1) Blowing your nose with paper towels leaves rug burn on your face. Yes Virginia, that is unfortunate.
2) It is preferable to clean up the 976 discarded tissues and paper towels off the coffee table before your roommate gets home. Especially clear the apartment of all evidence you ate the last of her good (slightly old) Halloween candy.
3) Remember you have to write a paper and it is due at 5 pm. Remember all day on a regular basis but don’t start it. It’s more important that you explore the depths of stumbleupon.com. Subsequently make banana bread from scratch (please take all proper precautions from the almost certain amalgamation of snot and batter).
4) Wonder how it’s possible you have generated so much mucous in such a short time and survived. No, really.
5) Talk to two friends via gmail chat and one via text message while making banana bread and keeping your hands clean.
6) Are you properly stressed over not writing your assignment? Good, because it’s almost 5pm.
7) Remember you stayed home today because you are sick, lick the batter bowl, and lay your aching feverish body back on the couch. Contemplate whose suave idea it was to make banana bread in the first place when you’re fairly sure eating is going to be futile.
8) Whine and moan for the benefit of the cats that might be questioning your permanent residence on the couch. Push them off if they try to join you. God, annoying. No one can pet two cats and fret over finding the end of the internet.
9) It’s 7 pm, have a cup of coffee while the morning’s dose of prednisone starts to really kick in, find the energy to get on your bike trainer for 45 minutes and completely overdo it.
10) Quit talking to your neighbor about nothing and *get in the shower*.
11) Somehow become so engrossed in lolling around that 10pm just blindsided you, your paper is five hours late. Commence paper writing.
12) Realize Nyquil makes writing in your native tongue virtually impossible.
13) Realize you have rugburn on your face. Let this provide fodder for imminent blog posting. No, it’s cool, paper is like – 2/3rds finished.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
generalities need emphasis sometimes too
I wanted to put STUFF on my rear window, because it's really what I'm into these days - but now I'll just look like a copycat.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
I should probably go excersize to burn off this negative energy (updated)
Dear Everyone,
Facebook is not going to make a dislike button. Please stop inundating my news feed with posts about how you want a dislike button, you joined a fan page supporting the creation of a dislike button, you find it ironic that you dislike the idea of a dislike button, you've invited me to like the dislike button option, you'd sell your soul or at least engage in highly immoral activities to pretty please install a dislike button. In my recent turn of events, that I may or may not digress at a later time point, my facebook activity is at an all time high and a little variety would take the most minor bit of edge off.
Five buttons I would support, and thusly take over your news feed in support of:
1) Shut the eff up
2) No one cares
3) I feel bad for your significant other
4) O_o
5) You have a cold, not the bubonic plague
Perusing my news feed this morning, eating wheat chex, watching Robin Meade, and pushing the cat off my shit, it dawned on me why my FB annoyance peaks on Mondays.
number six, which is really an elaboration of buttons one and two. In fact this button is too verbose and detailed to really be a button, but I feel like I would probably be at risk for carpal tunnel if it existed. Besides, there are no rules or limitations on hypothetical situations. That's the beauty of them being hypothetical. So there.
6) You are not kooky or original when you bitch about Monday. Stop it.
Yours Truly,
Lisa
Li
sa McCoig likes this
Thursday, October 1, 2009
there is nothing passive about my aggresion.
The last week of the month """last week of the month""" is usually kind of rough for me, probably rougher for Chad because he has to deal with essentially a mentally unstable female. This past 48 hours though have been ridiculous.
I will now elaborate.
I applied for North Carolina residency, this involves a long winded complicated form as to which they want to know some inane shit like, hey how many times have you been on vacation since you have lived in North Carolina? what did you do on vacation? why did you go on vacation? how much of your money is in what bank and for how long and why? What did you do the last Thursday of June in 1996 and was it in North Carolina? Were you thinking about North Carolina that day? Do you secretly wish you could shape your head into the state of North Carolina? Isn't North Carlina the COOLEST STATE YOU HAVE EVER EVEN HEARD OF!? Also, please submit your tax return. Hey its cool though because I was all frustrated as shit while I was in North Carolina. Also, while I was in North Carolina yesterday I received an e-mail from Julie who is reviewing my application. She informed me that I, *I*, I submitted someone else's tax return with my application, someone by the name of Pergolotti, and if I could please resubmit *my* tax form, thanks kindly. I had to walk away from my desk as to not return Julie's email with the bad news that I was going to inform her halfway home that she is using again. Hey Julie, I understand sometimes stapling documents together is complicated, but I'm kind of impressed with your gall to blame it on me.
So I went to resubmit my tax return, and the application is set up as such that you have to
this morning on my bike ride I was hit by a car. no wait. one more time for emphasis. this morning on my bike ride I was hit by a car. That's right, a car slammed into my left arm so hard their passenger side mirror broke. The car thusly gunned it and sped off.
The car behind them pulled over to make sure I was okay, and I watched this nice lady's face turn from a look of concern and worry to a look of worry and horror as the most delightful combination of explicatives were stitched together in a way that would have made George Carlin blush. The lady slowly drove off after I assured her I was more pissed than hurt, but still in the midst of my detailed explanation as to what would happen after I hunted this man down, and did she get a make on the car?
More importantly, this confirms what I already know:
I have arms of steel.
I will now elaborate.
I applied for North Carolina residency, this involves a long winded complicated form as to which they want to know some inane shit like, hey how many times have you been on vacation since you have lived in North Carolina? what did you do on vacation? why did you go on vacation? how much of your money is in what bank and for how long and why? What did you do the last Thursday of June in 1996 and was it in North Carolina? Were you thinking about North Carolina that day? Do you secretly wish you could shape your head into the state of North Carolina? Isn't North Carlina the COOLEST STATE YOU HAVE EVER EVEN HEARD OF!? Also, please submit your tax return. Hey its cool though because I was all frustrated as shit while I was in North Carolina. Also, while I was in North Carolina yesterday I received an e-mail from Julie who is reviewing my application. She informed me that I, *I*, I submitted someone else's tax return with my application, someone by the name of Pergolotti, and if I could please resubmit *my* tax form, thanks kindly. I had to walk away from my desk as to not return Julie's email with the bad news that I was going to inform her halfway home that she is using again. Hey Julie, I understand sometimes stapling documents together is complicated, but I'm kind of impressed with your gall to blame it on me.
So I went to resubmit my tax return, and the application is set up as such that you have to
fill
out
the
whole
thing
again
out
the
whole
thing
again
and now to trump assholitis story #1 we will proceed to assholitis story #2:
this morning on my bike ride I was hit by a car. no wait. one more time for emphasis. this morning on my bike ride I was hit by a car. That's right, a car slammed into my left arm so hard their passenger side mirror broke. The car thusly gunned it and sped off.
The car behind them pulled over to make sure I was okay, and I watched this nice lady's face turn from a look of concern and worry to a look of worry and horror as the most delightful combination of explicatives were stitched together in a way that would have made George Carlin blush. The lady slowly drove off after I assured her I was more pissed than hurt, but still in the midst of my detailed explanation as to what would happen after I hunted this man down, and did she get a make on the car?
More importantly, this confirms what I already know:
I have arms of steel.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Silvia.....Yes Mickey?...How do you call your loverboy?....Come 'ere loverboy!!....And if he doesnt answer?.....Ohh loverboy!...
...And if he STILL doesnt answer? I simply say Baby, Oohh baby...My sweet baby...You're the one!
So maybe, but maybe not - you are aware of my childhood Patrick Swazye/Dirty Dancing obsession. It's true, I watched this movie everyday, everyday, as a kid (and Poltergeist). At the age of 7 I mastered the heart stopping dance finale, inclusive of the lift - carried out on the end of my four-poster bed.
Swazye, DD and the DD soundtrack have echoed through the years with stronger nostalgic ties to my childhood than any other element that I have carried with me. Patrick Swayze's death feels akin to that horrid day in third grade when my best friend informed me Santa wasn't real. Or when Chad tried to inform me that the kooky relics at Cracker Barrel are all fake and the Cracker Barrel magic is just a farce. Or like the time I found out how hard it is to trudge through a phd when everyday is a failure. Okay, wait, no, back up, its really only like the huge disappointment of Santa being fake, but only just kind of. I spent my formative years sitting indian style on the floor, three feet from the television, eating pb&j, and watching, wishing, and idolizing every frame of Dirty Dancing - and Swayze was nothing short of my first love.
Another magical childhood hero laid to rest.
So maybe, but maybe not - you are aware of my childhood Patrick Swazye/Dirty Dancing obsession. It's true, I watched this movie everyday, everyday, as a kid (and Poltergeist). At the age of 7 I mastered the heart stopping dance finale, inclusive of the lift - carried out on the end of my four-poster bed.
Swazye, DD and the DD soundtrack have echoed through the years with stronger nostalgic ties to my childhood than any other element that I have carried with me. Patrick Swayze's death feels akin to that horrid day in third grade when my best friend informed me Santa wasn't real. Or when Chad tried to inform me that the kooky relics at Cracker Barrel are all fake and the Cracker Barrel magic is just a farce. Or like the time I found out how hard it is to trudge through a phd when everyday is a failure. Okay, wait, no, back up, its really only like the huge disappointment of Santa being fake, but only just kind of. I spent my formative years sitting indian style on the floor, three feet from the television, eating pb&j, and watching, wishing, and idolizing every frame of Dirty Dancing - and Swayze was nothing short of my first love.
Another magical childhood hero laid to rest.
Rest in Peace Patrick Swayze
Saturday, August 8, 2009
materialism is kind of fun
not to blow against the wind or whatever - but don't ever let anyone tell you money doesn't buy happiness. Because - I'm pretty sure the foosball table my friend and I just bought for $50, and my new rifle bb gun for $20 , and this pretty kick ass little yamaha I just got off craigslist - are kind of making me really supremely happy. I'd like to elaborate, but I'm off to go try out my new helmet that doesn't look too far from an optimus prime mask (read: awesome).
Monday, July 27, 2009
Happy one year chapel hill
Anniversaries rarely pass without some means of reflection - ironically, the more elusive and meaningless the event - the more prone I am to remembering it. Often these anniversaries are notched into my timeline via something appropriately inane - like, oh man, the day time awards are on tonight?? wow, this time last year I totally put a new crank arm on my bike - I can't believe its already been a year, jeez - totally still shifts like a dream - and every subsequent year I'll think about this crank arm when I hear about the daytime awards. The reflections become more intense in a directly proportional manner to time passed - several years and my crank arm will serve as a springboard for, woah I can totally ride X distance X amount faster - and all the other new equipment I have invested in, the jobs Ive been through and stressed over while riding, all the states I rode in, etc etc...
Besides real holidays and birthdays, its dawned on me that this weekend marked possibly my first worthwhile anniversary. The infamous, most fantastic of all music fests, Gathering of the Vibes - went down in Bridgeport, CT...(and I am very *very* sad to say I missed it).
