When we have days and days of rain, like the days previous to today, or the days coming up, according to the weather magicians, Kaylena's body likes to ramp up its dedication the insomnia game.
When Kaylena reaches a certain Sleep Deficit Level, let's say for example getting 2 hours of sleep in a 48 hour period, it's very similar to being drunk. And then decision making skills become impaired. And then postings and self reflections and emails and texts get decidedly less funny and decidedly more, well, you've seen what happens.
I try very hard to resist the urges to delete and rewrite here, because it's a blog. What was posted was true in that moment. Call it a documentation of one's descent into madness if it pleases you, I just think if I give in to the call to delete or remove a post now, there's really nothing to stop me from deleting all of the writings from the beginning, from the first bumbling forays into writing, to the surgeries and chemo and the adventures that have come since. I may edit spelling, grammar or the odd fragment that doesn't look quite right, and sometimes I decide to implement a name change, but the main content remains. The urge to delete and to go back and "fix" is a sickness not unlike cancer, it is hard to control without damaging the integrity of the entire body of work. Some of the things documented here I don't have memory of anywhere else. This blog is frivolous, certainly, but it helps me note the passage of time and it serves to document experiences. It is the word-heavy companion of my personal all-picture Adventure Book.
This is the Internet Era, once you hit "Publish" there's really no going back. Some things may never make it out of the Drafts bin, but for the ones that do, no matter how fleetingly true they may prove to be, there's no regrets. I don't deny that I have my hot-mess moments. It certainly makes for an entertaining read given the buffer of adequate time.
Thanks for bearing with me. I've had a nap and will now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
How Long Can You Break Someone's Heart A Little More Every Day?
I'm not sure I've ever heard a more beautiful, more heartbreaking, more heartfelt song. I'm not sure I could handle such a song, if it existed.
(I cannot find a better quality clip to embed, but if you were to perhaps google "Lex Land My Fault Your Mistake" you could probably find a link to DL a perfect quality copy as link #5, which is ridiculous. List a decent copy of this song on Bandcamp or Soundcloud or Youtube already.)
Lex Land: My Fault. Your Mistake.
I know this song is meant for the singer's parent, but I feel like I disappoint so many more people than just Mommy and Daddy Dearest.
Lyrics:
You gave me good steps to follow
And I wish I could fill your shoes.
I wish the apple fell closer to the tree.
You gave me a branch to perch on
But it's time for me to take control.
This isn't about you, just gotta try life on my own.
And when I see fathers proud and smiling
I choke from shame and grief,
And only wish I could be a source for your relief.
We've both done each other so much wrong.
I've made mistakes too big to fix.
And maybe regardless of what I want,
We just don't mix.
And if you knew about my songs
Maybe this would mean something to you.
The only thing I care about,
The only thing that I wanna do,
The only thing that sets me apart,
The only thing that makes me me...
Slowly spelling out my heart,
For everyone to read.
And I'm sorry that I hurt you,
And I'm sorry that I let you hurt me,
But your little girl
Is gonna change the world.
You'll see...
You'll see.
Monday, March 19, 2012
I am Jack's Raging Bile Duct, I am Jack's Disturbed Nightmares
I haven't switched meds in weeks. I'm managing and controlling my pain...adequately. It has been cloudy and stormy and rainy for 7 days now. There have been a couple of breaks, for a few hours, where I did not feel as if I was drowning in a shitstorm of pressure and pain. I even got to see the stars for an hour or two last night. But then the clouds roll back in.
I am stressed. I am angry. I am so very angry. So very annoyed, displeased and openly hostile towards everything.
I am not talking to anyone, for fear that I will go off on some undeserving, unaware bystander. No one deserves that. I am carefully, gently working out and meditating a lot. I am taking deep, calming breaths. I do manage to divert the anger, to lower my heart rate and calm myself, to feel some moments of peace.
But again my ire bubbles up, seeping from my skin, pouring from my ears, wrath spewing from my mouth before I can stop it. Hurtful sarcasm abounds.
I don't know what's happening to me, and like so many things that I cannot explain or control within myself, I am uncomfortable. I am wary. I am afraid.
I am rather optimistic by nature. I can't help but see the positive in almost every situation, every person I encounter, everything life throws at me. And life certainly likes to throw some interesting things at me.
I understand that anger is a natural process, a normal human emotion. Given a proper outlet, anger can even be a good thing. It can motivate a person, it can help you assert yourself, it can perhaps even save your life if you are physically threatened.
I personally do not like to experience anger. I believe words and logical, rational discussion, can achieve so much more than anger can. I don't think anger is ever a smart choice or solution. When you have knowledge and experience and stop to think, anger seems like such a stupid, ridiculous, ignorant way to respond. I choose not to engage anger as part of my process for dealing with things.
I am Jack's Raging Bile Duct.
I've had Fibromyalgia for 5 years, that I know of. It is constantly changing how it chooses to display itself. Constantly changing how it plays with my body. Constantly changing how it's going to fuck with me every morning, every afternoon, every evening, every night. I go through cycles, but just when I think I have a grasp on the cycle, it changes. I am constantly analyzing, monitoring, recording details. Nothing ever stays the same long enough for me to do anything more than form theories. I question my sanity frequently. I have had honest discussions with medical professionals about it. I still question it daily, sometimes hourly.
One theory that keeps coming back to me, that I can neither prove nor disprove, is that we do this to ourselves. Fibromyalgia is becoming more and more widespread, and no one knows why. No one knows where it comes from, what causes it, how to stop it. You just wake up, day after day, and your body betrays you more and more. And one day, after you've tried every pill and alternative therapy known to man, twice, you have to ask yourself if the common denominator in all of this isn't you. If you're not doing all of this to yourself. How sick and twisted would that be?
When I sleep I am tortured by dreams and memories of how my body used to do what I asked of it. Tortured by memories of every single thing I did and didn't do, up until I hit 21. I dream of all the silly, mundane things that healthy people take for granted, of things they despise. I remember boot camp wistfully. I dream of running and marching and doing pushups and situps and flutter kicks until I think I might die. I remember the bitter-cold Maryland winter, waking up at 0430 to go run around the still dark park with my friends, in my sweats and reflective gear and knit cap, muttering under my breath about how I'd rather be in bed. I remember walking everywhere, no matter the distance, never doubting I could easily reach my destination and return.
I dream of wind-sprints, of swimming laps for hours, of feeling the cool rush of air in my face as I run or bike against the wind. I dream of pushing my muscles to their limits, of increasing the weights level after level, just to see how high I can go before I cannot move them at all.
