Skeered-ded

I'm in the hospital for heart-related issues, and I'm scared.  I don't know what they are planning for me, what I will have to do about it, and I am thoroughly freaked-out by the idea of surgery ( I know they're talking about surgery, I just don't know what kind or if I'll have to have it {or if I can weasal out of it!}). 

I am disappointed in myself in that I have reached a point of Big Baby-ism in that I sat here and cried simply because I am scared.  What the fuck happened to my balls???  Have I really come to this?  When I realized what I was doing, I smacked myself in the head a few times and quit being such a pussy, but - it's true that I'm afraid.  Very much so. 

I Know Why the Caged Bird...

...bangs its' head against the bars of its' fucking cage until its' brain hemorrhages.  It's because its' in fucking therapy, that's why, and its' being frog-walked into looking at things inside its' head that give it the Screamin' Willies and its' doctor WON'T LET IT HAVE ITS' FUCKING MORPHINE, DAMMIT...

How am I supposed to deal with shit if I don't have a way to get away from dealing with that shit?  Tell me that, Stephanie...and please don't tell me to continue taking my trazodone because all that does is make me feel like I'm wading through thick liquid, inside and out.

Okay... I think the tantrum is over.  For now...

Since neither one of them - the shrink or my doc - have told me to quit smoking pot, I guess I'll have to become a chronic with the chronic.  I'll fit in with the Park People, at least, and we can all sit around staring at our fingers and chewing our hair.  Maybe I can commune with the squirrels, become the Squirrel Whisperer...god knows if I smoke enough pot I could convince myself that I understand the little rodents...

I am antsy and pissy today.  Antsy and pissy and directionless.  Maybe it's time to go to the monastery and sit in the garden, center my antsy, pissy, directionless ass a little bit...

Bleh.

Marked Lack of Enthusiasm

I wish I could get enthused about something (she writes knowing that she drugs herself for fear of feeling much of anything at all these days).  Obsess on politics once more.  Save the Siberian Tree Frog?  Take up the sad cause of one-legged, hydroencephalitic flamenco dancers in Brazil?  I need a reason to keep draggin' my cranky, snaky ass around all day.

Maybe I should fall in love again.  I'll have to choose the right person to obsess over, though.  Someone who is thoroughly inappropriate who will cause me lots and lots of problems so that I'm distracted from, and have no time for, my own problems with myself and my life.  Some complex, and brooding, alcoholic or addict with a history of suicide and/or violence, and, preferably, a dark and horrid past.  Oh!  And please let him be married with a whole herd of children!  I will proclaim, "I will fix him! (or her, I'm no sexist)!", and I will spend the rest of my life insuring that both of us are deeply, and profoundly, miserable so that when the moment for the inevitable murder/suicide arrives we'll both be so, so very grateful...

Anything to avoid the new round of tests I have to go for today in about an hour...

Two Sides to Everything...

We've all heard about the Evil Twin scenario.  Well, I have an Evil Twin.  Unfortunately, I am, also, evil.  I suppose that both of us have a talent for being wicked cunts...

Jelly is going to try to get into a clinical trial at the University of Colorados' Cancer Center in Aurora.  They have what is being touted as a 'miracle' drug for Stage 4 cancer patients who qualify.  It has, literally, cured a few patients already - one man is back to mountain climbing after undergoing the treatment, so...we're hoping he can not only get into the trial, but that it is as successful for him.

The Evil Twin and I both agree that while this might be a Good Thing, it, also, extends the period of time I'm being held hostage to his health care.  Do I mind taking care of Jelly?  Not really - he's a good friend, a close friend, and I love him as much as my black and bitter heart allows that sort of thing.  I don't, however, love the idea of being a caregiver for years.. .and years... and years...

Caring for someone is exhausting, and you tend to forget to care about yourself.  I lose sleep, I forget to take my own meds, I don't eat...  I can't survive taking care of Jelly for much longer.  As it is, my doc is sending me in for more tests, invasive tests, because my heart is misbehaving again, and he believes its due to a combination of stress, a poor diet, the hit-and-miss medications, and lack of sleep (he wants me to get eight hours a night...  I NEVER sleep eight hours at a time unless I'm drugged... Hoo! Ha!). 

So, even though I am glad that Jelly has a reason to feel a bit of hope, I'm a little ambivalent about this - I know how selfish it sounds, but, in a way, I just want this to be over and done with.  I'd like to see him healed and able to take care of himself,  but, if not, I'm not above hoping he goes face down in a bowl of chicken soup one day soon.

Good twin?  Ain't got one...