Last year, The Vibes served as my last days as a New Englander, it subsequently served as the simultaneous best and worst days of my life. I distinctly remember delivering my last hug in a hotel parking lot, clinging, and crying way harder than anything a 13 year old girl could produce, and having no idea how I was going to get in my car, drive away, and permanently seal off this chapter of my life. The 14 hour drive south sucked. a lot. I cried. a lot. I couldn't began to fathom what in the hell was next, grad school remained a phantom intangible concept - I had yet to even meet my roommate, see my condo etc. Uprooting and starting from scratch, and having 14 hours in a stuffy car with a litter box in the backseat, to think of nothing else but this mystery future sitting in front of you, your best friends and familiar life behind you, with your drugged cat meowing like its dying beside you, is quite honestly - *unpleasant and unrecommended*
Since Vibes of '08, I learned the ropes of my first year, successfully made it through my classes, joined a lab, bought a scooter, selling the scooter, bought a motorcycle, lost two feet of small bowel, spent five months in the hospital, revisited Massachusetts, NY, Virginia, Bermuda and soon I'll be in Montana. Ive taken the hardest tests of my life, completed homework that would make grown men weep, and two months of intense labor produced a paper that nearly killed me. I gotta say, this was one of the more lively years of my life. And I hope next year, I'll be celebrating two years of grad school under my belt, back at the Vibes, with the friends from Massachusetts that I'm still torn up over having left.
Besides real holidays and birthdays, its dawned on me that this weekend marked possibly my first worthwhile anniversary. The infamous, most fantastic of all music fests, Gathering of the Vibes - went down in Bridgeport, CT...(and I am very *very* sad to say I missed it).
Last year, The Vibes served as my last days as a New Englander, it subsequently served as the simultaneous best and worst days of my life. I distinctly remember delivering my last hug in a hotel parking lot, clinging, and crying way harder than anything a 13 year old girl could produce, and having no idea how I was going to get in my car, drive away, and permanently seal off this chapter of my life. The 14 hour drive south sucked. a lot. I cried. a lot. I couldn't began to fathom what in the hell was next, grad school remained a phantom intangible concept - I had yet to even meet my roommate, see my condo etc. Uprooting and starting from scratch, and having 14 hours in a stuffy car with a litter box in the backseat, to think of nothing else but this mystery future sitting in front of you, your best friends and familiar life behind you, with your drugged cat meowing like its dying beside you, is quite honestly - *unpleasant and unrecommended*
Since Vibes of '08, I learned the ropes of my first year, successfully made it through my classes, joined a lab, bought a scooter, selling the scooter, bought a motorcycle, lost two feet of small bowel, spent five months in the hospital, revisited Massachusetts, NY, Virginia, Bermuda and soon I'll be in Montana. Ive taken the hardest tests of my life, completed homework that would make grown men weep, and two months of intense labor produced a paper that nearly killed me. I gotta say, this was one of the more lively years of my life. And I hope next year, I'll be celebrating two years of grad school under my belt, back at the Vibes, with the friends from Massachusetts that I'm still torn up over having left.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
how to procrastinate. free expert advice. (now updated!)
Maybe you've been writing a paper for a month, and maybe for the past two weeks you have only had to finish the very last section that would take a day's worth of concentrated hard writing.
So its Sunday, your PI returns on Thursday, and you know she is expecting this review you started writing from what feels like birth. (How surprised the doctors were as you exited your mothers uterus with a mini type writer just a tappin' away about DAMPs and fibrosis.)
Your week is looking really busy, so Sunday is kind of the last day to really have giant swaths of time to do nothing but focus solely on writing. So here is how I recommend preparing for a day of intense uninterrupted writing:
First, sleep in until noon. No way to mentally kick off your day like dragging yourself out of bed in the afternoon feeling like you've been hit by a bus. This should be followed by strawberry waffles and an episode of little house on the prairie. On every commercial break, explain to your boyfriend that you absolutely must leave. like. this is it. you really gotta go. But oh.my.god. I think Laura's brother in law is dying. Sad shit.
(interesting tidbit, Shannon Doherty played a little girl on that show - your bf will probably try and argue with you and tell you that it is so not her -but don't worry, after checking on IMDB, you are right as usual)
So when little house on the prairie is over (a whole hour for these episodes too, really) - somehow time has slipped into 2pm. and then Gladiator actually has the gall to come on. So as you are saying goodbye - slowly, find yourself sinking back into the couch, eyes glazed, mouth slack... Gladiator is a stronger timesuck than little house on the prairie, imagine.
2:45 pm - yes. You are now off the couch, but you should probably smoke a clove before you actually hit the road.
3:05pm - Finally, you get the eff out of there to go write this paper. you are READY TO WRITE LIKE A CHAMP.
3:10 pm - oh shit. Wendy's sells strawberry milkshakes. de-licious.
3:40 - get home. god who made such a freaking mess in your room?! Blame your roommate. You certainly can't write with all this ridiculous clutter.
While cleaning, you may as well get all those bills written out that have been sitting on your desk for who knows how long, because you accidentally found them when you moved your old dead laptop, package up some mail you've been meaning to send out, and hell, when *is* the last time you swept the kitchen floor? While your sweeping, marvel over the amount of cat hair you sweep up, contemplate saving it to impress your roommate.
About this time you will remember your friend's baby shower gift that needs to be wrapped, its been sitting in the corner of your room so long its started to double as furniture, search for wrapping paper - no time like the present! (hah, see what I did there, present? yup. incredible)
Okay, this is when you need to get serious. Quit goofing the eff off. Sit on your bed. Open your laptop. And remember you haven't downloaded off of emusic in awhile. Try to very quickly make good on the 50 tracks you pay for monthly in one foul swoop, and maybe spend fifteen minutes trying to find Kangaroo by Big Wu, because this 4 minute song kind of rocks your world the two times you've heard it on Sirius. oh wait, speaking of creating queues, this will remind you, you had some very important things that needed to be added to netflix.
I wisely suggest you appear to be very startled when you realize its 5:30. you *really* need to start writing. But you promised you would get cat food today, and you certainly don't want that hanging over your head while trying to write....better run out and grab a few things - oh, and that pet hair brush you have been meaning to get for months? They sell them beside the cat food.
So now the cat is thoroughly brushed, the brush is thoroughly cleaned. What can you really do now except blog about procrastinating while continuing to carry out the said subject manner? Because now its 6:27 and you just yawned 143 times in a row. You'll probably be in bed before too long. This now leaves you maybe a couple of hours of writing. Don't forget, you still have to eat dinner and shower too.
Way to go you slacker. You just wasted your entire day. Hope your proud of yourself.
So its Sunday, your PI returns on Thursday, and you know she is expecting this review you started writing from what feels like birth. (How surprised the doctors were as you exited your mothers uterus with a mini type writer just a tappin' away about DAMPs and fibrosis.)
Your week is looking really busy, so Sunday is kind of the last day to really have giant swaths of time to do nothing but focus solely on writing. So here is how I recommend preparing for a day of intense uninterrupted writing:
First, sleep in until noon. No way to mentally kick off your day like dragging yourself out of bed in the afternoon feeling like you've been hit by a bus. This should be followed by strawberry waffles and an episode of little house on the prairie. On every commercial break, explain to your boyfriend that you absolutely must leave. like. this is it. you really gotta go. But oh.my.god. I think Laura's brother in law is dying. Sad shit.
(interesting tidbit, Shannon Doherty played a little girl on that show - your bf will probably try and argue with you and tell you that it is so not her -but don't worry, after checking on IMDB, you are right as usual)
So when little house on the prairie is over (a whole hour for these episodes too, really) - somehow time has slipped into 2pm. and then Gladiator actually has the gall to come on. So as you are saying goodbye - slowly, find yourself sinking back into the couch, eyes glazed, mouth slack... Gladiator is a stronger timesuck than little house on the prairie, imagine.
2:45 pm - yes. You are now off the couch, but you should probably smoke a clove before you actually hit the road.
3:05pm - Finally, you get the eff out of there to go write this paper. you are READY TO WRITE LIKE A CHAMP.
3:10 pm - oh shit. Wendy's sells strawberry milkshakes. de-licious.
3:40 - get home. god who made such a freaking mess in your room?! Blame your roommate. You certainly can't write with all this ridiculous clutter.
While cleaning, you may as well get all those bills written out that have been sitting on your desk for who knows how long, because you accidentally found them when you moved your old dead laptop, package up some mail you've been meaning to send out, and hell, when *is* the last time you swept the kitchen floor? While your sweeping, marvel over the amount of cat hair you sweep up, contemplate saving it to impress your roommate.
About this time you will remember your friend's baby shower gift that needs to be wrapped, its been sitting in the corner of your room so long its started to double as furniture, search for wrapping paper - no time like the present! (hah, see what I did there, present? yup. incredible)
Okay, this is when you need to get serious. Quit goofing the eff off. Sit on your bed. Open your laptop. And remember you haven't downloaded off of emusic in awhile. Try to very quickly make good on the 50 tracks you pay for monthly in one foul swoop, and maybe spend fifteen minutes trying to find Kangaroo by Big Wu, because this 4 minute song kind of rocks your world the two times you've heard it on Sirius. oh wait, speaking of creating queues, this will remind you, you had some very important things that needed to be added to netflix.
I wisely suggest you appear to be very startled when you realize its 5:30. you *really* need to start writing. But you promised you would get cat food today, and you certainly don't want that hanging over your head while trying to write....better run out and grab a few things - oh, and that pet hair brush you have been meaning to get for months? They sell them beside the cat food.
So now the cat is thoroughly brushed, the brush is thoroughly cleaned. What can you really do now except blog about procrastinating while continuing to carry out the said subject manner? Because now its 6:27 and you just yawned 143 times in a row. You'll probably be in bed before too long. This now leaves you maybe a couple of hours of writing. Don't forget, you still have to eat dinner and shower too.
Way to go you slacker. You just wasted your entire day. Hope your proud of yourself.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
I am not a zoo animal.
I have been asked literally, super seriously, and no exaggeration here, at least 10 times, how old I am, over the past month. I get this once in awhile sure - but 10 times in a month is ridiculously excessive.
I don't know if its the fact that I'm a waif with a giant head from the prednisone, or that I look young and then confuse people when I speak the language of genius, or its all a giant coincidence (banking on the genius hypothesis)..but let me tell you how simply shocked each and every one of them was to discover I am 25.
Their ballpark?
14-16. Never older than 16. A whole decade off? honestly? I mean, its one thing if someone guesses 80, and your 70, and maybe you also smoked your whole life, lived on the streets, abused meth, and never wore sunblock....but come on - 15 and 25 is really mistakable? This is not a one time occurrence either. I have a pretty significant quota of inquirers here.
For example - Monday, registering for my umpteenth CT scan of the year (im having a litter of mutant aliens for children at this point), the guy behind the counter kept like - *looking at me* - like maybe that pizza I just scarfed made it into my hair/eyebrows/etc (this is unfortunately, not uncommon - and guess how pleased the CT people were that I ate, when somehow I forgot after my last 100 scans, that you aren't supposed to)...so anyway... this guy returns my insurance card and barks out at me. 'So how old are you anyway'
'25'
guy flips, '25? NOOooooo. no. no way. (chuckles, shakes his head, looks around in disbelief -anyone else catching this freak show?- looks back at me.) Really!? But you're so little! I thought you were 14... 25!?'
sigh. monotone. 'yeah. crazy. i get this all the time.'
guy engages ALL 5 employees behind the counter --'GUYS, guys, hey...guys, how old do you think this girl is!? (no time for their response) this girl is 25.....*twenty five*.....She's so little I never would have guessed!!