And then I wake up. I wake up and I'm trapped in a body that CAN still do things, if I push it. But then it will exact revenge for days afterward, until I've forgotten what I even did to deserve such pain. I am forced to think and weigh my options and calculate my energy needs and risk of injury before doing anything. What a cruel way to live one's Twenties.
I am Jack's Disturbed Nightmares.
I joke that I'm just getting all of my horrible medical stuff out of the way while I'm young, so I can enjoy my Forties and Sixties and Eighties. It's not untrue. Everyone must someday reach the point where their body starts to betray them, where they have to come to terms with the fact that they're not invincible. Where they realize that they will die someday, that that day might not be too far off, that every single day counts.
The other shoe's going to drop and that's when you have your true midlife crisis. That's when you run full-speed into a brick wall of regret. When you reevaluate everything you think is important. When you realize just how frivolous and irrelevant most of the things that fill your days really are.
You may think you're aware. You may think you've been there, that you're prepared. But you're fooling yourself. Just wait, it's still coming. You will lose. your. shit.
And I'll be supportive. I'll offer a shoulder to cry on. I'll help in any way that I'm able.
But inside? There will be this cynical bitch, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed and a smirk on her face. She told you. She tried to warn you. She tried to stop you from being hurt, tried to shield you from the pain. But she only did it once, because you knew better, you knew what you were doing, you were young and what did she know, anyway?
When the other shoe drops, the cynical bitch will take one small moment, she won't even rub it in your face or remind you of it. But one corner of her mouth will turn up, just a bit, and she will know that she was right. She's always right. And fuck you for making her doubt herself.
I am Jack's Smirking Revenge.
I am stressed. I am angry. I am so very angry. So very annoyed, displeased and openly hostile towards everything.
I am not talking to anyone, for fear that I will go off on some undeserving, unaware bystander. No one deserves that. I am carefully, gently working out and meditating a lot. I am taking deep, calming breaths. I do manage to divert the anger, to lower my heart rate and calm myself, to feel some moments of peace.
But again my ire bubbles up, seeping from my skin, pouring from my ears, wrath spewing from my mouth before I can stop it. Hurtful sarcasm abounds.
I don't know what's happening to me, and like so many things that I cannot explain or control within myself, I am uncomfortable. I am wary. I am afraid.
I am rather optimistic by nature. I can't help but see the positive in almost every situation, every person I encounter, everything life throws at me. And life certainly likes to throw some interesting things at me.
I understand that anger is a natural process, a normal human emotion. Given a proper outlet, anger can even be a good thing. It can motivate a person, it can help you assert yourself, it can perhaps even save your life if you are physically threatened.
I personally do not like to experience anger. I believe words and logical, rational discussion, can achieve so much more than anger can. I don't think anger is ever a smart choice or solution. When you have knowledge and experience and stop to think, anger seems like such a stupid, ridiculous, ignorant way to respond. I choose not to engage anger as part of my process for dealing with things.
I am Jack's Raging Bile Duct.
I've had Fibromyalgia for 5 years, that I know of. It is constantly changing how it chooses to display itself. Constantly changing how it plays with my body. Constantly changing how it's going to fuck with me every morning, every afternoon, every evening, every night. I go through cycles, but just when I think I have a grasp on the cycle, it changes. I am constantly analyzing, monitoring, recording details. Nothing ever stays the same long enough for me to do anything more than form theories. I question my sanity frequently. I have had honest discussions with medical professionals about it. I still question it daily, sometimes hourly.
One theory that keeps coming back to me, that I can neither prove nor disprove, is that we do this to ourselves. Fibromyalgia is becoming more and more widespread, and no one knows why. No one knows where it comes from, what causes it, how to stop it. You just wake up, day after day, and your body betrays you more and more. And one day, after you've tried every pill and alternative therapy known to man, twice, you have to ask yourself if the common denominator in all of this isn't you. If you're not doing all of this to yourself. How sick and twisted would that be?
When I sleep I am tortured by dreams and memories of how my body used to do what I asked of it. Tortured by memories of every single thing I did and didn't do, up until I hit 21. I dream of all the silly, mundane things that healthy people take for granted, of things they despise. I remember boot camp wistfully. I dream of running and marching and doing pushups and situps and flutter kicks until I think I might die. I remember the bitter-cold Maryland winter, waking up at 0430 to go run around the still dark park with my friends, in my sweats and reflective gear and knit cap, muttering under my breath about how I'd rather be in bed. I remember walking everywhere, no matter the distance, never doubting I could easily reach my destination and return.
I dream of wind-sprints, of swimming laps for hours, of feeling the cool rush of air in my face as I run or bike against the wind. I dream of pushing my muscles to their limits, of increasing the weights level after level, just to see how high I can go before I cannot move them at all.
And then I wake up. I wake up and I'm trapped in a body that CAN still do things, if I push it. But then it will exact revenge for days afterward, until I've forgotten what I even did to deserve such pain. I am forced to think and weigh my options and calculate my energy needs and risk of injury before doing anything. What a cruel way to live one's Twenties.
I am Jack's Disturbed Nightmares.
I joke that I'm just getting all of my horrible medical stuff out of the way while I'm young, so I can enjoy my Forties and Sixties and Eighties. It's not untrue. Everyone must someday reach the point where their body starts to betray them, where they have to come to terms with the fact that they're not invincible. Where they realize that they will die someday, that that day might not be too far off, that every single day counts.
The other shoe's going to drop and that's when you have your true midlife crisis. That's when you run full-speed into a brick wall of regret. When you reevaluate everything you think is important. When you realize just how frivolous and irrelevant most of the things that fill your days really are.
You may think you're aware. You may think you've been there, that you're prepared. But you're fooling yourself. Just wait, it's still coming. You will lose. your. shit.
And I'll be supportive. I'll offer a shoulder to cry on. I'll help in any way that I'm able.
But inside? There will be this cynical bitch, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed and a smirk on her face. She told you. She tried to warn you. She tried to stop you from being hurt, tried to shield you from the pain. But she only did it once, because you knew better, you knew what you were doing, you were young and what did she know, anyway?
When the other shoe drops, the cynical bitch will take one small moment, she won't even rub it in your face or remind you of it. But one corner of her mouth will turn up, just a bit, and she will know that she was right. She's always right. And fuck you for making her doubt herself.
I am Jack's Smirking Revenge.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
The One Where I Lose All Respect For Myself
Sometimes it's hard to decide what to post, because I have a "Moral Compass" and I was raised to be a "Good person" and shit. But you know what? It's either post this shit now, or whoever finds my body and fat stack of spiral notebooks will, and really, I'd rather you heard it from me first.
