Whether one would rather live with pain than die is an excellent indication of how much pain one is feeling.
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Whether one would rather live with pain than die is an excellent indication of how much pain one is feeling.
Sunday, 30 January 2005 at 01:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)
That post title is beneath me ... sorry: couldn't think of anything better.
So I've mentioned before about this uncharming ganglion cyst on my right wrist. It looked something like this, except excuse me, my hand must be ten years younger than that one, without the age spots and wrinkles. Ahem. In any case, this week I finally got to the doctor to complain that I'm too beautiful to have a hard, marble-sized lump sticking out of the back of my wrist, and might he do something about it.
And now I'm putting the rest in 'extended post' so that the squeamish can beg off. It's not that bad, but if you don't have a fascination for the clinical, I suggest you come back another day or read from the archives or something. *waving* bye-bye!
Saturday, 29 January 2005 at 10:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBack (0)
sexegenary anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. zeno's post about this is more thoughtful and openhearted than anything I could attempt, and I'm grateful for it.
I hadn't really been thriving lately (more the reverse), and finally made noise to my great psychopharmaceutical guru, who made a change that helped me. A lot. Immediately. Lesson learned: Don't suffer in silence. Well, you know, actually, silence is not my hallmark, is it? I guess more like: make your noise to someone who's in a position to propose effective action.
Thursday, 27 January 2005 at 01:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)
I'm really getting sick of all my whining. Good god. Get over myself. I'm not a poor, unfortunate slob. This, honest, no kidding, is what just flashed in my brain: Or to take arms against a sea of troubles / and, by opposing, end them. Generally, I'm not the Shakespeare quoting kind, and if I were it might be more in character to select something a lot more obscure, like, say, from Troilus and Cressida. And whoooops! that particular line alludes to suicide! I more had in mind 'kicking melancholy's scrawny, bitter, crybaby ass.' How about scare tactics? Hey! You talkin to me?
Fuck off or I'll bite your greasy head off, ya scurvy cocks*cking malodorous sniveling excuse for a mood disorder! GAURGHHHHRGHHHH!!!!
*foot tapping
*impatient glance at clock
Well. We'll see. Worth a try.
here's something else I'm thinking about, when I'm thinking, which is rarely. The other day I had a conversation with someone who is really good at telling stories. By which I mean not (as far as I know) fictional ones, but personal past-events ones. So I got to hear a really good story, and it was told well. And then I was requested a story ... I think I kinda sucked at it. There's just one story on this blog that I am really, really proud of ... not that I think it's the best thing I've ever read, but I think that, for me, it's quite good. Anyway, suddenly there was this in-the-moment request and I froze, but then I did come up with something, and I'm not sure how it went ... well. In any case, I am utterly unable to fabricate anything entirely. If I'm called upon to 'make up' a story, even by my daughter, it never ever comes easily. Well, as a rule, it doesn't come at all. Describing events that happen to me, also: difficult, but I can do it; and I'm usually horribly dissatisfied initially with how they materialize textually; later, they look a bit better. But an impulse to write never appears to arise from imagining something that is outside my experience, and when trying to conceive of a springboard to fiction, the only thing that occurs to me to attempt is to call up a memory, and then alter it.
Spalding Gray used to claim that he had no ability whatever to 'make things up'—all he could do, he said, was talk about things that had happened to him. If I had a fragment of his talent it would be impossible wealth ... but my point was that, of course, the fact that Gray's life was the raw material of his art in no way suggests that what he created was not wholly creation, as opposed to mere reporting, exposition ... so I suppose I need not consider my unfictional tendency as an insurmountable obstacle. And then, there's changing what happened freely, to make the story better. I don't do that much—at least, not intentionally. Perhaps I'm not the one to judge how 'true' my version is. In any case, I want to be able to stretch myself more, to do something unlike what I do here. But I haven't even begun to figure out how.
and last: I bought an impossibly expensive jar of organic Italian chestnut honey, and it tastes like nasty Victorian medicine. It is actually bitter. Is it supposed to be bitter? Of course, it is sweet as well. Bittersweet, you might say. Which is a treasured attribute in memories, but not in something to drizzle on an oven-hot, wholegrain biscuit. The fragrance is strange (in a pleasant way) and haunting. But if I had been going for 'bitter,' I'd've bought quinine. Now I am spending way too much time contemplating whether I ought to try returning it. I think the decision all hinges on whether one who knows what chestnut honey ought to taste like, would anticipate bitterness as a leading characteristic. So, on to research.