(mass hub bub behind the counter as they all strain in their chairs to take in this sideshow, who is either a lying sack of crap or a pure genetic anomoly, apparently I fall into some extreme category to warrant this reaction over and over - they are now just as shocked, talking amongst themselves about me, in front of me ---hey guys maybe you could be a little more rude? I don't feel awkward at all.)
...I thought she was 14! I thought my daughter was older than her! She is in 9th grade!'
so then, inevitably, this is always followed by the 'you'll appreciate it when you're older' speech.
'thanks. I'm sure I'll really like it' (not if I have to listen to this BS for the rest of my life)
So I turn around to take my seat in this gigantic ass waiting room to find, everyone, in the gigantic ass waiting room, is also looking at me. All that was missing was the requisite cricket soundtrack. Had I the balls, the right mood, the right amount of alcohol, this would have been the perfect time to break out an MC Hammer dance, the Meatstick dance, a little Michigan J Frog. But, I was pissy after spending my day getting various intravenous transfusions for hours on end. Or. maybe. I was in a great mood before the counter scene come to think of it. But at this point I kind of wanted everyone in sight to contract syphillis. in their mouth.
(but what makes these people ask in the first place if they are always so certain I am in fact, 14? Obviously you aren't certain, b/c these conversations always have the same pattern, I get a shocked look, a few comments of a disbelieving nature, followed by a little arguing b/c I might be lying and/or dumb, finally they concede the truth, all the while shaking their head)
I think my own return questions need to be prepared.
Yeah, I'm really 25. and how much do you weigh. Only 240? Crazy. Here I was thinking you were at least 290, I mean at the very very least. Hey. GUYS! (I will not restrain from pointing wildly) Guess how much this chick weighs. Didn't you think she was way fatter. Isn't SO. WEIRD. You'll probably never appreciate being fat like I'll appreciate my youthful glow when I'm 63, but maybe you shouldn't wear horizontal stripes, like, ever again.
The age question often doesn't get under my skin to this extent. The radiology experience however, was beyond called for, and its been festering in the back of my head. In case you know, that wasn't noticeable. Maybe when I manage to push beyond this plateau of 93 lbs that Ive hit, and cannot get past, regardless of how much I stuff my face, people will not feel the need to ostracize me. (granted, unintentionally)
Until then, be prepared to be called out on your own freak show.
I don't know if its the fact that I'm a waif with a giant head from the prednisone, or that I look young and then confuse people when I speak the language of genius, or its all a giant coincidence (banking on the genius hypothesis)..but let me tell you how simply shocked each and every one of them was to discover I am 25.
Their ballpark?
14-16. Never older than 16. A whole decade off? honestly? I mean, its one thing if someone guesses 80, and your 70, and maybe you also smoked your whole life, lived on the streets, abused meth, and never wore sunblock....but come on - 15 and 25 is really mistakable? This is not a one time occurrence either. I have a pretty significant quota of inquirers here.
For example - Monday, registering for my umpteenth CT scan of the year (im having a litter of mutant aliens for children at this point), the guy behind the counter kept like - *looking at me* - like maybe that pizza I just scarfed made it into my hair/eyebrows/etc (this is unfortunately, not uncommon - and guess how pleased the CT people were that I ate, when somehow I forgot after my last 100 scans, that you aren't supposed to)...so anyway... this guy returns my insurance card and barks out at me. 'So how old are you anyway'
'25'
guy flips, '25? NOOooooo. no. no way. (chuckles, shakes his head, looks around in disbelief -anyone else catching this freak show?- looks back at me.) Really!? But you're so little! I thought you were 14... 25!?'
sigh. monotone. 'yeah. crazy. i get this all the time.'
guy engages ALL 5 employees behind the counter --'GUYS, guys, hey...guys, how old do you think this girl is!? (no time for their response) this girl is 25.....*twenty five*.....She's so little I never would have guessed!!
(mass hub bub behind the counter as they all strain in their chairs to take in this sideshow, who is either a lying sack of crap or a pure genetic anomoly, apparently I fall into some extreme category to warrant this reaction over and over - they are now just as shocked, talking amongst themselves about me, in front of me ---hey guys maybe you could be a little more rude? I don't feel awkward at all.)
...I thought she was 14! I thought my daughter was older than her! She is in 9th grade!'
so then, inevitably, this is always followed by the 'you'll appreciate it when you're older' speech.
'thanks. I'm sure I'll really like it' (not if I have to listen to this BS for the rest of my life)
So I turn around to take my seat in this gigantic ass waiting room to find, everyone, in the gigantic ass waiting room, is also looking at me. All that was missing was the requisite cricket soundtrack. Had I the balls, the right mood, the right amount of alcohol, this would have been the perfect time to break out an MC Hammer dance, the Meatstick dance, a little Michigan J Frog. But, I was pissy after spending my day getting various intravenous transfusions for hours on end. Or. maybe. I was in a great mood before the counter scene come to think of it. But at this point I kind of wanted everyone in sight to contract syphillis. in their mouth.
(but what makes these people ask in the first place if they are always so certain I am in fact, 14? Obviously you aren't certain, b/c these conversations always have the same pattern, I get a shocked look, a few comments of a disbelieving nature, followed by a little arguing b/c I might be lying and/or dumb, finally they concede the truth, all the while shaking their head)
I think my own return questions need to be prepared.
Yeah, I'm really 25. and how much do you weigh. Only 240? Crazy. Here I was thinking you were at least 290, I mean at the very very least. Hey. GUYS! (I will not restrain from pointing wildly) Guess how much this chick weighs. Didn't you think she was way fatter. Isn't SO. WEIRD. You'll probably never appreciate being fat like I'll appreciate my youthful glow when I'm 63, but maybe you shouldn't wear horizontal stripes, like, ever again.
The age question often doesn't get under my skin to this extent. The radiology experience however, was beyond called for, and its been festering in the back of my head. In case you know, that wasn't noticeable. Maybe when I manage to push beyond this plateau of 93 lbs that Ive hit, and cannot get past, regardless of how much I stuff my face, people will not feel the need to ostracize me. (granted, unintentionally)
Until then, be prepared to be called out on your own freak show.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
sophistication
So I'm sitting outside watching my little sister, she doesn't know I can see her, or that I am even out here. She is twelve, fully going on 16. Heavy eyeliner, trendy hair, decked out in hollister, boyfriends, constant cell phone, etc etc. It is a rare moment when we get a glimpse of cute little Emma, the one that carried around her little yellow crusty bacteria laden blanket everywhere and said adorable things, mouth stuffed with blanket, like "I can't bweve" when the car got too stuffy.
So I'm watching her play alone on this bench we have in our yard, I think she has constructed a worm family and is thusly making them play house, judging by the wafts of little emma voice that make its way over here from time to time. (god these poor worms). Yes, one of them is late for school.
Okay, the really cute part is when she started getting kind of upset, then really upset, and apologizing profusely. This apologizing is loud and clear. And now she is digging a hole in the ground. She is um, def crying. I think she killed a worm and is burying it. After the remains have I suppose, been appropriately dealt with by Emma's standards, little Emma promptly returned to le sigh Emma. Stood up, dusted off her pants, flipped her hair seventeen different ways, fixed her eyeliner, pulled out her cell phone and is walking towards me. All flippant and slightly annoyed to even have to ask, she inquires if caterpillars are one of those things that can like, you know, do that regeneration thing if like maybe it like, gets cut in half by accident. No, Emma, you are a worm murderer. But, the worm sacrifice was totally worth this last fifteen minutes - not that I'll ever let her know this. poor worm.
(if you squint, that's emma, remembering for a brief moment, that she is in fact only 12)
So I'm watching her play alone on this bench we have in our yard, I think she has constructed a worm family and is thusly making them play house, judging by the wafts of little emma voice that make its way over here from time to time. (god these poor worms). Yes, one of them is late for school.
Okay, the really cute part is when she started getting kind of upset, then really upset, and apologizing profusely. This apologizing is loud and clear. And now she is digging a hole in the ground. She is um, def crying. I think she killed a worm and is burying it. After the remains have I suppose, been appropriately dealt with by Emma's standards, little Emma promptly returned to le sigh Emma. Stood up, dusted off her pants, flipped her hair seventeen different ways, fixed her eyeliner, pulled out her cell phone and is walking towards me. All flippant and slightly annoyed to even have to ask, she inquires if caterpillars are one of those things that can like, you know, do that regeneration thing if like maybe it like, gets cut in half by accident. No, Emma, you are a worm murderer. But, the worm sacrifice was totally worth this last fifteen minutes - not that I'll ever let her know this. poor worm.
(if you squint, that's emma, remembering for a brief moment, that she is in fact only 12)
Saturday, May 16, 2009
almost human
push play or else.
so - in addition to actually making it over my first mountain on my bike yesterday, and yes it was only a 12 mile ride, and yes I spent most of the time not trying to swallow my tongue/vomit trying to breathe, and yes I could have done it 4 times over not too long ago and it been a whim, and no I still don't even remotely fill out my bike shorts, but I did that shit, and it was harder than crap. Yeah, so in addition to THAT. allow me to say I ate three whole meals yesterday, inclusive of toaster strudels, pb&j and chips, and ginger snaps and whipped cream (among other delightful concoctions) - and house was on for four hours last night...and I started my writing assignment for lab. (if you aren't weeping tears of overwhelming joy for me at this point, congratulations, you have no soul)....in addition to all of this
so - in addition to actually making it over my first mountain on my bike yesterday, and yes it was only a 12 mile ride, and yes I spent most of the time not trying to swallow my tongue/vomit trying to breathe, and yes I could have done it 4 times over not too long ago and it been a whim, and no I still don't even remotely fill out my bike shorts, but I did that shit, and it was harder than crap. Yeah, so in addition to THAT. allow me to say I ate three whole meals yesterday, inclusive of toaster strudels, pb&j and chips, and ginger snaps and whipped cream (among other delightful concoctions) - and house was on for four hours last night...and I started my writing assignment for lab. (if you aren't weeping tears of overwhelming joy for me at this point, congratulations, you have no soul)....in addition to all of this
I AM NOW DRAINLESS.
My dad came at me with gauze and a pair of scissors this morning and said.
It is time.
It is time.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
okay, i couldn't not post this
From: my aunt
To: my mom
Sent: 5/5/2009 7:24:39 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time
Subj: lisa
I heard Lisa came home....Elizabeth and I just sent her some stuff to NC....smack her while she is there for not listening to her mother. Pinch her and pull her hair....that will teach her!! Take good care of her and tell her we are thinking about her. smack her!
**in ref to the fact that mom tried to save me from my past five months of hell by doing everything she could to make me go to UVA to my old docs. she is convinced I would be in a better brighter place. (of course, like always, im sure she was right)
that is all.
home.