My Evil Muse recently told me "Don't be afraid of your inner slore." So in the interest of trying to step out of my comfort zone and not becoming stagnant in my life and whatnot, I've been giving it some thought. This is seriously straight out of my green spiral notebook, the latest journal to capture my thoughts and adventures:
I see a lot of specialists. It usually takes a while for a referral to go through the big, bad paperwork monster and get approval, so I was excited to finally get a referral and appointment with a new Doctor (I'm not sure if they're actual PhDs) for Acupuncture.
I may have been single for over three years now. I may know something about being frustrated to the point of hoping for a Dr to be inappropriate, and also something about enjoying the shameless flirts that 99.95% of all Vietnam Vets are. These things happen.
Every time I get referred to a new doc, there's an air of mystery, a spike in curiosity, a minor raising of slorey hope. You may or may not be aware that the Seattle VA's Acupuncture Clinic is staffed by a very attractive, white-lab-coat-wearing nurse-lady (did I mention I love lab coats? And shut up everyone who went to Acu with me, she is NOT a hippie. ...Or maybe she is. Maybe I like that.)
So on the morning of my new Acupuncture Appt I of course shower, and shave, and lotion. I paint my nails and make sure everything is soft and pretty smelling, without appearing like I'm trying to be soft and pretty smelling. It's a very delicate balancing act, and I am rocking the shit out of it.
I wait patiently in the exam room (admittedly not an easy task for me, Queen of the ADHD), curiously taking in all parts of the office to try to form a mental image of the Doc. And then a mid-40s white man walks in. This is the Acupuncturist. I don't even bother looking for a wedding ring. Game Over. What a waste of a shave.
"Neck or lower back?" he asks.
"...Ummmm." I was unprepared for this. Apparently this was not to be a full-body-stabbing like my last Acupuncture Clinic. I could really go for either, but since I suspect answering 'neck' will land me in one of those hideous hospital gowns (and after Radiation I've really gone out of my way to avoid ever having to wear one of those again), I answer "Lower back?" I know I sound like I'm guessing, but at this point I realize I have no idea what I'm in for.
"Ok." Frumpy Man says. "I'm going to step out. Undo the top button of your jeans and belt if you're wearing one and hop up on the table. Lay on your stomach please."
"Ok." Curiouser and curiouser. Whatever, off come the glasses, I unfasten the belt and top buton of my jeans. What the hell, I unzip them too. I already know nothing inappropriate will happen, might as well have a bit of fun. I hop up on the table (a normal exam table, not a comfortable massage table, strike 2 Sacramento), and shimmy my jeans down on my hips a few inches, and my shirt up a few more.
Dr Bland knocks, "Ready?"
"Yep."
He walks in and asks if I've done this before. I explain that it's my first time here (Shouldn't he know this from my chart?!) but that I've had Acupuncture in Seattle.
He says nothing of the three tattoos that I know have to be visible, and explains that he's going to touch my hip now.
*sigh* This is so clinical.
He tells me to take a deep breath in, and stabs me on the out breath. "I'm sorry, this may hurt."
I laugh. He can clearly see my tramp stamp. Tiny acupuncture needles aren't going to phase me. "I've had steroid injections and RFA in my back, several times," I explain. "This is fine."
Dr Blandy McFrumpypants immediately picks up on the other medical procedures and asks where I had them done, then asks about the Doctors involved. What a nerd. He babbles on about surgeons at the hospital I had them done at while I struggle to remember the name of the particular Doc who took such great joy in stabbing me (now he was fun. Much more personality than Dr Blandy here.)
It suddenly occurs to me that maybe Dr Blandy is religious. Ohhh. That could explain his impersonal attitude. Or maybe Aspergers? 8 pins are in my back and apparently that's all we're getting. I take a deep breath in to try to relax and stop thinking. Or maybe he's just a Douchebag who can't or won't connect with his patients. Breathe out.
I wait for Blandy to wiggle the pins and create more pain. This doesn't happen. Now he's grabbing something else and talking about electric eels in Egypt or some shit.
"Oh?" I don't want to play flirty slore anymore if he's religious. That's mean.
Next thing I know he's draping some weird grid of straps over my back and he turns something on. My back is pulsing. Right where all the needles are. What kind of kinky shit is this?!
I tune back in to hear Dr McFrumpyPants say "...We blend the two, Chinese Acupuncture with Egyptian Electrowhatever."
"Oh. Ok." My Back Is Pulsing. I am so confused.
"Is that too high?"
"No..."
He turns it up. "How about now?"
"Hmmmm." I try to focus. A small part of me still believes we can slore this situation, and she's making it difficult for the rest of my brain to focus on what the eff is happening. "No?"
He turns it up again.
"Whoa, Skippy! Yeah, that's too high."
Dr Frump clicks it back down. "Alright. Someone will be back to check on you in a bit." And he leaves.
WTF just happened? I'm left wondering as I try to relax into a state of zen, back spasming and twitching.
Two different people poke their heads in to check on me, neither is Dr Blandy McFrumpyPants, though I do hear him talking in the hall. There's no soft music here, no one dims the lights, and I really don't think I could have lulled myself into the restful state of half-sleep had I not already been familiar with acupuncture and meditation for chronic pain management. The needle in the center of my back pulsed and twitched like a son of a bitch and ended up leaving a nice red mark right below the stinger of my bee.
The lady who came in to remove my needles noticed my tattoos, and commented on them in a friendly non-creepy manner. We then discussed the addictive nature of tattoos, and that she wanted a few more, but that I felt I was done with them, at least for now.
When all equipment and needles were gone, she said I was good to go and I politely thanked her for her assistance. (Removing needles from oneself seems rather dangerous, since you cannot actually see them, not to mention they were pulsing with electricity, so I did genuinely mean my thanks), and she seemed rather shocked as she told me I was welcome.
I sat up, but she was already gone. She was far more polite than Dr Blandy and I didn't even know who this lady was.
Upon exiting the room, I found myself a bit turned around. Back hallways in medical buildings all kind of look the same to me, and I turned first to the left, then the right, not sure how I'd come to this room. A very nice man in scrubs chuckled and pointed me towards the exit door, making sure I had follow-up appointments before wishing me a good afternoon.