UPDATE: Well, that wasn't too difficult, was it? Without even clicking the links, a google search on "chestnut honey" yielded this associated text: Dark & aromatic, this honey doesn't have the typical bitter finish. Or: chestnut honey from piedmont—Beautifully bitter ... *sigh* Ah fuck me.
Tuesday, 25 January 2005 at 10:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)
oh man. if you have a friend who can make you giggle like a thirteen year old in the midst of being fucking sat on by the sumo wrestler of depression ... lemme tell you, that is pure gold.
buttercup: I don't know
buttercup: I'm just no fun when I'm depressed. Y'know, unlike all the other depressed people
buttercup: who are hired to be the dancers at bar mitzvahs
bubbles: and phone sex opeators
buttercup: that, I could probably still do fairly competently
bubbles: yeah
bubbles: you could have a "dark" special
buttercup: the potty mouth is like the energizer bunny
buttercup: it just goes on ... and on ... and on ....
bubbles: for the masochists
buttercup: I could cry for the sadists
bubbles: almost spit my juice tea
buttercup: talk about my paiiiinnnnnnnn
buttercup: owwwwww
bubbles: offer to sell beakers of your tears
buttercup: tears rolling down my boobs
bubbles: yes, and then zip-lock your bra
bubbles: $10 a pop
bubbles: wait--that'd be a net loss
buttercup: tears are loaded with hormones
bubbles: just tuck some tissues in there
buttercup: I'd have to wear the 'shot' bras
buttercup: the ones I'm about to replace anyway
bubbles: i remember some story of a man who thought he'd be "cured" by the tears of small chilren
bubbles: so his "butler" would collect children and bring themto the mansion, tell them horrible stories about their families
bubbles: and then collect the tears
buttercup: someone I know drinks her own pee when she is getting sick
bubbles: almost spit again
bubbles: must look up before I do that
buttercup: apparently it's homeopathy
bubbles: yes, I have actually seen it
buttercup: no kind of homeopathy I cotton to
bubbles: no wait--that was on that Tom Hanks movie
buttercup: they knew a doctor in Germany who would inject your pee into you
bubbles: i have actually heard of him
buttercup: also, he did fantasy scenes
buttercup: kidding
bubbles: but haven't corresponded
bubbles: and not planning to
bubbles: fending off your next question
buttercup: I did tell you about that 'gynecologist', didn't I?
bubbles: the one who put his own sperm into people?
bubbles: oh no I told that one in response
buttercup: no, the one who advertised free exams in the paper
bubbles: yes
buttercup: and worked out of a storage facility
bubbles: in his garage
buttercup: and offered fantasy scenes in his ad
buttercup: no, it was an office space in a u-store facility
bubbles: yes and did well enough to move to a 10x10 in just three short weeks
buttercup: heee
bubbles: more tables that way
bubbles: line-em up
bubbles: no waiting
buttercup: oh god that was like my first smile all day
bubbles: haaaaaaa
bubbles: I STILL HAVE IT
buttercup: you really are good
buttercup: why don't you do this for a living?
buttercup: wait wait wait I know
buttercup: because it would SUCK
bubbles: give me pee, OBGYN, sex talk, depression, and the energizer bunny, and I can move the world
buttercup: what doesn't kill me ... makes me ... fucking depressed
buttercup: no, wait, makes me funnier. yeah. right
bubbles: what doesn't kill me is a rat bastard
bubbles: do a girl a favor, eh?
buttercup: ratbastard motherfucker to you, lady
bubbles: what doesn't kill me doesn't find me worth the trouble
buttercup: what doesn't kill me wasn't half trying
bubbles: what doesn't kill me is a fucking pussy
buttercup: what doesn't kill me, flays me and leaves me for dogmeat
bubbles: what doesn't kill me is going to have to take lessons from me
buttercup: dibs
buttercup: hahahahha
buttercup: first time I grabbed dibs on an IM
bubbles: what doesn't kill me leaves me pale and in need of a transfusion
bubbles: SHIT
buttercup: what doesn't kill me wasn't my type
bubbles: damn me and my touch-typing
bubbles: haaaaaaa
bubbles: what doesn't kill me, I can still date
buttercup: what doesn't kill me is not the marrying kind
bubbles: what doesn't kill me, could be Mr. Right
bubbles: opposite jinx
bubbles: what doesn't kill me can still bring me home to mother
buttercup: what doesn't kill me doesn't do windows?
