Archive for July, 2011


… It’s gotta be a little bit more pleasant than this.

I’m angry. Really angry. I get that way any time I have to take off of school or work due to something like pain or fatigue. Maybe not the most productive way to deal with it, but it’s what I do.

Let me start by saying I don’t like when I am not in control. Thus, this whole gastroparesis thing is making me very, very upset. I’m currently stuck taking a half day off from work to try to harangue my specialist into giving me a test in the vain hopes that a definitive diagnosis, rather than just a diagnosis of exclusion, will give me some leverage at work if push comes to shove and they ask me why my attendance sucks. I’m really hoping that this stupid fucking thing doesn’t cripple me to the point I need something like disability, but if it keeps fucking up my job, I may have to look into that.

I’m upset, I’m frustrated, and some other people in a similar situation might start looking for strength on high. This is one of the few times I wish I had some sort of faith, rather than agnosticism leaning toward atheism. I wish I had some comfort, even if it was a lie. I used to have faith in myself, and that’s failing as my body seems to be failing me.

My bad days are farther apart now, but they’re still REALLY bad when they occur, and I’m still losing weight. I can only keep that up for so long, guys. There’s not much on me to lose. I hate the idea of having a scale in the house, but it may be the only option I have to see just how fucked I am– I’ve already lost ten pounds due to this thing. Gotta say– if any of you need a diet program, try gastroparesis. You’ll dread eating so much that killing yourself sounds more pleasant.

I’m trying to upbeat. Believe me, I’m trying. This is upbeat for me. Angry and seething, but upbeat. If I was being emo, I’d post choice lyrics or quotes on Twitter and go stare at a wall in my room and do nothing. I’m trying to convince myself that this is just a bad flare up– but at the same time, I recognize I need to be prepared for this to happen in the future, along with all my other various little sicknesses I always seem to have. I’m staring at my future and wondering if I can even work a full time job like a normal person. What the hell are my options then? I always wanted to be a writer. Maybe that’s a good thing because maybe that’s my only option. Something where I can work from home and at my leisure. Something where I can go and curl up in the bathroom at a moment’s notice if need be, then resume work afterward without any penalty.

As of right now, my status is that of a Black Parade— I’ll carry on. If there’s one thing I share in common with my favorite wizard, Harry Dresden, it’s that I’m too goddamn stubborn to give up without one hell of a fight and taking at least a few people down with me in the process.

Thank you for letting me process. Thank you for dropping by. I know things can get depressing as shit around here some days, and that ain’t how most people want to spend their time.

Fuck this shit right in the damned ear. I’m finding a hack to get around it and have as normal a life as I can, even if I have to strangle a gastroenterologist to do it.

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Something happens when you hit twenty. Suddenly (or perhaps not so suddenly, if you’re female) you have to invite certain people to certain events in an effort to “keep peace.”

This particular post is inspired by the same lovely woman that is allowing me to be maid of honor in her wedding, and the social trials she seems to be facing. Of course, this entire dance is probably nothing new to anyone that plans any type of party surrounding a life event, be it a wedding, a baby shower, or a funeral. There are certain people that have to be invited.
Why? Because otherwise they will make life hell for whoever the person holding the event is. It could be through harassing phone calls, gossip, badmouthing, or plain old shunning.

Now, my personal thought on all of this is: So what if they throw a fit? If they’re far enough away from you socially that you barely see them, let them cry, wail, throw things, and yell at you. What the hell are they going to do? And if they pass into harassment territory, just call the cops. That’s what they’re there for, among other civic duty-ish sorts of things. Not only can they solve murders, they can also get that one crazy bitch to stop calling you via a threat to be tossed in jail.*

The problem with my solution, however practical it may be, is that it pays no heed to politics. None at all. For my friend, though, I’m trying to take a very Tudor-esqe stance and help her out in this game of political chess and why she should play politics.

Reason #1: It’s easier.

Much like my way out of relationships that involves increasingly ignoring contact to avoid drama, this keeps fits from being thrown either outside of or even AT the wedding by someone that turns up uninvited simply to make their perceived insult known.
Downside: If invite Geoffry that squeezes your ass and insists you call him Uncle G to your wedding to keep the peace, you’re in for an evening of ass groping and awkwardness. I’m of the opinion your wedding should be a happy occasion, not something you dread because you have to make small talk with people you barely know and who really don’t give a shit about you, they just wanted an invitation because they want free food and an open bar.

Reason #2: It keeps peace with the people you DO want to invite.

This one seems to have a great deal to do with parents in most weddings. “But you HAVE to invite your Aunt’s half-sister’s uncle’s pet gold fish on your father’s side! She’ll never let us hear the end of it if you don’t!”

Downside: First off, the simple fact that people take the approach of “If you make this person miffed, they’ll take it out on me, so I’ll take it out on you and make you regret ever causing me problems by upsetting them!” is just a bloody sinister, evil way to operate. Unfortunately, it is also a very common one in many families. The simple fact that YOU are held responsible for another grown adult’s reaction to something as little as a party invitation is absurd. If you were killing their dog, maybe I could understand. But an invite? My god, don’t you people have better things to do with your lives than want to stick your nose in everyone’s lives? You don’t even know the bridal couple, but you want to be invited because you know the bride’s mother? Go fuck yourself. It’s not the mother of the bride’s wedding. The bride can invite whoever she fucking pleases.