I've decided that Dr Blandy's just an arrogant asshole, since everyone else I've met at that clinic, (as well as the entire hospital) has been amazingly sweet. My two follow-up appointments have done little to persuade me differently, since Dr Blandy does not even pretend to know my name, always asks if we're doing the back or the neck (You have my chart in your hand dude), and after the initial "Hop up on the table" he doesn't even speak to me. I would suspect it's me personally he has a problem with, but I can hear him when he's across the hall or in the next room, he treats everyone the same. He must have a very compelling game of Words With Friends to get back to. I'm pretty sure whores are treated in a more friendly manner. No Evil Muse, I will not test that theory out.
I then made my way to the travel office where I participated in some polite conversation, some impolite eavesdropping (it's nearly impossible to not eavesdrop while waiting in line though) where I tried not to laugh too loudly when the Vets talked trash about each other's service branches, and some utterly shameless flirting with (of course) a Vietnam Vet. We were in line for nearly an hour, what else are you going to do? Bald Morgan Freeman and Mr Cowboy Boots in line ahead of me kept giggling at Vietnam Vet's comments, which then caused me to giggle too. I fucking love vets. After it was finally my turn at the window, another Vet literally jumped up to open the door for me. If you're nice and smile every now and then, strangers have a lovely habit of making your day.
My Evil Muse recently told me "Don't be afraid of your inner slore." So in the interest of trying to step out of my comfort zone and not becoming stagnant in my life and whatnot, I've been giving it some thought. This is seriously straight out of my green spiral notebook, the latest journal to capture my thoughts and adventures:
I see a lot of specialists. It usually takes a while for a referral to go through the big, bad paperwork monster and get approval, so I was excited to finally get a referral and appointment with a new Doctor (I'm not sure if they're actual PhDs) for Acupuncture.
I may have been single for over three years now. I may know something about being frustrated to the point of hoping for a Dr to be inappropriate, and also something about enjoying the shameless flirts that 99.95% of all Vietnam Vets are. These things happen.
Every time I get referred to a new doc, there's an air of mystery, a spike in curiosity, a minor raising of slorey hope. You may or may not be aware that the Seattle VA's Acupuncture Clinic is staffed by a very attractive, white-lab-coat-wearing nurse-lady (did I mention I love lab coats? And shut up everyone who went to Acu with me, she is NOT a hippie. ...Or maybe she is. Maybe I like that.)
So on the morning of my new Acupuncture Appt I of course shower, and shave, and lotion. I paint my nails and make sure everything is soft and pretty smelling, without appearing like I'm trying to be soft and pretty smelling. It's a very delicate balancing act, and I am rocking the shit out of it.
I wait patiently in the exam room (admittedly not an easy task for me, Queen of the ADHD), curiously taking in all parts of the office to try to form a mental image of the Doc. And then a mid-40s white man walks in. This is the Acupuncturist. I don't even bother looking for a wedding ring. Game Over. What a waste of a shave.
"Neck or lower back?" he asks.
"...Ummmm." I was unprepared for this. Apparently this was not to be a full-body-stabbing like my last Acupuncture Clinic. I could really go for either, but since I suspect answering 'neck' will land me in one of those hideous hospital gowns (and after Radiation I've really gone out of my way to avoid ever having to wear one of those again), I answer "Lower back?" I know I sound like I'm guessing, but at this point I realize I have no idea what I'm in for.
"Ok." Frumpy Man says. "I'm going to step out. Undo the top button of your jeans and belt if you're wearing one and hop up on the table. Lay on your stomach please."
"Ok." Curiouser and curiouser. Whatever, off come the glasses, I unfasten the belt and top buton of my jeans. What the hell, I unzip them too. I already know nothing inappropriate will happen, might as well have a bit of fun. I hop up on the table (a normal exam table, not a comfortable massage table, strike 2 Sacramento), and shimmy my jeans down on my hips a few inches, and my shirt up a few more.
Dr Bland knocks, "Ready?"
"Yep."
He walks in and asks if I've done this before. I explain that it's my first time here (Shouldn't he know this from my chart?!) but that I've had Acupuncture in Seattle.
He says nothing of the three tattoos that I know have to be visible, and explains that he's going to touch my hip now.
*sigh* This is so clinical.
He tells me to take a deep breath in, and stabs me on the out breath. "I'm sorry, this may hurt."
I laugh. He can clearly see my tramp stamp. Tiny acupuncture needles aren't going to phase me. "I've had steroid injections and RFA in my back, several times," I explain. "This is fine."
Dr Blandy McFrumpypants immediately picks up on the other medical procedures and asks where I had them done, then asks about the Doctors involved. What a nerd. He babbles on about surgeons at the hospital I had them done at while I struggle to remember the name of the particular Doc who took such great joy in stabbing me (now he was fun. Much more personality than Dr Blandy here.)
It suddenly occurs to me that maybe Dr Blandy is religious. Ohhh. That could explain his impersonal attitude. Or maybe Aspergers? 8 pins are in my back and apparently that's all we're getting. I take a deep breath in to try to relax and stop thinking. Or maybe he's just a Douchebag who can't or won't connect with his patients. Breathe out.
I wait for Blandy to wiggle the pins and create more pain. This doesn't happen. Now he's grabbing something else and talking about electric eels in Egypt or some shit.
"Oh?" I don't want to play flirty slore anymore if he's religious. That's mean.
Next thing I know he's draping some weird grid of straps over my back and he turns something on. My back is pulsing. Right where all the needles are. What kind of kinky shit is this?!
I tune back in to hear Dr McFrumpyPants say "...We blend the two, Chinese Acupuncture with Egyptian Electrowhatever."
"Oh. Ok." My Back Is Pulsing. I am so confused.
"Is that too high?"
"No..."
He turns it up. "How about now?"
"Hmmmm." I try to focus. A small part of me still believes we can slore this situation, and she's making it difficult for the rest of my brain to focus on what the eff is happening. "No?"
He turns it up again.
"Whoa, Skippy! Yeah, that's too high."
Dr Frump clicks it back down. "Alright. Someone will be back to check on you in a bit." And he leaves.
WTF just happened? I'm left wondering as I try to relax into a state of zen, back spasming and twitching.
Two different people poke their heads in to check on me, neither is Dr Blandy McFrumpyPants, though I do hear him talking in the hall. There's no soft music here, no one dims the lights, and I really don't think I could have lulled myself into the restful state of half-sleep had I not already been familiar with acupuncture and meditation for chronic pain management. The needle in the center of my back pulsed and twitched like a son of a bitch and ended up leaving a nice red mark right below the stinger of my bee.
The lady who came in to remove my needles noticed my tattoos, and commented on them in a friendly non-creepy manner. We then discussed the addictive nature of tattoos, and that she wanted a few more, but that I felt I was done with them, at least for now.