Nostalgia

I was going through pics last week, and I came across one of an ex-beau, Lance.  He was a small, slight Jewish guy I don't think I ever saw sober.  He always had a bottle of beer in one hand, and a doobie in the other.  He was the only male that we allowed to run with us, and 'us' consisted of me, Cheryl, Andi, The Mummy and Mary, aka the Wolf Pack (the name a bartender who absolutely despised us gave to us - we came in one night, and someone heard him say, "Oh, Jesus, not the fuckin' Wolf Pack, not tonight...").  Lance was allowed to come with us not because he was my boyfriend, but because he did two things that made him essential to our little group - he drove our skanky asses everywhere, and he was our Potty Boy (in some of the sleazier clubs we went into, he stood outside and wouldn't let any of the desperately perverse men follow us in).  He, also, had the gift of keeping his mouth shut about anything that he might hear us say, and was a general good guy all around.

He was our pet, in a way.

So, I decided to draw him.  Not that he'll ever see it - if he's like most of my friends from that period, he's either dead, in prison, or married to someone who crushed his fucking soul - but it's, still, in honor of all the good times we had with him, and all the shit he took from us.

Here's to you, Lance...!

So, I wanted to draw him.

First Church of the Enlightened Bipedal Disaster

This is a crock of shit.  The thing that makes it such a steaming crock of shit is that it's legal.  Yep - I'm an ordained  minister.  I can perform weddings, baptisms and, I suppose, exorcisms all nicety-nice and legal...if I weren't pretty sure that God would send a flock of rabid crows to peck me to death if I did, but - that's beside the point.

However, I would like to announce my most spectacular First Church of the Enlightened Bipedal Disaster.  Anyone who wants to join only needs to send me the true, and unabridged, story of why they qualify to be a true bipedal disaster, their vow of undying devotion, and $25 for me to spend for them at Cripple Creek on the cheap-assed nickel slots.  In return, I'll send you a certificate stating that you are, indeed, a fucking disaster who really deserves to belong to a church run by me.

"Jesus loves me this I know
'Cuz he gave me polio
And he made my Mom a whore
Who lives at the liquor store....
EVERYBODY NOW!....."

Oh, I am so going to Hell if I don't change my ways...

Scratchin' Out a Place to Breath

Up the road a way is a monastery with a beautiful, peaceful garden inside it's walls that is open to the public.  I found it recently - the garden, I always knew about the monastery - and I've been going there lately to meditate and pray because it's so very quiet and serene.

Yesterday evening, I was leaving and Michael comes flying up in that flustery, scattered way of his.   He's wearing skinny jeans in a strange rose color, an eye-rapin' bright yellow shirt, and an eggplant (deep purple) hipster jacket (he is SUCH a gay Mexican...).  He wants to know where I'm off to.

"The monastery."

"What for?  You can't go in there."

I explain about the garden.  I stress the words 'quiet' and 'serene'.

"I want to go, too."

"No.  You are anything but quiet, and peace of mind doesn't know your address.  This is for me, Michael."  He pouts.  He is a purplish, pouting fool.

"Okay - tell me why you want to go sit in the garden with me.  Are you telling me you want to meditate? to pray?"

He hums, he rolls his eyes, he scratches his head (ever so little so as not to spoil the carefully gel'd unstyled-and-wild look), he gives me his best Tallulah Bankhead sigh.

"Maybe I wanna pray.  I don't know.  I'm a Catholic, you know.  I should go there before you do 'cuz you're a Mormon and everyone knows Mormons are evil cult people doing Satans' work on earth."

"Are you trying to persuade me to let you come with me, or to bludgeon you with my cane?  I can go either way, it's up to you..."

Well, I let him come with me. I was surprised.  He sat a good distance away, and was very quiet and sat calmly - not easy for hyperactive Michael - until I got up about an hour later and motioned I was going home.

"That was nice.  I liked that, DuhVeeDuh.  I think we need to do this again." 

Hmmm - I've either witnessed a small miracle, or the monks pump aerosol tranquilizers into the air there...

The Loneliest One of All

I want you to imagine that you are God.  Go on - you are God...  You are God, and there is nothing else.  There is you, God, and NotGod - and NotGod doesn't even exist because you are all there is.  Pretty bleak, huh?  Aren't you nearly insane with the loneliness of it all?  So...since you're God and can do anything with your Godliness, what would you do to escape that loneliness?

You'd set to creating, is what you'd do.

You'd create Stuff.  Stuff to fill up the Void that didn't exist until you, God, created it to put Stuff in.  You'd hang galaxies and quasars and black holes and dark matter, and you'd think the Stuff is pretty damn good Stuff for what it is.  It's beautiful and magnificent and awesome, but you're, still, lonely because the Stuff doesn't interact with you - it just sits there, all beautiful and inspiring, and does nothing.

So, you create Stuff that's alive.  Stuff that moves and breathes and eats and makes it's own Stuff - even more Stuff like itself - but, really, are you satisfied with that?  Observing all of this Stuff - the animals and plants and trees and bipeds and bacterium - is amusing and passes a few hundred thousand years of your time, and you can even play with them by creating floods and feasts and famines and hallucinogenic drugs that makes the bipeds think they've had dinner with you, but that isn't much better than a kid with an ant farm, is it?  No, you're still pretty much alone in the universe that you created, and you're so lonely it fucking hurts...