So I think somewhere between my last blog post and now - its honestly been a gigantic haze, I went back in the hospital, twice? Then I crawled my way out more mentally broken than I really thought was feasible. So, naturally, I called mom and after a long blubbering conversation - decided I needed to go home to Virginia to wait out the last of this no eating/being hooked up to parental nutrition/having too many tubes to count hanging out of my body draining scary horrid things/ part of the illness.
The good news is I feel like a normal person again. I'm still tube laden, but I had one egg today, and mom made me pretend chicken soup, and it was better than 99% of the past month of my life. Eating *is* amazing, even if I'm not really supposed to yet.
Mom and I skipped all of our work today (I have two papers yet to write for school) and pulled out all of her old pictures from her childhood up through mine, the ones hidden away in a closet having not been touched in maybe a decade or two. So the day has really been kind of wonderful. Hours of sitting on the cold floor, freezing, ass hurting, spine hurting, starving - the most fantastic minutes of my life since being able to eat an egg this morning.
Favorites:
my older sister and me
the rare pictures a of me as a baby when I didn't look asian/laden with brain tumor/like the gerber baby
my older sister begged my mom to make a snowman when 1/2 an inch of snow fell. So they made a tiny snowman, adorned him in doll clothes, and saved him in the freezer forever.
older sister again, and not much has changed.
I reiterate.
my mom was a babe.
I am *so* happy to be home. I don't know if I have enjoyed/appreciated it to this extent - maybe ever. I think this needed to happen for more reasons than I will ever be able to surmise.
Mom is angry with me because I am blogging and not working on my paper, I can't handle one more dirty look and big sigh.
She did after all, let me eat an egg.
Back to the land of pubmed scouring and sentence rewriting.
The good news is I feel like a normal person again. I'm still tube laden, but I had one egg today, and mom made me pretend chicken soup, and it was better than 99% of the past month of my life. Eating *is* amazing, even if I'm not really supposed to yet.
Mom and I skipped all of our work today (I have two papers yet to write for school) and pulled out all of her old pictures from her childhood up through mine, the ones hidden away in a closet having not been touched in maybe a decade or two. So the day has really been kind of wonderful. Hours of sitting on the cold floor, freezing, ass hurting, spine hurting, starving - the most fantastic minutes of my life since being able to eat an egg this morning.
Favorites:
my older sister and me
the rare pictures a of me as a baby when I didn't look asian/laden with brain tumor/like the gerber baby
my older sister begged my mom to make a snowman when 1/2 an inch of snow fell. So they made a tiny snowman, adorned him in doll clothes, and saved him in the freezer forever.
older sister again, and not much has changed.
I reiterate.
my mom was a babe.I am *so* happy to be home. I don't know if I have enjoyed/appreciated it to this extent - maybe ever. I think this needed to happen for more reasons than I will ever be able to surmise.
Mom is angry with me because I am blogging and not working on my paper, I can't handle one more dirty look and big sigh.
She did after all, let me eat an egg.
Back to the land of pubmed scouring and sentence rewriting.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
day one
Its my first full day out of the hospital. They really truly released me yesterday. So far my day has been spent entirely the same way it has been spent over the past three weeks. Sitting in a bed with my laptop, intermittently dozing, feeling guilty about not starting on my school work, wishing with every last ounce of wishing power that I could eat just half of a pb&j sandwich, except all this without the convenience of being heavily medicated with narcotic drugs. Which I probably miss way more than I should.
Where are the cats and why aren't they keeping me company.
I haven't been a total schelp, I did my laundry yesterday when I got home, and cleaned my room, and showered. so - yeah, taking it easy today.....nice, and ---ZzzZZzz....
Where are the cats and why aren't they keeping me company.
I haven't been a total schelp, I did my laundry yesterday when I got home, and cleaned my room, and showered. so - yeah, taking it easy today.....nice, and ---ZzzZZzz....
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
sike
So, literally on my way out of the hospital yesterday - finally on my way home, my biggest dream of all dreams as of late, adorned with bags and bags of miscellaneous crap one collects over a 3 week stay in the hospital, in my chair ready to be rolled to freedom, I notice heeeyyy---this stuff coming out of my drain looks like, well, uh....poop. man, must be one nasty abscess I'm draining. By the time I get home and *heroically* begin to unpack, after, of course, a 15 min love fest with the cats who don't rememeber me, there is def lots of suspicious gunk reeaaalllyy flowing out of my drain.
Chad comes over, and with little debate , I'm of course thrown back in the car, and of course whisked back to the effing ER, and of course we sat there for hours waiting for assesment. And of course, my suspicions are confirmed, yes, your intestine have now managaed *Brace Yourselves!* to tunnel a hole into your abscess and I am now draining intestinal contents into my abdominal cavity! God. I'm good. honestly. On the day of departure and everything! Treatment for said diagnosis? No eating (like literally none, I'll be getting IV nutrition) and I have to adorn an unhideable drain. Thats draining crap. Not too bad maybe? Maybe not, except that it takes at least a month to clear up - upwards of six months. Sooooooooo, yeah. fuck my life right now. I'm typing this from a new hospital bed, where I have a roommate, and they like to talk to me.
Chad comes over, and with little debate , I'm of course thrown back in the car, and of course whisked back to the effing ER, and of course we sat there for hours waiting for assesment. And of course, my suspicions are confirmed, yes, your intestine have now managaed *Brace Yourselves!* to tunnel a hole into your abscess and I am now draining intestinal contents into my abdominal cavity! God. I'm good. honestly. On the day of departure and everything! Treatment for said diagnosis? No eating (like literally none, I'll be getting IV nutrition) and I have to adorn an unhideable drain. Thats draining crap. Not too bad maybe? Maybe not, except that it takes at least a month to clear up - upwards of six months. Sooooooooo, yeah. fuck my life right now. I'm typing this from a new hospital bed, where I have a roommate, and they like to talk to me.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
titleschmitle
When did this blog take some pathetic turn for the worse, when did it succumb to some maudlin whiney bullshit one tracked theme of hospital perils. I can't seem to break out of it though. But you know, its so weird, when your only external stimulus is SITTING IN A HOSPITAL WITH NOTHING ELSE TO THINK ABOUT except that I'm still sitting in this effing hospital and I'm not at home, and um, I'm also in the hospital and miserable about the fact!? Then yeah, I guess thats all you get to read about until I leave. And speaking of leaving, right now I really feel the need to inform you that I sat and cried like a little baby in front of 5 doctors yesterday who told me my now new soonest release date is Monday. But that is if I can meet a lot of extraneous medical hoopla and criteria over the course of the next 48 hours. So, in Doctor speak, Monday means 2017. and I cried in front of all of them. and they barely batted an eyelash. In fact, I think I heard cash wagers and congrats of my imminent breakdown being divvied up outside my door as they left.
On the bright side, after searching in vain for the bariatric unit, the place where they keep all the new babies behind a glass window, and the psych ward (where we also hoped they would be displayed behind some nose/finger smudged glass display), my sister and I had profound luck stumbling into the PT gymnasium. It seemed as if maybe it wasn't where we were quite supposed to be, but seeing as they left some lights on, and the doors were unlocked, and most of the equipment was still conviently plugged in and on.....gosh how *couldn't* we have helped ourselves.
Today my adventures will take me outside. I plan on dragging my IV pole around campus. Keep an eye out for me. In fact, put a present or two in your pockets just in case you run into me, because material goods are just the thing I need to keep my morale slightly above the level of death.
On the bright side, after searching in vain for the bariatric unit, the place where they keep all the new babies behind a glass window, and the psych ward (where we also hoped they would be displayed behind some nose/finger smudged glass display), my sister and I had profound luck stumbling into the PT gymnasium. It seemed as if maybe it wasn't where we were quite supposed to be, but seeing as they left some lights on, and the doors were unlocked, and most of the equipment was still conviently plugged in and on.....gosh how *couldn't* we have helped ourselves.
Today my adventures will take me outside. I plan on dragging my IV pole around campus. Keep an eye out for me. In fact, put a present or two in your pockets just in case you run into me, because material goods are just the thing I need to keep my morale slightly above the level of death.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
FRIDAY
okay, so they are super seriously promising me I get to go home tomorrow, Friday April 10th.
I have been in here since March 25th. That is a 16 day grand total of eating hospital food, sleeping in a hospital bed, showering in a hospital shower that doesn't get hot, fretting and stressing over the blatant lack of even maintaining a baseline of health, 16 frustrating days of watching two teams of doctors play I know whats best for her so butt out - entertaining, but um - not very conducive to me getting the crap out of this place, and 16 days worth of tests, most of them odd, invasive, sometimes painful, but I now know my basal metabolic rate while lying in bed watching parent trap starring pre-whore lindsey lohan (?). So yeah, quick 16 day recap
March 25, went for a small bowel study, this was the last morning I left my house.
One of two blood transfusions, pre and post op.
After gratituious vomiting (guess how great if feels to vomit only days after major abdominal surgery) one unfateful evening, they shoved an NG tube down my nose and into my belly - so all my stomach/upper GI contents are promptly resucked back out and displayed in my proud see through vaccutanier. This is what a swiss roll cake looks like enroute from packaging, my mouth, my esophogeous, and back up the roller coaster ride of NG vaccusuck.
The vaccusuck --(proudly now) - I filled about one of those a day without even eating, its a little known fact my body is comprised entirely of pond sludge.
//kkuucchhhhaaaaa Luke I am your father kkkkkuuucchhaaa// or. you know. Caliormetry testing - so they can install a more or less permanent IV in my arm that travels directly to my heart feeding me TPN - i.e. liquid food, also good for narcotic drugs - tends to deliver a little more of a punch when administered through those lines I tell you what.
new portal of life.
and then last but not least, after 16 days of some really swell gumshoe efforts, it was determined the 105 fevers, massive cramping, obstructions, were all lo and behold the culprit of a large pocket of potentially infectious fluid hanging out in my abdomen. So this morning I went in to have them suck it out, leaving me with my final consolation prize of a JP tube that will continuously drain the contents of my interabdominal space a few mLs an hour. Also, I get to cleverly try and (its absolutely impossible) hide underneath my clothes.
Great. So they are letting me go home tomorrow. I have so much schoolwork to catch up on, a paper that will literally probably take me 30 hours to write, two paper presentations I have to put together, a take home test, all the class material that I have been missing must be caught up on, and oh - then of course trying to do what I'm really here for, and that's figure out my project so I can actually start working on something relative that might get me a PhD. While administering my TPN, emptying my drain, trying to figure out how to walk for longer then 5 min without needing to sit...etc..etc..
On the bright side, my older sister is flying in from San Fran to stay till Wednesday to help me out, hope she has a lot of quarters - I'll draw her a map to the laundry room.
I have been in here since March 25th. That is a 16 day grand total of eating hospital food, sleeping in a hospital bed, showering in a hospital shower that doesn't get hot, fretting and stressing over the blatant lack of even maintaining a baseline of health, 16 frustrating days of watching two teams of doctors play I know whats best for her so butt out - entertaining, but um - not very conducive to me getting the crap out of this place, and 16 days worth of tests, most of them odd, invasive, sometimes painful, but I now know my basal metabolic rate while lying in bed watching parent trap starring pre-whore lindsey lohan (?). So yeah, quick 16 day recap
March 25, went for a small bowel study, this was the last morning I left my house.