When all equipment and needles were gone, she said I was good to go and I politely thanked her for her assistance. (Removing needles from oneself seems rather dangerous, since you cannot actually see them, not to mention they were pulsing with electricity, so I did genuinely mean my thanks), and she seemed rather shocked as she told me I was welcome.
I sat up, but she was already gone. She was far more polite than Dr Blandy and I didn't even know who this lady was.
Upon exiting the room, I found myself a bit turned around. Back hallways in medical buildings all kind of look the same to me, and I turned first to the left, then the right, not sure how I'd come to this room. A very nice man in scrubs chuckled and pointed me towards the exit door, making sure I had follow-up appointments before wishing me a good afternoon.
I've decided that Dr Blandy's just an arrogant asshole, since everyone else I've met at that clinic, (as well as the entire hospital) has been amazingly sweet. My two follow-up appointments have done little to persuade me differently, since Dr Blandy does not even pretend to know my name, always asks if we're doing the back or the neck (You have my chart in your hand dude), and after the initial "Hop up on the table" he doesn't even speak to me. I would suspect it's me personally he has a problem with, but I can hear him when he's across the hall or in the next room, he treats everyone the same. He must have a very compelling game of Words With Friends to get back to. I'm pretty sure whores are treated in a more friendly manner. No Evil Muse, I will not test that theory out.
I then made my way to the travel office where I participated in some polite conversation, some impolite eavesdropping (it's nearly impossible to not eavesdrop while waiting in line though) where I tried not to laugh too loudly when the Vets talked trash about each other's service branches, and some utterly shameless flirting with (of course) a Vietnam Vet. We were in line for nearly an hour, what else are you going to do? Bald Morgan Freeman and Mr Cowboy Boots in line ahead of me kept giggling at Vietnam Vet's comments, which then caused me to giggle too. I fucking love vets. After it was finally my turn at the window, another Vet literally jumped up to open the door for me. If you're nice and smile every now and then, strangers have a lovely habit of making your day.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Why I Hate Facebook: A Manifesto
Facebook, more than any other social networking site, emphasizes the absolute worst parts of people. And most of them don't even realize it. It brings out the annoying, the narcissistic, the attention whores. It showcases bad grammar, horribly ignorant religious or political ideals, racism, and rampant stupidity. It provides a forum for people to show off their horrible lack of skill that they don't want constructive criticism on, only praise. Heaven help you if you decide to point out that no, they cannot actually paint/photograph/sing/video/draw/write well.
Facebook should be a forum to reconnect with people far from you, but every time I log in, I am assaulted by people's neediness, their want for attention, their need to one-up each other in every single thing that they post. STFU, Parents is a perfect illustration of this. I can't stand it.
I am not findable on Facebook unless a person is very determined, or they look for someone else I am friends with. For a long time I had a personal rule about how many "friends" I would allow. When I reached that number, I would go through my list and delete people I hadn't talked to in a while. Then I gave up, I just don't care. I log in only when one of my close friends or even closer family (the baby bro) demands that I do so, and it is always with a sigh. I post very few pictures, especially of myself, because I am not there for attention. Mostly I post updates of my dog when my mother harasses me via Skype or email. When I do update my picture, it is so people can recognize me when I see them again. Because, yes, I change my hair frequently. I'm not looking for people to tell me how much they like my new hair. I honestly don't really believe most of them anyway, they're posting on my wall, how sincere could they actually be?
I prefer my social networking sites to be friendlier to artists, of all kinds. I like them to be simple, and instead of doing everything with varying levels of success, I'd prefer a site that does one thing very well. I like my networking sites to be full of people who take things less seriously, who are more likely to let things roll off than to take offense. I prefer people with a sense of humor. I prefer to not have my relatives or acquaintances know every aspect of my life. I have never publicly posted the status of a relationship. I do not like to be stalkable by anyone curious about what I've been up to. I don't like to post on people's walls, that seems douchey and insincere; like you're inquiring about how they are not because you care, but because you want to give the appearance that you care. If you genuinely care about someone, send a message. Send an email. Send a letter. And FB wall-posted birthday wishes are even worse. They've caused me to despise birthdays. I deleted my birthday from the site, but family and friends still post on my wall every year, prompting a ripple of other people to post.
Everything about Facebook feels fake. I could not dislike it more if I tried. I signed up because I lost a bet. I maintain my account because it is honestly my only way to keep in touch with some people, but I will use just about any other method of getting in touch with people that I can.
I am anti-Facebook. This is my manifesto.
Facebook should be a forum to reconnect with people far from you, but every time I log in, I am assaulted by people's neediness, their want for attention, their need to one-up each other in every single thing that they post. STFU, Parents is a perfect illustration of this. I can't stand it.
I am not findable on Facebook unless a person is very determined, or they look for someone else I am friends with. For a long time I had a personal rule about how many "friends" I would allow. When I reached that number, I would go through my list and delete people I hadn't talked to in a while. Then I gave up, I just don't care. I log in only when one of my close friends or even closer family (the baby bro) demands that I do so, and it is always with a sigh. I post very few pictures, especially of myself, because I am not there for attention. Mostly I post updates of my dog when my mother harasses me via Skype or email. When I do update my picture, it is so people can recognize me when I see them again. Because, yes, I change my hair frequently. I'm not looking for people to tell me how much they like my new hair. I honestly don't really believe most of them anyway, they're posting on my wall, how sincere could they actually be?
I prefer my social networking sites to be friendlier to artists, of all kinds. I like them to be simple, and instead of doing everything with varying levels of success, I'd prefer a site that does one thing very well. I like my networking sites to be full of people who take things less seriously, who are more likely to let things roll off than to take offense. I prefer people with a sense of humor. I prefer to not have my relatives or acquaintances know every aspect of my life. I have never publicly posted the status of a relationship. I do not like to be stalkable by anyone curious about what I've been up to. I don't like to post on people's walls, that seems douchey and insincere; like you're inquiring about how they are not because you care, but because you want to give the appearance that you care. If you genuinely care about someone, send a message. Send an email. Send a letter. And FB wall-posted birthday wishes are even worse. They've caused me to despise birthdays. I deleted my birthday from the site, but family and friends still post on my wall every year, prompting a ripple of other people to post.
Everything about Facebook feels fake. I could not dislike it more if I tried. I signed up because I lost a bet. I maintain my account because it is honestly my only way to keep in touch with some people, but I will use just about any other method of getting in touch with people that I can.
