bad wife or a bad friend or a bad daughter or a bad sister or a bad aunt, I'd been fucking SICK.
So, I've taken the long way around to telling you all why I have been one manic motherfucker since my diagnosis. I feel better. I feel healthier, ironically enough. I've spent time with my friends. I've spent time with my husband. I've been out in the sunshine. I've been crafting like a madwoman. The house is still a wreck, but I'll get to that soon enough, likely tomorrow. Now that I feel better, I feel hopeful about my future for the first time in a long time. I've also developed a new gratitude for all the friends I still have, the ones who have stuck by me through the pain and my lack of desire to leave my house and the days that I'm just not worth a damn for anything but a sarcastic remark or two. There's good-times friends and there's all-the-time friends, and I feel like my life is truly enriched by being surrounded by only all-the-time friends. I have so much more gratitude for everything in my life right now. Aside from having to keep my spending habits in check (one of the things I have major issues with when I'm manic), I haven't felt this good in years, physically or mentally. Don't get me wrong, I'm not leaving therapy any time soon, but I feel like I'm on my way to genuinely healing the things that are wrong with me that can be healed.
And it feels fucking fantastic.
On a completely unrelated note, I went to the gas station to buy cigarettes tonight, and the cashier carded me. When he handed my license back, he took a long look at me and said "I never would have guessed '81." I thanked him kindly for making an old lady smile. <3
17 March 2011
Yelling into the void.
It's been an interesting week or so, adjusting to the news that was dropped on me on March 8th. It's cool, though. I'm cool. Oddly enough, I'm somehow comforted by just knowing what's wrong with me.
I'm a bit off my ass on meds right now, but I wanted to go ahead and get this up and running. I've been promising myself forever that I was going to start my own blog. I suppose I've just been waiting until I had something substantial to write about on a regular basis. As fabulous as my rants and diatribes are, I'm not the angry person I used to be, and would have zero luck trying to keep an active blog based on sheer piss and vinegar.
So, about me. I have nine days left of my 20's, and one of my best friends flew in from Denver to help me celebrate. I have two epic weekends lined up, and I feel incredibly lucky that I'm currently receiving the medical care I need to be able to keep up! I've been married for about a year, but my husband and I have been together for seven years and have gone through what seems like more than our fair share of things getting really real. We are owned by two parakeets, two cockatiels, and two very round cats. We don't have kids, and we have no intention whatsoever of having kids. We strongly suspect our house was built by Dr. Frankenstein, and we share it with two resident spirits. I have a pretty...eclectic personal style, and haven't been able to keep my hair a color found in nature for more than a month or two in the last decade. I adore piercings and tattoos, and I'm mad as hell that pretty much any oral piercing will likely offset the delicate balance that currently keeps my teeth in my head. I think I'd look amazing with a labret.
I recently realized that I have exactly zero recurring commitments. No job (due to Crazy), no church (due to an aversion to religion), no clubs (due to being a total misanthrope), no volunteering (I used to volunteer at the animal shelter, and getting back into that is a goal of mine for once I'm feeling better)...just...nothing right now. I've been declining for probably five years, with the last three being a pretty quick downhill slide. More and more things kept disappearing from my life due to frequent migraines, constant back aches, and killer fatigue. I don't like that. I want to do things. I want to go to school. I know for sure that I want to go to tech school for something like graphic design, veterinary technician, cosmetology--the list goes on and only gets more random. I've been terrified of choosing a program, getting enrolled, and finding out my body and/or brain simply will not allow me to go to school or function once I get there, or be able to perform in the real world once I'm done. But I'm going to make this happen. I've had a sealed copy of my high school transcripts in my desk drawer for a few months now. It.Will. Happen.
I try to keep myself out of trouble, though. Clearly, I am an internet addict. I also love cooking (when my back will let me), crocheting, jewelry-making, and sewing. I have a shopping habit that's more useful for getting me into trouble than keeping me out of it. And my roommate and I spend the summer trying to cram in as many trips to Madison Blue Springs as possible. It's a spiritual thing.
I'm vain enough to carry on about myself for a few more pages, but I'm going to quit while I'm ahead and go sleep somewhere that won't involve waking up to a keyboard face-waffle in the morning.
<3
I'm a bit off my ass on meds right now, but I wanted to go ahead and get this up and running. I've been promising myself forever that I was going to start my own blog. I suppose I've just been waiting until I had something substantial to write about on a regular basis. As fabulous as my rants and diatribes are, I'm not the angry person I used to be, and would have zero luck trying to keep an active blog based on sheer piss and vinegar.
So, about me. I have nine days left of my 20's, and one of my best friends flew in from Denver to help me celebrate. I have two epic weekends lined up, and I feel incredibly lucky that I'm currently receiving the medical care I need to be able to keep up! I've been married for about a year, but my husband and I have been together for seven years and have gone through what seems like more than our fair share of things getting really real. We are owned by two parakeets, two cockatiels, and two very round cats. We don't have kids, and we have no intention whatsoever of having kids. We strongly suspect our house was built by Dr. Frankenstein, and we share it with two resident spirits. I have a pretty...eclectic personal style, and haven't been able to keep my hair a color found in nature for more than a month or two in the last decade. I adore piercings and tattoos, and I'm mad as hell that pretty much any oral piercing will likely offset the delicate balance that currently keeps my teeth in my head. I think I'd look amazing with a labret.
I recently realized that I have exactly zero recurring commitments. No job (due to Crazy), no church (due to an aversion to religion), no clubs (due to being a total misanthrope), no volunteering (I used to volunteer at the animal shelter, and getting back into that is a goal of mine for once I'm feeling better)...just...nothing right now. I've been declining for probably five years, with the last three being a pretty quick downhill slide. More and more things kept disappearing from my life due to frequent migraines, constant back aches, and killer fatigue. I don't like that. I want to do things. I want to go to school. I know for sure that I want to go to tech school for something like graphic design, veterinary technician, cosmetology--the list goes on and only gets more random. I've been terrified of choosing a program, getting enrolled, and finding out my body and/or brain simply will not allow me to go to school or function once I get there, or be able to perform in the real world once I'm done. But I'm going to make this happen. I've had a sealed copy of my high school transcripts in my desk drawer for a few months now. It.Will. Happen.
I try to keep myself out of trouble, though. Clearly, I am an internet addict. I also love cooking (when my back will let me), crocheting, jewelry-making, and sewing. I have a shopping habit that's more useful for getting me into trouble than keeping me out of it. And my roommate and I spend the summer trying to cram in as many trips to Madison Blue Springs as possible. It's a spiritual thing.
I'm vain enough to carry on about myself for a few more pages, but I'm going to quit while I'm ahead and go sleep somewhere that won't involve waking up to a keyboard face-waffle in the morning.
<3
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