One of two blood transfusions, pre and post op.
After gratituious vomiting (guess how great if feels to vomit only days after major abdominal surgery) one unfateful evening, they shoved an NG tube down my nose and into my belly - so all my stomach/upper GI contents are promptly resucked back out and displayed in my proud see through vaccutanier. This is what a swiss roll cake looks like enroute from packaging, my mouth, my esophogeous, and back up the roller coaster ride of NG vaccusuck.
The vaccusuck --(proudly now) - I filled about one of those a day without even eating, its a little known fact my body is comprised entirely of pond sludge.
//kkuucchhhhaaaaa Luke I am your father kkkkkuuucchhaaa// or. you know. Caliormetry testing - so they can install a more or less permanent IV in my arm that travels directly to my heart feeding me TPN - i.e. liquid food, also good for narcotic drugs - tends to deliver a little more of a punch when administered through those lines I tell you what.
new portal of life.and then last but not least, after 16 days of some really swell gumshoe efforts, it was determined the 105 fevers, massive cramping, obstructions, were all lo and behold the culprit of a large pocket of potentially infectious fluid hanging out in my abdomen. So this morning I went in to have them suck it out, leaving me with my final consolation prize of a JP tube that will continuously drain the contents of my interabdominal space a few mLs an hour. Also, I get to cleverly try and (its absolutely impossible) hide underneath my clothes.
Great. So they are letting me go home tomorrow. I have so much schoolwork to catch up on, a paper that will literally probably take me 30 hours to write, two paper presentations I have to put together, a take home test, all the class material that I have been missing must be caught up on, and oh - then of course trying to do what I'm really here for, and that's figure out my project so I can actually start working on something relative that might get me a PhD. While administering my TPN, emptying my drain, trying to figure out how to walk for longer then 5 min without needing to sit...etc..etc..
On the bright side, my older sister is flying in from San Fran to stay till Wednesday to help me out, hope she has a lot of quarters - I'll draw her a map to the laundry room.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
pee award
At approximately 4am last night I received 10 mg of lasix, the doctors were worried because I literally peed twice yesterday and started just blowing up with fluid, my arms, legs, face - turned into gigantic basketballs.
From the lowest dose of lasix possible to administer, that is supposed to be effective a mere few hours, I have now urinated 8,800 mLs in the past 24 hours and I'm still going strong. Honestly honestly not exageratting these numbers, the nurses and I just stood around and marvelled over them with me.
thats almost *TEN* liters of water I was holding onto and its not even the end.
p.s. now i do really hope I'm going home. didn't make it today =(
From the lowest dose of lasix possible to administer, that is supposed to be effective a mere few hours, I have now urinated 8,800 mLs in the past 24 hours and I'm still going strong. Honestly honestly not exageratting these numbers, the nurses and I just stood around and marvelled over them with me.
thats almost *TEN* liters of water I was holding onto and its not even the end.
p.s. now i do really hope I'm going home. didn't make it today =(
Friday, April 3, 2009
only read while listening to soft piano. also read outloud. with the lights dimmed.
I really hoped that last visit was it, the visit where the doctors couldn't really put their finger on what was wrong with me after a week of unnecessary tests, several days on the 'no eating' diet, a melee of doctors that communicated solely with rocks and birds, certainly not their colleagues or me - and so they just kind of threw out some educated guesses as to why my belly has become a constant source of brutal misery and sent me home. And things kind of just slowly festered, until I found myself slithering through lab on my belly, pulling myself hand over hand to whatever destination because walking really hurt that much, assuring my labmates that no - ive gotten quite used to being in this much pain so its kind of just normal now, thanks for the concern though, try not to step on me as you guys just ""walk around."" I'm just going to roll my way to the microscope room now where I have to sit unfathomably upright for hours and count intestinal tumors.
I've been on this mission to not let whatever these doctor inspired 'educated guesses' that are attempting to take over my life, not take over my life. I'm really working hard to ignore the fact that I'm actually really effing sick, instead I am marching full speed on with my life in this senseless stubborn brattiness refusing to succumb to the absolutely immense weight of how sick I really feel. Thinking if I give in just a little, I might never again be able to get back up. And not being tough is just not an option ever really. Secretly, all I really want to do is take turns lying either curled up on my couch or in my bed, with my macbook, and the cats, softly whimpering, just enough so that I still look pretty and huggable while im crying and not a big mucus sobbing snot affair, and maybe I could say something heartbreaking and kind that would cause whomever was watching to tear up a little also, and for a moment they would really understand the injustice that comprises the brutal senseless shit that really great and A+ people like me have to endure.
This secret fantasy decidedly does not involve straining at a microscope, attempting to walk, attempting to joke around, attempting to feel bad for someone who thinks their cold is killing them, attempting to care about anything really at all, and constantly telling everyone that I am perfectly capable to be carrying out the way that I am. I am so done with this facade of oh guys im not really that sick routine, sure I'll run here and there and take care of all your trivial needs.
So this morning, I was almost relieved to wake up with a bowel obstruction knowing that it would land me back in the hospital where I can finally take a few days off to rest and be the recipient of sweet sweet dilaudid - the wonder drug that cures all my mental and physical ailments in convenient 2mg 2 hour installments. Especially convenient this morning was the small bowel study I had scheduled for 9am which would certainly hasten the process of being admitted. Arriving in the basement of the women's hospital sufficiently comforted by maybe too many percocets, I eagerly told the technician that I was suffering from certain bowel obstruction - as to which he looked at me, practically skipping down the hallway with glee, with complete skepticism. Four very lousy hours of laying on a metal board later, percocets long worn off, I was finally declared blocked!! I was thusly whisked upstairs to the GI clinic where I was further whisked into the supreme comfort that only dilaudid can so whiskingly whisk into one's veins in a very mere and modest 2 mLs. I was so relieved I would finally have time to get some R&R at the excuse of being bed ridden in a hospital, where I pictured myself thumbing through magazines, leisurely watching daytime tv, chatting with the nurses, sun shining through my windows, god reaching down and pushing my dilaudid button for me....yes it would be *gloroious* -a real break where I could be sick in peace and whimper pitifully (but keeping it delicate and poetic).
so. yeah. I sure as hell got the eff what I wanted. This was last Wednesday. (I am typing on Friday, like 10 days later Friday, like, two episodes of lost later, like, 10 GIGANTICALLY LONG ARDOUS MIND KILLING DAYS). The doctors decided I needed more surgery (kind of saw this coming) - buuuttt, its mostly a minor two hour affair they promised, we'll just tidy up a few problem adhesions while we share warm stories of past xmas parties over my comatose body kind of blase run of the mill procedure.
Six hours later I wake up in some ungoldy agonzing pain where my surgeon declared my abdomen an absolute brutal battlefield and it was unheard of that anyone could possibly form that many adhesions post operativley in just two months. Well. I am a fucking miracle guess what. They were really impressed with the complete and utter mess of networked tissues that I had formed. So being a long and complicated surgery, I have been in here for a long and complicated post op stay - and I really just don't even know how I make it through each minute anymore.
The complications range from persistent fevers topping out consistently at 104- 105, profuse vomiting, where they eventually shoved an NG tube down my throat to cease said incessant vomitfest (Read:lubed a honking peice of gigantic pipe, shoved it down my nose , threaded it through to my belly, and have been sucking out my stomach contents that don't look so very unlike what one would find in clogged gutter detritus- cockroaches, wet leaves, dead spiders, that frisbee I lost when I was 9, etc - fascinating to watch though) ANYWAY. I would now like to continue on complaining on the subject at hand. The pain is monstrous, the back pain from laying in this bed is unbearable, I have swollen body parts that are hideous enough to make children cry, I had an internal catheter installed in my arm that travels to my heart yesterday, a sort of - permanent IV so they can feed me food via TPN b/c I haven't eaten a non vomited up food substance in over a week, two blood transfusions, and a ppaarrttrriiddge in a peeaarrr treeeeee.
The doctors still don't really have any consensus as to why I'm having all of these complications. They have a lot of ideas, but I have yet to see where they are logical, effective, and most of them don't even get acted on - I mostly think they are amused watching me rot here in this bed (they make their rounds at 6am to boot).
So, instead of having my hoped for little teary eyed sessions of 'man guys this is kind of the pits' cutesy cries, I have been having heaving pillow soaking gallon snot producing attacks....usually these are followed by my jamming on my dilaudid button waiting to become mentally comatose again. I have flipped through no magazines. I'm cranky to the nurses. The TV blows. I still can barely walk. My belly still fucking hurts, my head is positioned by a gigantic fucking window so I can remind myself daily that I'm in prison. My IV pole grows larger everyday, no literally they put a new piece of equipment on it like everytime I turn around- reverse nurse Jenga, honest to god. and having to unplug three different pumps, my ng tube, wrap 6 wires and my pain pump, everytime I want to walk 6 feet to the bathroom is RIDICULOUS. Then haul all that shit over to the sink. Pick at some new pimple. Get all the way back to bed, hook everything back up. Climb in. And then realize. in horror. that I forgot to wash my hands. I may or may not rengage in a crying jagg that my neighbors can hear. But I think tears are good for sterilizing or something?
Now I fantasize about being back in lab and having a grad student gracefully float into my bay with a box of Dunkies and saying Lisa I picked out your favorite, and also, I have just a few samples of intestine if you wanted to count them? and her eyes would twinkle. and my eyes would twinkle. and we would share a doughnut moment while gazing at one another, endulging in silly light hearted tales that would cause the people overhearing to smile and shake their heads. and I would tell her I would be delighted to count tumors as I loving licked the chocolate icing from each of my nonswollen, non bruised, unfinger pricked, unscathed, hand washed fingers. And I would walk down to the scope room, with a little whimpering cry, and it would look pretty, and genuine, and the sun would reflect just right off my face - and the tears would be for happiness this time, because I just ate a fucking doughnut and its not causing me to double over and writhe around in agonzing pain, because IM LIVING LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING DOES EVERYDAY. except I won't be taking it for granted. suckers.
I.can't.take.this.anymore.
I've been on this mission to not let whatever these doctor inspired 'educated guesses' that are attempting to take over my life, not take over my life. I'm really working hard to ignore the fact that I'm actually really effing sick, instead I am marching full speed on with my life in this senseless stubborn brattiness refusing to succumb to the absolutely immense weight of how sick I really feel. Thinking if I give in just a little, I might never again be able to get back up. And not being tough is just not an option ever really. Secretly, all I really want to do is take turns lying either curled up on my couch or in my bed, with my macbook, and the cats, softly whimpering, just enough so that I still look pretty and huggable while im crying and not a big mucus sobbing snot affair, and maybe I could say something heartbreaking and kind that would cause whomever was watching to tear up a little also, and for a moment they would really understand the injustice that comprises the brutal senseless shit that really great and A+ people like me have to endure.