I am anti-Facebook. This is my manifesto.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Posty post
I discovered MoshCam is a handy little app in my Sony Media Player (that's what the remote says. I just call it my Black Box.) It is amazing! Tons of concert footage, with lots of Indie-Pop and Songwriter and Electro stuff to view (that's what I'm into. There's plenty of Metal, Rock, Punk, Jazz, and Hip-Hop for those of you into that). If you haven't some sort of internet-tv thing (baby bro says he can access it via his Sony Blu-Ray player), you can also go to MoshCam's website to view the awesomeness. It makes never leaving bed again an even more appealing prospect.
It's recently been brought to my attention that I have more than a few Hipster tendencies. The fully-functional and hooked up VCR in my bedroom probably should have clued me into that as well. It's crazy the things you discover when seeing yourself through someone else's eyes.
On a personal note, for those of you checking in because I'm sketchy with emailing or FBing or Skyping you back: Shit hurts. I'm sleeping a lot at unconventional hours. Please don't worry, I'm fine. My brain just isn't super great at processing and forming thoughts that sound like I'm interested and not a massive douche canoe. I don't want to be thought an insensitive douche canoe, so when I don't know what to say, I frequently don't say anything. You never have to take back something you haven't said.
There are a million things I'm working on at the moment. None of them seem to ever be completely finished. I just cleaned my desktop to try to prioritize and take care of my hot items, and these were the things that couldn't be shoved off into folders. This doesn't show that I also have 19 open tabs in Chrome, or 7 in Firefox. Or just how many word docs are open. I feel like I have rampant ADD (though more than one doctor has assured me that I do not), and it's frustratingly hard to focus. I'm sure I owe you an email or 5. You can send another calling me out for not responding. I won't be offended. Or you can take your chances and wait it out. I do mean to write you back. I do love you. I do recognize that I can be a flake. If it makes you feel better, my parents get just as few replies as you do.
For my Pirate Hookers: a new chapter that you haven't been spammed with 87 times is coming along slowly. It will hopefully be ready for a new set of eyes sometime this week. Everything needs another revision, so I'm not sending out the old stuff right now. If you want a sneak peek at chapter 5 when it's "done" drop me a note via email. (californiakay [at] gmail.com)
It's recently been brought to my attention that I have more than a few Hipster tendencies. The fully-functional and hooked up VCR in my bedroom probably should have clued me into that as well. It's crazy the things you discover when seeing yourself through someone else's eyes.
On a personal note, for those of you checking in because I'm sketchy with emailing or FBing or Skyping you back: Shit hurts. I'm sleeping a lot at unconventional hours. Please don't worry, I'm fine. My brain just isn't super great at processing and forming thoughts that sound like I'm interested and not a massive douche canoe. I don't want to be thought an insensitive douche canoe, so when I don't know what to say, I frequently don't say anything. You never have to take back something you haven't said.
There are a million things I'm working on at the moment. None of them seem to ever be completely finished. I just cleaned my desktop to try to prioritize and take care of my hot items, and these were the things that couldn't be shoved off into folders. This doesn't show that I also have 19 open tabs in Chrome, or 7 in Firefox. Or just how many word docs are open. I feel like I have rampant ADD (though more than one doctor has assured me that I do not), and it's frustratingly hard to focus. I'm sure I owe you an email or 5. You can send another calling me out for not responding. I won't be offended. Or you can take your chances and wait it out. I do mean to write you back. I do love you. I do recognize that I can be a flake. If it makes you feel better, my parents get just as few replies as you do.For my Pirate Hookers: a new chapter that you haven't been spammed with 87 times is coming along slowly. It will hopefully be ready for a new set of eyes sometime this week. Everything needs another revision, so I'm not sending out the old stuff right now. If you want a sneak peek at chapter 5 when it's "done" drop me a note via email. (californiakay [at] gmail.com)
Thursday, March 08, 2012
I've got nothin'
Unless you count pain, a stubborn refusal to give in, and a whole lot of helpless feelings. Insomnia in spades but no words. My apologies.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
I Smack You Because I Love You-Or Something
I hate when writers whine about how hard it is to write. I really do.
So I am breathing deeply, editing some posts, and resolving to not whine. At least not here. Writing is a lovely thing and to be able to do so is a gift. If you do catch me whining (here), you have my permission to smack me. I reserve the right to the occasional whine via text, email or in-person. If this bothers you, you may feel free to smack me. I feel the use of a well-deserved smack as a behavior correcting tool just doesn't get enough respect anymore. Let's bring that back, shall we?
Since most of you are a bit far from me, I will allow you to save up these smacks for when we next meet in person. However, I require that you document them and provide a list/reason for the punishment upon doling it out. Because otherwise it's just abuse. And everyone knows abuse is only funny when it's not happening to you.
So I am breathing deeply, editing some posts, and resolving to not whine. At least not here. Writing is a lovely thing and to be able to do so is a gift. If you do catch me whining (here), you have my permission to smack me. I reserve the right to the occasional whine via text, email or in-person. If this bothers you, you may feel free to smack me. I feel the use of a well-deserved smack as a behavior correcting tool just doesn't get enough respect anymore. Let's bring that back, shall we?
Since most of you are a bit far from me, I will allow you to save up these smacks for when we next meet in person. However, I require that you document them and provide a list/reason for the punishment upon doling it out. Because otherwise it's just abuse. And everyone knows abuse is only funny when it's not happening to you.
Monday, March 05, 2012
Running Place Holder Until the End of the Big Gay Charity Date Auction
Hold Your Horses
Song for this post:
Read the whole Blind Gayting series here. Scroll down to 8 February and work your way up.
I know you're jonesin' for more of the story. I'm trying to do this thing right. And accurately. So I have to make sure my memory of each event checks out against my email records and notebooks. I've been back and forth so many times about whether or not to actually write out these stories that I'm determined to not fuck it up.
I will be updating every day, Monday-Friday. Most of the time I'm posting much later that I'd like to. I'm still fighting these stupid Shingles (herpes) and while I try to hold off on taking the drugs as long as I can (they make my head super foggy), I do eventually have to take them. And then I zonk out. Updates are coming. Patience young grasshopper.
Song for this post:
Read the whole Blind Gayting series here. Scroll down to 8 February and work your way up.
I know you're jonesin' for more of the story. I'm trying to do this thing right. And accurately. So I have to make sure my memory of each event checks out against my email records and notebooks. I've been back and forth so many times about whether or not to actually write out these stories that I'm determined to not fuck it up.
I will be updating every day, Monday-Friday. Most of the time I'm posting much later that I'd like to. I'm still fighting these stupid Shingles (herpes) and while I try to hold off on taking the drugs as long as I can (they make my head super foggy), I do eventually have to take them. And then I zonk out. Updates are coming. Patience young grasshopper.
