Tag Archive: venting


I realize my blog posts keep veering steadily toward the insane lately. You know what? It’s my goddamn blog. You don’t like it, get out. I got good reason. Wanna know why?

I went to the doctor today, after two months of having so many problems with food I cannot eat, save in small doses maybe once or twice a day. It causes me physical pain. It makes me unable to focus, unable to walk, unable to do anything. I have to plan after attempting to eat something to feel as though there is a basketball wedged under my ribs and deal with the pain that pressure causes, like it or not, because I just had to break down and eat some crackers. The audacity I have, making my stomach serve its goddamn purpose. Horrifying.

No medications help. Heat doesn’t help. Rest doesn’t help. I finally got to the Gastrointestinal Specialist today. Here’s what I learned.

1. I lost ten pounds in the past two months without trying. The look on the nurse’s face when I told her that one was impressive. “Oh fuck” is generally not an expression you want on your medical provider’s face when you tell them something.
2. None of my symptoms, surprise surprise, are anything that the doc can go “A-HA!” and diagnose.
3. In the words of my doctor: “No twenty something should be losing weight from a gastrointestinal problem. You should have an iron gut like most kids your age, and be off drinking beer and eating pizza. Not this.”
4. There is some debate in the medical community if they should continue to have pagers or just use cellphones instead (hey, I saw he had a pager, I was amazed they still existed, and we talked a bit. It made the horrible pain and sick feeling go away for a minute, so he humored me.)
5. I get to go for a endoscopy and a colonoscopy on Tuesday of next week. Most people don’t have a colonoscopy until they are 50+ years old. I’m a wee bit concerned.

Actually, no. I’m not a wee bit concerned. I’m very concerned that they don’t know what’s wrong, and that they have to do expensive fuck tests to even try to have an idea of what’s wrong. And if there are any of you paranoid fucks out there going “THEY JUST WANTCHA MONEY! DON’T DO IT!” Fuck you. Fuck you in the face with a baseball bat with a sprinkling of go to hell. When a doctor I just met is visibly distressed at what is going on, telling me that while he’s doing bloodwork, even if he finds something there we’re still doing the tests to make sure there’s nothing really really bad going on, I FUCKING LISTEN TO THEM. I’m an arrogant little shit, but I don’t pretend to have a medical degree.

I get back from all this fun and games today with some new drugs to tide me over until Tuesday and maybe make my sad little life more bearable. Then guess what? I got hit with a migraine. I tried sleeping after taking some ibuprofen and lots of fluids, it got worse. I had to grope my way to the bathroom with one hand over my eyes because I was so light sensitive, and try a hot shower because the leftover narcotics I had resorted to taking because the pain wouldn’t stop didn’t work. I’m finally okay, but nauseous and still light sensitive after that.

And guess what. Come on, guess. 😀

I have a biology test tonight. I’ve already accepted I’m going to fail it because I can’t study for fear my migraine will come back and I won’t make it to the test at all, and as they say, 30% is still better than a zero.

So, yeah. I’m worried, I’m upset, I’m trying to find my way out of my dead-end job and need to fill out things for that, I’m having tests no twenty something should be going through, I’m scared I’m going to fail this bio class and have to take it again, adding another semester onto when I’m supposed to graduate, and on top of that, I know my parents and I are sitting here looking at the fucking bills my being sick keeps racking up and going “fuck.”

This blog is my only outlet for a lot of this because I don’t want a lot of the people that know me in meatspace (thank you, @patrickcentral) to know what is going on because I don’t want to deal with that. So I’m really sorry if it gets depressing for a while.

On the upside, at least all this miserable shit will probably be sprinkled with videogame references and morbid humor?

Or, you know, if you wanted the funny-ranty to come back, you could always try esunaga. I can’t find my white mage staff at the moment.

Okay, that was forced and sad.

I’m just going to stop now.

Thanks for reading, you guys. And whoever keeps searching “I, out of musical theory, have created order out of chaos” to find my blog? Leave a comment. I’m fascinated by your existence. No, seriously. I am. Please?

… I’ll stop for real this time, now. Bye, guys. I’ll keep you posted as I can.

When Crackers Make You Cry

So, I’m sitting here angry at crackers. This is how you tell you’re way too stressed out for your own good.

I should be happy, for all intents and purposes. I’m going to see My Chemical Romance tonight, giving me an excuse to dress up, and the ticket wasn’t even on my tab– it was a gift. And yet, I almost started yelling at an inanimate object because it, though no fault of its own, kept breaking when I tried to eat it, getting crumbs all over my keyboard.

Thus, I decided to start blogging. All of that looks a hell of a lot more absurd in text than it does when I’m on the verge of tears because I seem to keep spilling everything, because I perceive my cat staring at me as I eat as her judging me (in reality the little fluff ball just wants the tuna I’m eating), and NOW the goddamn crackers won’t stay together long enough for me to eat them and finish my pathetic little fucking lunch of sadness and despair because I’m afraid to eat anything else because if my stomach is upset at the concert tonight, I will be in hell. I contemplated just not eating at all today. I have contemplated not eating all together, not just today, but for the rest of however long I can manage it, because I’m tired of feeling sick. I may be crying from hunger, but hey, done that before– and that way I won’t bloat up so much my pants hurt me! YAAAAAY!

See all of that? That makes perfect sense to me right now. You guys are probably scrambling to find my IP address so you can send someone after me to pick me up for the loony bin. And if they arrived, right now, I would invariably reason my way out of it with this fucked up logic of “Well, I just keep getting sick when I eat– I’LL JUST NOT EAT FOREVER” as though it’s possible. I am the person who whenever I cannot speak correctly and keep stumbling over my words, will physically hit myself in the head. I am not reasonable. I am not sensible. And in my fucked up world where the crackers are just crumbling all over my keyboard because the universe believes I’m too fat and shouldn’t eat anyway, it makes sense.

However, I have a solution. A sneaky secret plan that will work even against my own mind. I can never shut up when I’m upset. I just have to tell someone. So I’m telling all of you and doing it in print. Verbally, the words disappear. In print, I read back through this and go “Fucking hell. Calm down. Things are going to be fine. Vindictive crackers? Time to go watch some cute cats for a while or something, jeezus fuck.”

Suddenly, because I’m telling you, my stress level is dropping. Suddenly Ginger is just the fat little fluff ball that wants my tuna, not some horrible being going “WHY are you eating THAT?” Suddenly the crackers were just damaged in the bag, not pre-broken by some conspiracy to spite me. And suddenly, I’m just another person with a strange pseudo-IBS WTF that my doctors are trying to diagnose and my stomach is testy in the meantime, not someone who should just never ever eat again.

Suddenly, things make sense again, and the tears are of relief. If I can do this, I actually am finally getting better at all of this.

So you know what? It’s okay that I’m doing this instead of the paper due tomorrow right now. It’s okay I’m not going to get home until three– I have my report drafted out, it’s just a question of piecing things together before 12:30 P.M. tomorrow. This benefited me a fuck lot more than trying to work on that in this head state would have.

Now, I’m going to go dress up as a Killjoy, stop worrying, and pick out what crazy ass make-up I’m going to wear.

Suddenly, I’m Miss Punk Rock, star of stage and screen… And I’m never coming back.

I look back at where I’m from,
Look at the woman I’ve become,
And the strangest things seem suddenly routine…”

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