This secret fantasy decidedly does not involve straining at a microscope, attempting to walk, attempting to joke around, attempting to feel bad for someone who thinks their cold is killing them, attempting to care about anything really at all, and constantly telling everyone that I am perfectly capable to be carrying out the way that I am. I am so done with this facade of oh guys im not really that sick routine, sure I'll run here and there and take care of all your trivial needs.
So this morning, I was almost relieved to wake up with a bowel obstruction knowing that it would land me back in the hospital where I can finally take a few days off to rest and be the recipient of sweet sweet dilaudid - the wonder drug that cures all my mental and physical ailments in convenient 2mg 2 hour installments. Especially convenient this morning was the small bowel study I had scheduled for 9am which would certainly hasten the process of being admitted. Arriving in the basement of the women's hospital sufficiently comforted by maybe too many percocets, I eagerly told the technician that I was suffering from certain bowel obstruction - as to which he looked at me, practically skipping down the hallway with glee, with complete skepticism. Four very lousy hours of laying on a metal board later, percocets long worn off, I was finally declared blocked!! I was thusly whisked upstairs to the GI clinic where I was further whisked into the supreme comfort that only dilaudid can so whiskingly whisk into one's veins in a very mere and modest 2 mLs. I was so relieved I would finally have time to get some R&R at the excuse of being bed ridden in a hospital, where I pictured myself thumbing through magazines, leisurely watching daytime tv, chatting with the nurses, sun shining through my windows, god reaching down and pushing my dilaudid button for me....yes it would be *gloroious* -a real break where I could be sick in peace and whimper pitifully (but keeping it delicate and poetic).
so. yeah. I sure as hell got the eff what I wanted. This was last Wednesday. (I am typing on Friday, like 10 days later Friday, like, two episodes of lost later, like, 10 GIGANTICALLY LONG ARDOUS MIND KILLING DAYS). The doctors decided I needed more surgery (kind of saw this coming) - buuuttt, its mostly a minor two hour affair they promised, we'll just tidy up a few problem adhesions while we share warm stories of past xmas parties over my comatose body kind of blase run of the mill procedure.
Six hours later I wake up in some ungoldy agonzing pain where my surgeon declared my abdomen an absolute brutal battlefield and it was unheard of that anyone could possibly form that many adhesions post operativley in just two months. Well. I am a fucking miracle guess what. They were really impressed with the complete and utter mess of networked tissues that I had formed. So being a long and complicated surgery, I have been in here for a long and complicated post op stay - and I really just don't even know how I make it through each minute anymore.
The complications range from persistent fevers topping out consistently at 104- 105, profuse vomiting, where they eventually shoved an NG tube down my throat to cease said incessant vomitfest (Read:lubed a honking peice of gigantic pipe, shoved it down my nose , threaded it through to my belly, and have been sucking out my stomach contents that don't look so very unlike what one would find in clogged gutter detritus- cockroaches, wet leaves, dead spiders, that frisbee I lost when I was 9, etc - fascinating to watch though) ANYWAY. I would now like to continue on complaining on the subject at hand. The pain is monstrous, the back pain from laying in this bed is unbearable, I have swollen body parts that are hideous enough to make children cry, I had an internal catheter installed in my arm that travels to my heart yesterday, a sort of - permanent IV so they can feed me food via TPN b/c I haven't eaten a non vomited up food substance in over a week, two blood transfusions, and a ppaarrttrriiddge in a peeaarrr treeeeee.
The doctors still don't really have any consensus as to why I'm having all of these complications. They have a lot of ideas, but I have yet to see where they are logical, effective, and most of them don't even get acted on - I mostly think they are amused watching me rot here in this bed (they make their rounds at 6am to boot).
So, instead of having my hoped for little teary eyed sessions of 'man guys this is kind of the pits' cutesy cries, I have been having heaving pillow soaking gallon snot producing attacks....usually these are followed by my jamming on my dilaudid button waiting to become mentally comatose again. I have flipped through no magazines. I'm cranky to the nurses. The TV blows. I still can barely walk. My belly still fucking hurts, my head is positioned by a gigantic fucking window so I can remind myself daily that I'm in prison. My IV pole grows larger everyday, no literally they put a new piece of equipment on it like everytime I turn around- reverse nurse Jenga, honest to god. and having to unplug three different pumps, my ng tube, wrap 6 wires and my pain pump, everytime I want to walk 6 feet to the bathroom is RIDICULOUS. Then haul all that shit over to the sink. Pick at some new pimple. Get all the way back to bed, hook everything back up. Climb in. And then realize. in horror. that I forgot to wash my hands. I may or may not rengage in a crying jagg that my neighbors can hear. But I think tears are good for sterilizing or something?
Now I fantasize about being back in lab and having a grad student gracefully float into my bay with a box of Dunkies and saying Lisa I picked out your favorite, and also, I have just a few samples of intestine if you wanted to count them? and her eyes would twinkle. and my eyes would twinkle. and we would share a doughnut moment while gazing at one another, endulging in silly light hearted tales that would cause the people overhearing to smile and shake their heads. and I would tell her I would be delighted to count tumors as I loving licked the chocolate icing from each of my nonswollen, non bruised, unfinger pricked, unscathed, hand washed fingers. And I would walk down to the scope room, with a little whimpering cry, and it would look pretty, and genuine, and the sun would reflect just right off my face - and the tears would be for happiness this time, because I just ate a fucking doughnut and its not causing me to double over and writhe around in agonzing pain, because IM LIVING LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING DOES EVERYDAY. except I won't be taking it for granted. suckers.
I.can't.take.this.anymore.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Some jobs are harder than others.
For example, I would rather put knitting needles through my eyeballs before working one shift of a: wal-mart greeter, bikini waxer, high school guidance counselor, rent-a-cop, lunch lady, drug runner, podiatrist (god, gross), dmv employee...
but above all -- my limbs, sight, and sense of hearing would have to be on the line before I would even remotely consider driving one Chapel Hill bus route. The local friendly UNC bus transit drivers surpass all the patience, zen, and kindness of monks, buddha, the entire hare krishna movement, and jesus, combined, multiplied by 100.
Their job entails dealing with the precedents of some of my most unfounded nightmares, for the entire duration of their shift. Nightmare #1: everyone from the town crazies, professors, undergrads, grads, blue/white collar workers - the social demographic gamut, standing behind your chair and making inane conversation with you whether you want it or not. I mean, not only do you have to possess the uncanny ability to converse to all levels of life at a smooth, flowing, non-awkward pace, but be a willing conversant - which not only can these drivers pull off, but they always seems so pleased and engaged to participate in these trite rider-self serving conversations. Especially impressive is when you get the urine crusted unwashed maybe homeless guy conversations rolling, these guys tend to yell - senseless things, and when they sputter and scream in the ears of these drivers, the driver responds with a good natured laugh and then says something nicer that I couldn't have mustered up if I was given years - "oh George, will I be letting you off at Timberlyne today or are you going to ride with me for awhile?" these bus drivers, saints! Honestly, I get insanely bent out of shape just having to share my seat with someone when the bus gets packed, forced conversation to boot would have me shelling out the $6 parking fee daily.
Whilst making meaningless banter with anyone who so chooses to chew your ear off (kill me), UNC bus drivers are also miraculously capable of simultaneously driving through campus. Nightmare #2. I drive through campus in an otherwise small vehicle, by myself, terrified to change lanes, and still have a hard time not clipping 6 pairs of heels, 3 cars, a dog or two, and more often than not, my patience wears thin about 1.5 min (200 ft) into my campus traverse and I find myself gunning the engine when someone looks like they are even kind of contemplating the crosswalk, don't even think about it, I'm obviously not slowing down for you. Add one passenger to my car, a good song on sirius, a thought in my head, its honestly a miracle if I make it to my destination leaving the living and unliving unscathed. Oh and - to make the commute extra fun, lets not forget the ongoing construction that has left the 2-lane roads just wide enough for a bike and pile on lots of orange vested men standing around and contemplating where the next really inconvenient orange plastic fence will be located in their plot to ultimately construct the road obstacle course from hell.
Now. Man that shit in a vehicle bigger than the road, with no stopping, going, or turning power, packed to the gills with people (nightmare #3, being packed into an enclosed area with other people who breathe and cough and make weird throat noises with no means of escape), who insist on continuously talking (screaming dumb shit) over each other (nightmare #4), pressed up against each other and still moving around (nightmare #5), talking to you (nightmare #6), demanding to get off, demanding to get on, 5:00 traffic that starts at 3 and ends at 7 (nightmare #7), pedestrians amuck in the road (nightmare #8), orange vested men (nightmare #9), orange plastic fences (nightmare #10), orange vested men with walkies and a stop sign (nightmare #11), and the frenzy of stoplights every 50 ft that are somehow, always red (nightmare #12). Oh right, and you are kind of on a strict time schedule.
and to manage all of this *and still not loose patience. or lives. or your job. or your sanity. all day long -- maneuvering in and out, chatting, whistling, smiling, greeting, laughing, waving at your fellow en route bus drivers, no one, really, can humanly maintain this disposition under these circumstances.....*
but above all -- my limbs, sight, and sense of hearing would have to be on the line before I would even remotely consider driving one Chapel Hill bus route. The local friendly UNC bus transit drivers surpass all the patience, zen, and kindness of monks, buddha, the entire hare krishna movement, and jesus, combined, multiplied by 100.
Their job entails dealing with the precedents of some of my most unfounded nightmares, for the entire duration of their shift. Nightmare #1: everyone from the town crazies, professors, undergrads, grads, blue/white collar workers - the social demographic gamut, standing behind your chair and making inane conversation with you whether you want it or not. I mean, not only do you have to possess the uncanny ability to converse to all levels of life at a smooth, flowing, non-awkward pace, but be a willing conversant - which not only can these drivers pull off, but they always seems so pleased and engaged to participate in these trite rider-self serving conversations. Especially impressive is when you get the urine crusted unwashed maybe homeless guy conversations rolling, these guys tend to yell - senseless things, and when they sputter and scream in the ears of these drivers, the driver responds with a good natured laugh and then says something nicer that I couldn't have mustered up if I was given years - "oh George, will I be letting you off at Timberlyne today or are you going to ride with me for awhile?" these bus drivers, saints! Honestly, I get insanely bent out of shape just having to share my seat with someone when the bus gets packed, forced conversation to boot would have me shelling out the $6 parking fee daily.
Whilst making meaningless banter with anyone who so chooses to chew your ear off (kill me), UNC bus drivers are also miraculously capable of simultaneously driving through campus. Nightmare #2. I drive through campus in an otherwise small vehicle, by myself, terrified to change lanes, and still have a hard time not clipping 6 pairs of heels, 3 cars, a dog or two, and more often than not, my patience wears thin about 1.5 min (200 ft) into my campus traverse and I find myself gunning the engine when someone looks like they are even kind of contemplating the crosswalk, don't even think about it, I'm obviously not slowing down for you. Add one passenger to my car, a good song on sirius, a thought in my head, its honestly a miracle if I make it to my destination leaving the living and unliving unscathed. Oh and - to make the commute extra fun, lets not forget the ongoing construction that has left the 2-lane roads just wide enough for a bike and pile on lots of orange vested men standing around and contemplating where the next really inconvenient orange plastic fence will be located in their plot to ultimately construct the road obstacle course from hell.