Sunday, March 04, 2012
Why Do I Keep Hitting Myself With A Hammer?
Because it feels so damn good when I stop.
I quit Twitter for all of what, 5 days? What do I have to show for it? A whole lot of Drafts that you really don't want to see, 1/15th of a new organizational system for my movies, and a truckload of frustration and murderous thoughts.
I <3 Twitter. They're my people. Well, not everyone on the Twitter Machine. I claim the literate, funny, sarcastic, morally-flexible drunks. My Team! The rest can die in a fire.
Twitter may be one of the biggest time-sucks on the interweb since people started uploading cute videos of baby animals, but it can also be a ridiculous source of inspiration. Plus I rather love the people there. Twitter is the Cheers theme song of the interweb. Comforting and always brings a smile to your face. Facebook, conversely, is more like the Friends theme song. Entertaining the first 5 times you encounter it, then something that becomes absolutely grating every time you think about it until you have this deep, dark desire to kill everyone who brings it up.
See? Murderous thoughts.
As I kick back in my mad 70s rocking chair* watching people ice skate to Styx "live" from mid January. Fuck I love Styx. Draw what conclusions about me that you will from that. I have snarky thoughts, pretty much always. About strangers, about my dog, about myself, about you. Probably. Most likely.
I may have given my scalp a chemical burn by bleaching my hair 3 times in a single day last week. Or I may not have. I'm confessing to nothing. But if I did, it was probably because I intended to touch up my roots and it got away from me. Yeah. Because bleaching your roots a week out from shingles in your hair is such a great idea.
After a month (or is it two now?) without a cell phone, I don't want to ever go back. Ever. I'm even drawn to the simplistic charm of the land line. Fuck it, I'm bringing back the rotary phone.
*I spent more time than I care to admit looking for a picture on the interweb of a rocking chair that was somewhat similar to mine, 60s, 70s, 80s... I have failed. Take my word for it, my rocking chair was stolen from a sort-of family member and it's vintagely awesome. While at the same time a bit hideous. Which is pretty much a blanket-statement for my taste in everything.
I quit Twitter for all of what, 5 days? What do I have to show for it? A whole lot of Drafts that you really don't want to see, 1/15th of a new organizational system for my movies, and a truckload of frustration and murderous thoughts.
I <3 Twitter. They're my people. Well, not everyone on the Twitter Machine. I claim the literate, funny, sarcastic, morally-flexible drunks. My Team! The rest can die in a fire.
Twitter may be one of the biggest time-sucks on the interweb since people started uploading cute videos of baby animals, but it can also be a ridiculous source of inspiration. Plus I rather love the people there. Twitter is the Cheers theme song of the interweb. Comforting and always brings a smile to your face. Facebook, conversely, is more like the Friends theme song. Entertaining the first 5 times you encounter it, then something that becomes absolutely grating every time you think about it until you have this deep, dark desire to kill everyone who brings it up.
See? Murderous thoughts.
As I kick back in my mad 70s rocking chair* watching people ice skate to Styx "live" from mid January. Fuck I love Styx. Draw what conclusions about me that you will from that. I have snarky thoughts, pretty much always. About strangers, about my dog, about myself, about you. Probably. Most likely.
I may have given my scalp a chemical burn by bleaching my hair 3 times in a single day last week. Or I may not have. I'm confessing to nothing. But if I did, it was probably because I intended to touch up my roots and it got away from me. Yeah. Because bleaching your roots a week out from shingles in your hair is such a great idea.
After a month (or is it two now?) without a cell phone, I don't want to ever go back. Ever. I'm even drawn to the simplistic charm of the land line. Fuck it, I'm bringing back the rotary phone.
*I spent more time than I care to admit looking for a picture on the interweb of a rocking chair that was somewhat similar to mine, 60s, 70s, 80s... I have failed. Take my word for it, my rocking chair was stolen from a sort-of family member and it's vintagely awesome. While at the same time a bit hideous. Which is pretty much a blanket-statement for my taste in everything.
Thursday, March 01, 2012
What? No new posts?
I've been playing with my hair, damn it! And apparently sending spam from my hotmail account again. It's all the porn I look at. Shingle porn.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Kay's Blind Gayting (mis)Adventures: The Big Gay Charity Date Auction: Part 3
Read the whole Blind Gayting series here. Scroll down to 8 February and work your way up.
I have been struggling to write about the night before the Big Gay Charity Date Auction, my first ever Inferno. Mostly because I don't fully remember the night. I wasn't drinking, but the entire night is a glorious swirl of images and incidents, so that's how I shall retell it:
I swung by Lillian's house to kill some time before we headed to the club. I found street parking and called her cell when I reached the front door. She came downstairs and let me in and we took the two flights of carpeted stairs up to her one-bedroom. Lillian's building has a unique smell, always the same, that is an odd mix of flowery, with an underlying tone of musk or cologne, and always with just a hint of an unplaceable ethnic food. It's not a bad smell, it doesn't overpower, but it is a smell that in unmistakably Lillian's building. Once inside her apartment, I kicked off my shoes in the entry, met her black and white cat, Prius, who completely ignored me, and Lillian fretted over what to wear.
I pointed out that wearing flats and her hair back with a bump in it flagged her as a straight girl (true at that time), but since we'd be in a club for who knows how many hours and she might want to dance, she should make sure she was wearing shoes she was comfortable in. I can't remember if she decided on the black peep-toe heels or the silver glittery flats.
We parked in a lot instead of looking for street parking on Capitol Hill, because really? I know I'm a woman who sucks at parallel parking. I don't feel the need to humiliate myself by proving it. When given the option, I will always opt to park in a lot or garage, just to avoid the hell of parallel parking.
Lillian and I walked into Chop Suey approximately 20 minutes after the instruction email said was the start time for Inferno, but we were two of maybe 15 other people there. I will never remember that it's always better to be late to clubs. And then to add another half an hour to whatever that time is that is deemed late.
Lillian parked at a table with our drinks, I checked in with the Auction organizers to see what exactly I needed to be doing tonight. We were here to promote the Big Gay Charity Date Auction to take place the next night, but apparently the only thing the Auctionees needed to do was parade across the stage later in the evening to drum up interest. There were a grand total of ten of us at this point with our profiles on the website, but I had no idea how many other people to expect at Inferno.
Lillian and I stood at our table and watched people come in, chatting about her family's visit and our respective weeks. More people showed up and I found the Seattle Lesbian crowd to be an interesting mix, and far different that Sacramento's Lesbians. There was flannel. There were hiking boots. There were mullets.