Those of you that have had your morning or afternoon coffee may notice that reason #2 is really just a subset of reason #1. That’s how far I’m having to reach for this. I can think of no better reason other than “it’s easier to go and be awkward at YOUR OWN WEDDING than deal with the fallout of self centered children in adult bodies.

I don’t get what happened to the whole concept of politeness. I’m supposed to invite YOU to be polite, but you have no obligation to me what so ever to not act like a spoiled child if you’re not invited? And if I DO invite you, you also have no obligation to behave yourself, not grope my ass, hit on my bridesmaids, and get drunk off your ass? What the fuck is this shit?! Why do I have to be the grown up and keep a stiff upper lip against the awkward, but you can throw tantrums and act like a classless jackass?!

I don’t get it. I really don’t. I have this old fashioned notion that the idea of politeness should go both ways.

I’m just going to stop here. Not only do I have other things I need to be doing, but if I keep going, I’ll start on one of my favorite wedding pet peeves: the open bar. Let’s leave it at a short post, rather than a ten page rant, shall we?

… and I Feel Good.

Self Challenge: Blog Post in 10 Minutes, including editing.

So, have any of you ever had an object in your house you just associate with negativity? Maybe it’s a gift from the mother in law you hate, or the picture your roommate has of your ex-boyfriend because they’re still friends with them. Maybe it’s a memento of a past you don’t want to remember.

I killed one of those today. Man, does it feel good.

Okay, so, I was finishing up building a shelving unit for DVDs, organizing DVDs, and generally trying to organize shit. I came across an old journal from high school. A journal in which I was dating “the fag” as he has been so named by my friends, due to the fact that, well, he has to be gay. How do I know this, you ask? He refused a blow job. Twice. Apparently, the rule is that you’re gay if you do that.

Hey, I didn’t make the rule, don’t look at me. My friends looked it up in their copies of the man handbook.

In any case, I found this journal. This journal makes me generally pissed every time I see it. I didn’t like who I was then– the fucker really didn’t like that my cock was bigger than his in almost every aspect, save in the fact he actually had one. I maintain I’m more a man than he shall ever be– I can fix my own shit and take responsibilities for my actions without whining to my mom, AND I can keep a job. Fuck him in the face.

So, while I was unwisely head-bobbing to Ke$ha and rotting my brain (goddamn you, Lora) I stared at that journal.

I also stared at the tool kit that held an X-acto knife.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if those two things met?

So, I picked up the journal and hacked and slashed my way through it. I had promised myself a long time ago I wouldn’t destroy records of my writing, no matter how shitty, but I don’t fucking care. I hate that fucking journal, I hate who I was when I was with him, I love who I am now, even if I do have more broken circuits than a R.O.B that was found at a garage sale for twenty-five cents. Fuck him, fuck the past, and fuck the promise I made in the past. I didn’t want that trash in my goddamned house, not with my new life and my new girlfriend. Fuck that past self. Fuck her in the face.

I wanted to burn the pages, but I can’t do that in my apartment due to fire code. I also don’t have a fire proof bucket. So, I took it to the sink and soaked that wad of papers to a mess of smeared writing, balled it up and threw it in the bathroom trash. I then took the bathroom trash and hurled it into the dumpster outside of my apartment.

That was about ten minutes ago now. I still want to throw my head back and cackle. It feels great to finally not have that in the apartment, and to not have any more ties to that jackoff what so ever.

I’m not sure what I’m going to use the rest of the journal for. There were an awful lot of blank pages. I might do something with it, I might trash the whole thing. I don’t really know. I may fill it with lesbian erotica, which would be hilariously fitting. Or gay erotica. Either, really.

All I know is I feel a lot lighter, and now it doesn’t piss me off to see that journal. Not as much. Almost not at all. The only thing that’s upsetting me now is wondering why the hell I didn’t do that sooner.

It’s… it’s… ALLLIIIVVVE!

Yes, I’m not dead. No, you can’t have my vast collection of art books and geekery.

What the fuck have I been doing? What kind of a question is that?! Things, obviously.

A little update on what’s been going on: I have my first real, adult, 9 hour a day including lunch, job. It’s been taking its toll, lemme tell ya. If I didn’t like working with technology, I’d be fucked. Add on that a flare up of my stomach being a bitch, a sinus/ear infection and a course of antibiotics, and my endometriosis trying to kill me. And Viktor damaging/destroying things and generally being a pain in the balls. Not good. Thus, the writing juices, they have not been a flowin’.

The good news: Now I’m out of training for my job and trying to cram my brain full of information visually and aurally, so there’s probably going to be a little more free space in my brain. I’ll be learning by doing from here on out, which has always been a lot easier for me. So, I’d like to ask you all a question:

What do you want to see here?

Yes, it’s a cheap plea for things to write about, but I’m pretty sure you all don’t want to hear about what’s been fascinating me lately. Not a lot of people are interested in The Divine Comedy and listening to me go “Dante, what the shit did… How did you come up with some of this nonsense?” or being amused to find out that one can make “figs” with a fist and it is an obscenity rather similar to flipping someone off. Or my musing upon a point of a friend from college that The Divine Comedy is just one big gay love note to Virgil from Dante.

But, hell, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe ranting on classical literature is something that would amuse you lot. I’m going to go through my draft posts and see if there’s anything worth salvaging, and see what I can do to maybe write on two of my favorite topics at the same time: Playboy Bunnies and Geisha.

Keep out a watchful eye, leave me a note below if you want to see my fucked up take on something, and I promise things should be in order here again soon. Look out for a new post in the coming week of SOME sort.

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