Now. Man that shit in a vehicle bigger than the road, with no stopping, going, or turning power, packed to the gills with people (nightmare #3, being packed into an enclosed area with other people who breathe and cough and make weird throat noises with no means of escape), who insist on continuously talking (screaming dumb shit) over each other (nightmare #4), pressed up against each other and still moving around (nightmare #5), talking to you (nightmare #6), demanding to get off, demanding to get on, 5:00 traffic that starts at 3 and ends at 7 (nightmare #7), pedestrians amuck in the road (nightmare #8), orange vested men (nightmare #9), orange plastic fences (nightmare #10), orange vested men with walkies and a stop sign (nightmare #11), and the frenzy of stoplights every 50 ft that are somehow, always red (nightmare #12). Oh right, and you are kind of on a strict time schedule.
and to manage all of this *and still not loose patience. or lives. or your job. or your sanity. all day long -- maneuvering in and out, chatting, whistling, smiling, greeting, laughing, waving at your fellow en route bus drivers, no one, really, can humanly maintain this disposition under these circumstances.....*
Sunday, March 8, 2009
this is going to hurt tomorrow.
After spending infinitesimally more cumulative time in the hospital over the past three months than either the gym or my bike combined, and after dropping almost 10% of my body weight, and after surgery, and after 100's of needle sticks, and IVs, and ER visits, and too many melt downs--and being so supremely out of shape that walking 30 min yesterday made my calves ungodly sore today -- dude, I just got on my bike for the first time in months and dragged my skeletal ass up and down 20 miles worth of man eating hills.
yeah. it was kind of that victorious.
and my skeletal ass, oh god, I may not be able to sit for a week.
yeah. it was kind of that victorious.and my skeletal ass, oh god, I may not be able to sit for a week.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
the perils of slowly losing it.
If everyone wanted to just come stand around my hospital bed and look as morose as humanly possible while I played this on loop, it would kind of make my day. I mean, it wouldn't because I think I have successfully managed to go off the deep end this time, but the amusement potential would be greater than my joy of being able to surpass my previous pee hat volume record. I told my nurse about how fulfilling I find it to make it past the 650 cc mark on my urine hat, inclined to believe that if she couldn't relate, she could at least appear supportive. I was sadly disappointed when I only got a nervously confused chuckle in response as she flushed my big achievement of the day down the pipes. I took it as a sign she didn't want to know that was the most I had managed to pee all at once since I arrived Saturday, effectively beating my other urine output highscores, or how I had been holding it in all day until the cusp of imminent bladder explosion, so it was a hard worked for - and therefore well earned victory. HUMOR ME LADY. god. some nurse.
Well, I have a potential record beating amount of liquids just waiting to be ingested - I'm going for 700 cc - wish me luck, better yet, wish for my release before I end up in the psych ward.
p.s. this is really neither here nor there, I just wanted you to feel sorry for me over the fact that in the past four days I have been here, they have tried to insert an I.V. in me 11, yes that's right, eleven, ELEVEN, different times. Guess how great that felt. it didn't.
Well, I have a potential record beating amount of liquids just waiting to be ingested - I'm going for 700 cc - wish me luck, better yet, wish for my release before I end up in the psych ward.
p.s. this is really neither here nor there, I just wanted you to feel sorry for me over the fact that in the past four days I have been here, they have tried to insert an I.V. in me 11, yes that's right, eleven, ELEVEN, different times. Guess how great that felt. it didn't.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I would like to take a brief reprieve from marathon hw to whine.
In the past five days I have had to:
1) take a test covering most of endocrine physiology (fri)
2) write a 6 page report detailing the ins and out of NSAIDs and their effects on gi and cardio health (mon)
3) put together a 20 minute presentation on NSAIDs and their chemotherapuetic properties (mon)
4) write another 6 page report detailing the ins and outs of pre/probiotics and their effects on gi health (wed)
5) put together another 20 minute presentation on pre/probiotics and their chemotherapuetic properties (wed)
6) lab (all week)
7) redo my entire physiology test (in a timely fashion) , because I did just that bad on it the first time around. But apparently the whole class was given their test to correct and turn back in, so , on the bright side, it was kind of okay I failed the crap out of it.
I have a vague recollection of sleeping at some point last week. I think I ate a bowl of cereal or something yesterday. Ive adjusted to the permanent burn of exhaustion that has manifested itself in my eyeballs. Honestly, this was all for one class too. ONE CLASS. All three professors for ONE class decided to put this all on us due in the course of ONE WEEK.
That's all I really have to say. I have a quota of bitching that must be met every hour concerning my work load, and I thusly decided for the 15th hour of feb 24 I would whine via blog post. The last of my work is due tomorrow morning at 9am. 17 more hours left of the most schoolwork intensive week I have ever experienced. or anyone has really. I feel confident enough to go out on a limb and say no one ever, except the other 5 members of my physiology class, ever experienced this intense of a work load. If you think you have. you are wrong. My undereye circles will beat you into submission if you refuse to concede this truth.
1) take a test covering most of endocrine physiology (fri)
2) write a 6 page report detailing the ins and out of NSAIDs and their effects on gi and cardio health (mon)
3) put together a 20 minute presentation on NSAIDs and their chemotherapuetic properties (mon)
4) write another 6 page report detailing the ins and outs of pre/probiotics and their effects on gi health (wed)
5) put together another 20 minute presentation on pre/probiotics and their chemotherapuetic properties (wed)
6) lab (all week)
7) redo my entire physiology test (in a timely fashion) , because I did just that bad on it the first time around. But apparently the whole class was given their test to correct and turn back in, so , on the bright side, it was kind of okay I failed the crap out of it.
I have a vague recollection of sleeping at some point last week. I think I ate a bowl of cereal or something yesterday. Ive adjusted to the permanent burn of exhaustion that has manifested itself in my eyeballs. Honestly, this was all for one class too. ONE CLASS. All three professors for ONE class decided to put this all on us due in the course of ONE WEEK.
That's all I really have to say. I have a quota of bitching that must be met every hour concerning my work load, and I thusly decided for the 15th hour of feb 24 I would whine via blog post. The last of my work is due tomorrow morning at 9am. 17 more hours left of the most schoolwork intensive week I have ever experienced. or anyone has really. I feel confident enough to go out on a limb and say no one ever, except the other 5 members of my physiology class, ever experienced this intense of a work load. If you think you have. you are wrong. My undereye circles will beat you into submission if you refuse to concede this truth.
Friday, February 6, 2009
I would like to borrow a hat please.
Why I have a lot of pimples on my forehead where there are usually none:
-Ive narrowed down my headaches to Ambien use. Rubbing my head while its hurting does nothing to alleviate the pain but it feels useful.
-Self diagnosing persistent fevers by touching my forehead with the palm of my hand, the back of my hand, my wrist, if someone is near I ask for their second opinion with their hands - - not that my forehead ever feels hot to me, but it seems like a necessary prerequisite to taking my temperature and eating motrin like m&m's.
-Sitting on my ass for the past two weeks waiting to miraculously look and feel like a normal person - and fretting/stressing/whining that I still look and feel like a 1 week post mortem starvation victim. This causes a lot of stress induced forehead rubbing.
-Having my bf repeatedly ask me if I was recently in a knife fight, how I made out in my recent fist fight, and maybe I should stay out of dark dangerous alleys - due to illustrious pimple holes on my forehead that, apparently, resemble gigantic, violent, fight induced wounds. I then naturally feel the need to self consciously touch all of my pimples, because finger probing is an appropriate measure of pimple severity, even though I just looked in the mirror 5 min prior to assess said damage. Then I stress out and rub my forehead because not only am I really pale with gigantic undereye circles, but I also look like a leper. A starving one.
-I honestly really hate this 25 notes b.s. circulating on fb because I'm incapable of not reading everyone's kooky narcissistic self-commentary b/c IM BORED OUT OF MY MIND. (Certainly not a parallel to my blog here at all). I read them immediately upon their arrival on my newsfeed. I rub my forehead out of sheer stress that I just subjected myself to another 3 minutes of lifewaste.
-I haven't done my laundry in over two weeks and am wearing the last of the last. Stressful headrubbing ensues after every shower, as I stare into my dresser drawers, wondering how the cats are going to treat me if I pair nine year old plaid pj pants with a tie dye shirt and striped rainbow socks.
Okay, I can drag this list out forever, seeing as I have mammoth swaths of time on my hands, but I need to check facebook to see if anyone else posted 25 notes. I MUST KNOW HOW MANY PETS YOU HAD AS A CHILD. and I need to stare at the wall some more. and wait around for this day to be over so maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and look and feel a little more normal. I'm also horribly nauseous, that is to say I can literally feel my stomach throwing grappling hooks into my esophagus as a means to escape out of my mouth - so I need to lay down to thwart operation gut escape, and I can't really type from that angle.
I rubbed my head 11 different times during the writing of this post alone. I need to find a different means of physically expressing my stress. Like eating more than a meal a day regardless of how violently queasy it makes me, because dropping all this weight in the course of two weeks is terrifying, and naturally, it makes me rub my head.
-Ive narrowed down my headaches to Ambien use. Rubbing my head while its hurting does nothing to alleviate the pain but it feels useful.
-Self diagnosing persistent fevers by touching my forehead with the palm of my hand, the back of my hand, my wrist, if someone is near I ask for their second opinion with their hands - - not that my forehead ever feels hot to me, but it seems like a necessary prerequisite to taking my temperature and eating motrin like m&m's.
-Sitting on my ass for the past two weeks waiting to miraculously look and feel like a normal person - and fretting/stressing/whining that I still look and feel like a 1 week post mortem starvation victim. This causes a lot of stress induced forehead rubbing.
-Having my bf repeatedly ask me if I was recently in a knife fight, how I made out in my recent fist fight, and maybe I should stay out of dark dangerous alleys - due to illustrious pimple holes on my forehead that, apparently, resemble gigantic, violent, fight induced wounds. I then naturally feel the need to self consciously touch all of my pimples, because finger probing is an appropriate measure of pimple severity, even though I just looked in the mirror 5 min prior to assess said damage. Then I stress out and rub my forehead because not only am I really pale with gigantic undereye circles, but I also look like a leper. A starving one.
-I honestly really hate this 25 notes b.s. circulating on fb because I'm incapable of not reading everyone's kooky narcissistic self-commentary b/c IM BORED OUT OF MY MIND. (Certainly not a parallel to my blog here at all). I read them immediately upon their arrival on my newsfeed. I rub my forehead out of sheer stress that I just subjected myself to another 3 minutes of lifewaste.
-I haven't done my laundry in over two weeks and am wearing the last of the last. Stressful headrubbing ensues after every shower, as I stare into my dresser drawers, wondering how the cats are going to treat me if I pair nine year old plaid pj pants with a tie dye shirt and striped rainbow socks.