Hmmm - you get ideas.  You create a cycle for yourself, a very clever one (you're one sha-mart God).  You tear yourself into a gazillion bazillion bits - making each one of them forget that they are you, God - and each one of the living things from one-celled wrigglers to stinkbugs to those noisy bipeds has a little bit of you inside of them.  You have not only, finally, been invited to the party, you are the party, and it will take so, so very long for all of the guests to go home...

...and do it all over again, and you will do it all over again, and again, and again, because you are God, there is nothing else but you, and you are eternally, unbearably lonely.



Sad, isn't it?  Maybe the reason no one ever truly understands anyone else is because that's the one thing denied to God - how can something alone ever be understood by another when there's no one else? 



What if it's not just another theory?

My Following

I am, by now, so recognizable by the squirrels and birds that I feed that they follow me across the park to 'my' bench and patiently await the handing out of the goodies (peanuts, popcorn, apple bits, bread chunks, hamster pellets and whatever I scrounge up).

Little do they know that it's all part of my plan of world domination.  Once they become dependent on me, they'll be forced to do my bidding...

...when certain people in the Obama administration get their eyes pecked out and have squirrels run up their pants, only you and I will know the awful truth.

Alas, Poor Dingo...

Dingo is dead. 

Dead, or, at best, MIA.  She was last seen limping off into the foothills licking her wounds and muttering about "rat bastards" and "fuckin' bipeds".  Those of you who are seeking her are barking up the wrong dog.

Seriously...

Illness and life have worked some mojo on me.  Am I whipped?  Far from it - I'm just not interested in fighting anymore.  Let the asshats have at it - they're happier that way, and - mebbe - so am I.

We all struggle so hard with life, don't we?  When you get right down to it, all you need is a warm, dry, safe place to sleep and take a shit, and something to eat every day.  The rest is gravy, and - sooner or later - you discover that all of that struggling you were doing was, always, with yourself.

...and I think that's where I'm at right now.  The important things are taken care of, and I don't care to change anyone or anything about the world in any way, unh-uh, not at all.  I don't want to be understood, and I don't need to understand anyone.  The world and everyone in it has been fucked-up for a long, looong time, and I can accept that.  Everything comes home eventually, yanno?  Everyone finds their own way; even me.

Even you.

Right now, I'm going to make a pot of tea.  While it's steeping, I'm gonna get into my nightie.  I'm gonna drink hot, sweet, milky tea, listen to Jean Luc Ponte, and not think about much of anything at all, not a thing.

G'night, ya wankers - twist on...

DuhVEEDuh Wears Boring Shoes

I was passing the desk yesterday on my way to the pharmacy, and David, the owner of this madhouse, called me over to tell me that he had a package for me.

"I make sure no one steal this from you," he said.  Apparently, people here are apt to pick up FedX packages willy-nilly (our mail is delivered in a lump that sits on the front desk for us to sift through since all of the mailboxes - those little ones with locks - lack keys).

"If they did, they'd be disappointed.  No one here could fit into size 6 Mary Janes, or would want to, David."

"What is Mary Janes?"

" Shoes.   The same shoes I have on now, but new - I wear them out every 6 months because I have hooves instead of feet."

He considered this a moment, then said, "High heels make you more pretty."

"I have a difficult time staying vertical as it is, David.  High heels would cause me to spend quite a bit of time picking myself up and bandaging whatever is bleeding."

He frowns (and no one frowns like a Greek, lemme tell ya...)  "Boring shoes.  You need pretty shoes.  You buy pretty shoes next time, okay?"

"I'll buy some  gold lame Mary Janes, k?  Mebbe get some that have LED lights built into the heels so all the perverts around here don't loose track of me in the dark."

So, if anyone runs across a pair of size 6, gold lame Mary Janes with built-in LED lights (preferably blinkers), please let me know...

Sick, Sicker, Sickest

Been too sick to do anything but lay in bed and wish that I had someone to hand feed me chicken noodle soup out of my mug with BuHsi's pic on it, and an icy-cold, never-ending peach margarita from the Steaksmith...

No Place for Kids

This morning before I went to see Steph, I ran into a little girl in the hallway who was doing a classic kids' thing - drawing on the wall with a broken crayon.  How sad...  This is no place to bring a child.  I know that someone might not have had a choice, but... it's, still, sad.

I told her to wait a minute, and went back to get a box of crayons and a large pad for her to draw on, but she was gone when I returned - probably afraid she was going to get into trouble even though I'd tried to reassure her she was not.

Ah well... if I see her again, I suppose.

It's disturbing to me to know that there's a child living here.  It isn't a hellhole or anything, not by a long shot, but it isn't a place for kids.  There are things they shouldn't see or hear that might not bother an adult, but...  well, it just isn't right.