bubbles: what DOES kill me can still do that, in a Hefty
buttercup: HAAAAA
buttercup: what doesn't kill me doesn't thrill me
bubbles: what doesn't kill me isn't really bloggable
bubbles: i'm out
buttercup: I think we shot our bolt there
buttercup: it went pretty far though
bubbles: now I'M depressed
bubbles: kidding
bubbles: but I am
bubbles: but I'll live
buttercup: well, but more than usual?
bubbles: because it doesn't kill me
buttercup: no, it just makes killing sound interesting
bubbles: almost spit again--that time it was crushed ice
buttercup: well at least it doesn't stain
bubbles: *ping off the monitor
Sunday, 23 January 2005 at 11:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)
There was a time when some people I knew gave me some credit for wisdom. Maybe that time is finally going to come to an end. Wisdom isn't an attribute, anyway: it's something that passes through a person within a favorable moment. I suppose there may be some talent or developed skill in bringing such moments to fruition, but if I once had a season of being a medium for insight, I fear that it's past.
Today I seem to have slipped off of an edge that I didn't even know I was near. I'm teary and acting out, and I am probably irrational. I fear I've already made mistakes that I'll regret, and I wish that I felt that someone really understood me—or maybe could explain me to myself. One of my friends said earlier this week that I appeared to be constructing a new identity for myself. I am fairly certain that I am not; but on the other hand, there is a lot of revisionist history going on, and that process raises a lot of dust.
If only, if only. I want comfort, I close my eyes and try to imagine a hand on my shoulder and so very few words that would surely remove me from wherever I am. I haven't the slightest idea what those words are ... I know only that I seem to be sick from the lack of them.
Sunday, 23 January 2005 at 03:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)
If you take time release stims, you can fucking forget about sleeping late unless you want to make a solemn commitment to stay up 'til the wee hours, leaping about perkily like some hopped up chihuahua/miniature doberman mongrel. Alternately, you can decide not to take them that day, and start ruining your academics early in the semester while all is not yet entirely and thoroughly and irretrievably lost. Okay, okay—it's not that late yet so let me go choke those suckers down while I still have some hope ...
Sunday, 23 January 2005 at 09:06 AM in stims diary | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)
Saturday, 22 January 2005 at 01:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)
I beg of you. I've been around for a good chunk of a year now ... give me some credit: this is not a 'cute' blog—really, not even a nice blog. Right? am I right? But sometimes ... sometimes, you gots ta mix it up a little. Oh hell. Look, I'm the mental and emotional equivalent of a stomped-on bag of potato chips these days, okay? I don't know what the hell I'm doing ... in the meantime, I have to put something up here. And this particular thing has the virtue of being related to an actual life event. But for those of you who wish to be spared the scary, scary cute—all you have to do is resist.the.temptation ...
Thursday, 20 January 2005 at 05:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)
thelma: you there ...?
selma: yes
selma: you ok?
thelma: not my best
selma: so I heard from your message
thelma: oh yeah
thelma: I'm pretty transparent
thelma: the whole day has not been shit
thelma: just parts of it
selma: so what were the shit parts?
thelma: huh?
thelma: oh me
thelma: I thought you were talking about your blog
selma: ha
thelma: a horrific fight
selma: like I'd ask
thelma: about ADD stuff
selma: oh boy
thelma: I was more angry I'd been in a long time
selma: wow
thelma: which is a sign that I've been pushed a little too far in the 'hurt' category
thelma: and it wasn't the screaming or throwing things kind of angry
thelma: it was the quiet, venom-eyed, steely-voiced kind
selma: hmmm
thelma: but I have to reconstruct myself from the ground up
thelma: and it goes in fits and starts ...
selma: that is rough
thelma: when someone lays something on me about how I 'don't care' about doing these things—responsibilities—and I've put up with that kind of garbage my whole life—so I react bigtime
thelma: it's sort of insult to injury, y'know
selma: yes
thelma: when something is so difficult and you've struggled a lifetime with it and seen all kinds of opportunities pass by
thelma: and then there's a big judgment about my 'character failing' laid on top of it
thelma: nice.
selma: did you get that across?
thelma: so, well, to be fair, other people have to cope with my stuff
thelma: but to be fair to me: I've lived with me for forty years
thelma: rant over
selma: an interesting viewpoint:
selma: you think YOU have it bad—I've lived with me my whole life!
Tuesday, 18 January 2005 at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)