Okay, I can drag this list out forever, seeing as I have mammoth swaths of time on my hands, but I need to check facebook to see if anyone else posted 25 notes. I MUST KNOW HOW MANY PETS YOU HAD AS A CHILD. and I need to stare at the wall some more. and wait around for this day to be over so maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and look and feel a little more normal. I'm also horribly nauseous, that is to say I can literally feel my stomach throwing grappling hooks into my esophagus as a means to escape out of my mouth - so I need to lay down to thwart operation gut escape, and I can't really type from that angle.
I rubbed my head 11 different times during the writing of this post alone. I need to find a different means of physically expressing my stress. Like eating more than a meal a day regardless of how violently queasy it makes me, because dropping all this weight in the course of two weeks is terrifying, and naturally, it makes me rub my head.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
ive arrived
I report to you from the official scene of yuppie.
In a coffeeshop, in a corner - judging all other fellow coffee shop inhabitants, in a fucking pullover and yoga pants, drinking fiji water and sipping kenya aa coffee, with my macbook, blogging, while attempting to read my physiology textbook, listening to some yuppie indie shit on itunes, making plans to buy camp bisco tickets.
god im not even embarrassed.
I am however, a little embarrassed (maybe mortified) for this girls skirt/boots combo standing in front of me.
In a coffeeshop, in a corner - judging all other fellow coffee shop inhabitants, in a fucking pullover and yoga pants, drinking fiji water and sipping kenya aa coffee, with my macbook, blogging, while attempting to read my physiology textbook, listening to some yuppie indie shit on itunes, making plans to buy camp bisco tickets.
god im not even embarrassed.
I am however, a little embarrassed (maybe mortified) for this girls skirt/boots combo standing in front of me.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
he giveth and taketh away, or something. or i just ate like 927 mgs of oxycodone.
losses:
1) insomnia
2) half of my medical bills (tthhaaannkks mom)
3) my crappy ass half working laptop
4) 1 foot of small bowel
5) a terrifying old abdominal incision
gains:
1) a prescription for ambien (zing!)
2) a $1600 charge to my credit card bill (see 3)
3) A 250 GIG HARDRIVE MACBOOK 2.4 GHZ WITH 2 GIGS OF MEMORY. (and some free printer/copier/scanner - something - its downstairs so fuzzy details)
4) a new lease on life
5) a really small neat abdominal incision that you can't fit 16 pencils, 5 pens, and 3 hot dogs in
1) insomnia
2) half of my medical bills (tthhaaannkks mom)
3) my crappy ass half working laptop
4) 1 foot of small bowel
5) a terrifying old abdominal incision
gains:
1) a prescription for ambien (zing!)
2) a $1600 charge to my credit card bill (see 3)
3) A 250 GIG HARDRIVE MACBOOK 2.4 GHZ WITH 2 GIGS OF MEMORY. (and some free printer/copier/scanner - something - its downstairs so fuzzy details)
4) a new lease on life
5) a really small neat abdominal incision that you can't fit 16 pencils, 5 pens, and 3 hot dogs in
Friday, January 16, 2009
reward: missing balls - made of steel
I'm terrified of the fact that its only going to be a high of 26 today. I am huddled in a ball wearing most of my pajama collection to stave off imminent hypothermia, sipping hot coffee, and close to tears at the thought of catching the 7:55 bus.
The punchline being that I just endured three winters in Massachusetts - where a high of 26 was considered warm - warm enough for me not to park illegally in front of the school that is. (Nothing was worse than traversing that mammoth parking lot with subzero temps.) I seem to have some vague recollection of biking as long as it was 30 out - and nonchalantly bitching about finding my scarf if it was going to be below the teens. And honestly, in Massachusetts - it stays this cold for a good 10 months out of the year or something ridiculous.
I guess I won't be wearing my standard of flip flops/tank top/ light hoodie today. I guess I'll have to rummage around to actually find something long sleeved, preferably with wool/thinsulate/goose down/maybe both cats - and accessorize by pasting those self heating hot hands all over my torso. I must have left my sack of steel up north when I moved - I am now. officially. lame. And also, I super love this otherwise warm NC weather.
The punchline being that I just endured three winters in Massachusetts - where a high of 26 was considered warm - warm enough for me not to park illegally in front of the school that is. (Nothing was worse than traversing that mammoth parking lot with subzero temps.) I seem to have some vague recollection of biking as long as it was 30 out - and nonchalantly bitching about finding my scarf if it was going to be below the teens. And honestly, in Massachusetts - it stays this cold for a good 10 months out of the year or something ridiculous.
I guess I won't be wearing my standard of flip flops/tank top/ light hoodie today. I guess I'll have to rummage around to actually find something long sleeved, preferably with wool/thinsulate/goose down/maybe both cats - and accessorize by pasting those self heating hot hands all over my torso. I must have left my sack of steel up north when I moved - I am now. officially. lame. And also, I super love this otherwise warm NC weather.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
free advice part 6 (i think)
If you received a sonicare toothbrush for christmas from your parents, and the following conditions hold true:
a) you don't like to clean your bathroom mirror on a daily basis
b) you find toothpaste spit in your hair unbecoming
c) you find toothpaste spit in your eyes to be even less appealing
d) brushing your teeth with more skill then a five year old is a barometer of your integrity
Then - I would suggest not turning the device on until it is planted safely inside your mouth, with your lips firmly closing your around the neck of the toothbrush, with all your might (white bloodless lips are almost essential at this point) and maintaining this stance for the duration of brushing, at all times. no kidding, all times. I mean - if you even think of parting your lips for the briefest of moments - prepare to splatter your bathroom vanity, mirror, yourself, the cat that terminally lives in your sink, your neighbor will wonder why snow is falling by their windows, and yes - it gets in your eyes. Also, your roommate will inevitably choose that time to walk by and witness your whirlwind toothpaste cat 5 hurricane, and might attempt to treat what she believes to be - an epileptic fit.
Only when your sonicare toothbrush has finished its 2 minute brushathon and has ceased its vibrating mayhem of savagery - should you very, very, carefully - remove this very phenomenal cleaning device from your mouth - rinse it lovingly - retire it to it's charging haven - fall to your knees - and pay homage to the most powerful piece of vibrating equipment you will ever own, that didn't come from a shop with barred windows.
p.s. I <3 my new sonicare.
a) you don't like to clean your bathroom mirror on a daily basis
b) you find toothpaste spit in your hair unbecoming
c) you find toothpaste spit in your eyes to be even less appealing
d) brushing your teeth with more skill then a five year old is a barometer of your integrity
Then - I would suggest not turning the device on until it is planted safely inside your mouth, with your lips firmly closing your around the neck of the toothbrush, with all your might (white bloodless lips are almost essential at this point) and maintaining this stance for the duration of brushing, at all times. no kidding, all times. I mean - if you even think of parting your lips for the briefest of moments - prepare to splatter your bathroom vanity, mirror, yourself, the cat that terminally lives in your sink, your neighbor will wonder why snow is falling by their windows, and yes - it gets in your eyes. Also, your roommate will inevitably choose that time to walk by and witness your whirlwind toothpaste cat 5 hurricane, and might attempt to treat what she believes to be - an epileptic fit.
Only when your sonicare toothbrush has finished its 2 minute brushathon and has ceased its vibrating mayhem of savagery - should you very, very, carefully - remove this very phenomenal cleaning device from your mouth - rinse it lovingly - retire it to it's charging haven - fall to your knees - and pay homage to the most powerful piece of vibrating equipment you will ever own, that didn't come from a shop with barred windows.
p.s. I <3 my new sonicare.
Monday, January 5, 2009
I could consider that whole, resolution business - but that would be admitting I don't love this lifestyle.
the new year thus far:
-left essential medication at home. begged mom to overnight it on tuesday, the 30th. it won't be here til tomorrow at the earliest, Monday, the 5th.
-procured a hangover worthy of matching my Halloween hangover. That is to say I spent most of the first day this year whining about being on the cusp of passing out/vomiting/mind blowing headache/dehydration/imminent death. Also, NYE was a blast and the hangover was totally worth it.
-thusly detagged about 173 pictures on facebook.
- after removing approximately 97 lbs. of trash from my car (consisting mostly of empty red bulls, v8 cans, diet pepsi max bottles) I found someone's car keys, still unclaimed (GM car keys anyone?). My car still looks and smells like an alley from a bad part of NYC.
-ate more cookies then I probably have in all of 2008 put together. I am really not being sarcastic on this one. dead serious.
-realized I scheduled a lab meeting for my previous rotation (that I failed to give during my rotation) on top of the first class on the first day of the semester, I am befuddled at my lack of blatant organizational skills. no, wait, I'm totally not.
- broke my bike. like, have to take it to the shop for repairs kind of broke my bike. After my big christmas present this year was my dad totally revamping and repairing my bike with all new parts.
- thought I killed my roommate's cat.
- reset my internal clock by going to bed after 3 am every single night/morning. Certainly this won't exacerbate already persistent insomnia.
-subsequently, I woke up at 1 pm today - drank a red bull at 3pm in preparation for a 2 hour bike ride (and of course made it 7 miles before I broke my pedal). Oh weird, I'm blogging at midnight and feel capable of running back to back marathons.
-So, yes, blogging. Instead of my original intention of reading papers for my rotation that starts tomorrow.
-that I said I would arrive for at 9am.
-but won't go until 10am because my P.I. said she wasn't getting in until 10:30 am.
-sigh.
-2009: perpetuation of picking up very avoidable messes, piecemeal, organization is for the birds.
-happy new year.
-left essential medication at home. begged mom to overnight it on tuesday, the 30th. it won't be here til tomorrow at the earliest, Monday, the 5th.
-procured a hangover worthy of matching my Halloween hangover. That is to say I spent most of the first day this year whining about being on the cusp of passing out/vomiting/mind blowing headache/dehydration/imminent death. Also, NYE was a blast and the hangover was totally worth it.
-thusly detagged about 173 pictures on facebook.
- after removing approximately 97 lbs. of trash from my car (consisting mostly of empty red bulls, v8 cans, diet pepsi max bottles) I found someone's car keys, still unclaimed (GM car keys anyone?). My car still looks and smells like an alley from a bad part of NYC.
-ate more cookies then I probably have in all of 2008 put together. I am really not being sarcastic on this one. dead serious.
-realized I scheduled a lab meeting for my previous rotation (that I failed to give during my rotation) on top of the first class on the first day of the semester, I am befuddled at my lack of blatant organizational skills. no, wait, I'm totally not.
- broke my bike. like, have to take it to the shop for repairs kind of broke my bike. After my big christmas present this year was my dad totally revamping and repairing my bike with all new parts.
- thought I killed my roommate's cat.
- reset my internal clock by going to bed after 3 am every single night/morning. Certainly this won't exacerbate already persistent insomnia.
-subsequently, I woke up at 1 pm today - drank a red bull at 3pm in preparation for a 2 hour bike ride (and of course made it 7 miles before I broke my pedal). Oh weird, I'm blogging at midnight and feel capable of running back to back marathons.
-So, yes, blogging. Instead of my original intention of reading papers for my rotation that starts tomorrow.
-that I said I would arrive for at 9am.
-but won't go until 10am because my P.I. said she wasn't getting in until 10:30 am.
-sigh.
-2009: perpetuation of picking up very avoidable messes, piecemeal, organization is for the birds.
-happy new year.
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