There were also perfectly normal-looking people, but I was rather distracted and disturbed by the mullets. I texted people. I texted many, many people. Lillian and I laughed over the replies and tried to stop staring at the mullets.
We went to the dance floor once it filled up a bit more. There was a DJ and I cannot remember what was played, but I'm sure all of the songs featured on this lovely mashup of '09's pop were played. I remember Lillian busting out some moves from Britney's "Circus" video when the song came on.
When signaled, I followed Dianne, Joan and some strangers to the hallway that led to the place where all the magic and mystery happen: the back room. The green room. The prep room. Whatever you want to call it, there was a TV on a stand with a ton of VHS movies, with some throwback family-friendly 90s flick playing when we walked in. I laughed and made small talk with one of my fellow Auctionees. I want to say there were only three or four of us there, but I really can't remember.
I was ridiculously nervous and considered bolting from the room no less than ten times. I hate crowds. I hate public speaking. I hate being in front of people and having attention called to me in any way. I was way, way too sober for this, and no amount of positive self-talk about how this was an exciting new experience was going to make the sick feeling in my stomach any better.
We moved through some door and onto a hidden area of the stage. I wanted to throw up. The music was cut and Joan had a mic. She was cheerily telling the crowd about the next night's Big Gay Charity Date Auction and telling them about the charity and how much fun it would all be. My fellow Auctionees were called by name to go stand on the stage. I don't remember hearing my name, but I remember the horrible slow-motion walk from the safety of the darkened backstage into the ridiculously bright light. I couldn't see anything. I could hear the crowd give their polite cheer for each of us. I took my place next to the other vict-Auctionees, and shyly waved to the crowd.
Don't puke, don't puke, don't puke, don't puke, don't puke running through my head the entire time I stood there until we were finally, mercifully allowed to leave the stage. I'm sure I was only on the stage in the crowd's view for seconds, maybe a minute. Two tops. But it felt like a horrible, never-ending eternity. I have no desire at all for the spotlight, and while I adore live music, I never want to trade places with the person on that stage. It is terrifying to have all eyes on you, even if you can't see those eyes.
I slunk back into the safety of the darkened hallway, through the doorway and made my way back to Lillian, trying to smile politely at the strangers I passed and squish down the panicked urge to flee. We stuck around for maybe another hour, dancing and laughing with some of the other Auctionees.
We were almost back to Lillian's when she realized she didn't have her debit card. Now it was her turn to panick, realizing she must have left it at the bar, and Lillian decided she'd hop a bus when I dropped her off and go back and get it. This was an utterly ridiculous idea and I told her so. There was still at least an hour until the end of the event, I had no problem driving back. This girl was silly and it made me question just what sort of people she normally hung out with. It took next to no time to head back to the club, I parked in the same spot in the lot we had vacated (but didn't pay again, shhh!) and we ran back inside to fetch the missing card.
Once it was safely in her pocket, we again set out for Lillian's. It was growing late and I still had an hour-plus drive to my own bed, so I dropped Lillian at the front door of her building, promised to meet up again soon, and once she was safely inside, set my GPS for home.
I have been struggling to write about the night before the Big Gay Charity Date Auction, my first ever Inferno. Mostly because I don't fully remember the night. I wasn't drinking, but the entire night is a glorious swirl of images and incidents, so that's how I shall retell it:
I swung by Lillian's house to kill some time before we headed to the club. I found street parking and called her cell when I reached the front door. She came downstairs and let me in and we took the two flights of carpeted stairs up to her one-bedroom. Lillian's building has a unique smell, always the same, that is an odd mix of flowery, with an underlying tone of musk or cologne, and always with just a hint of an unplaceable ethnic food. It's not a bad smell, it doesn't overpower, but it is a smell that in unmistakably Lillian's building. Once inside her apartment, I kicked off my shoes in the entry, met her black and white cat, Prius, who completely ignored me, and Lillian fretted over what to wear.
I pointed out that wearing flats and her hair back with a bump in it flagged her as a straight girl (true at that time), but since we'd be in a club for who knows how many hours and she might want to dance, she should make sure she was wearing shoes she was comfortable in. I can't remember if she decided on the black peep-toe heels or the silver glittery flats.
We parked in a lot instead of looking for street parking on Capitol Hill, because really? I know I'm a woman who sucks at parallel parking. I don't feel the need to humiliate myself by proving it. When given the option, I will always opt to park in a lot or garage, just to avoid the hell of parallel parking.
Lillian and I walked into Chop Suey approximately 20 minutes after the instruction email said was the start time for Inferno, but we were two of maybe 15 other people there. I will never remember that it's always better to be late to clubs. And then to add another half an hour to whatever that time is that is deemed late.
Lillian parked at a table with our drinks, I checked in with the Auction organizers to see what exactly I needed to be doing tonight. We were here to promote the Big Gay Charity Date Auction to take place the next night, but apparently the only thing the Auctionees needed to do was parade across the stage later in the evening to drum up interest. There were a grand total of ten of us at this point with our profiles on the website, but I had no idea how many other people to expect at Inferno.
Lillian and I stood at our table and watched people come in, chatting about her family's visit and our respective weeks. More people showed up and I found the Seattle Lesbian crowd to be an interesting mix, and far different that Sacramento's Lesbians. There was flannel. There were hiking boots. There were mullets.
There were also perfectly normal-looking people, but I was rather distracted and disturbed by the mullets. I texted people. I texted many, many people. Lillian and I laughed over the replies and tried to stop staring at the mullets.
We went to the dance floor once it filled up a bit more. There was a DJ and I cannot remember what was played, but I'm sure all of the songs featured on this lovely mashup of '09's pop were played. I remember Lillian busting out some moves from Britney's "Circus" video when the song came on.
When signaled, I followed Dianne, Joan and some strangers to the hallway that led to the place where all the magic and mystery happen: the back room. The green room. The prep room. Whatever you want to call it, there was a TV on a stand with a ton of VHS movies, with some throwback family-friendly 90s flick playing when we walked in. I laughed and made small talk with one of my fellow Auctionees. I want to say there were only three or four of us there, but I really can't remember.
I was ridiculously nervous and considered bolting from the room no less than ten times. I hate crowds. I hate public speaking. I hate being in front of people and having attention called to me in any way. I was way, way too sober for this, and no amount of positive self-talk about how this was an exciting new experience was going to make the sick feeling in my stomach any better.
We moved through some door and onto a hidden area of the stage. I wanted to throw up. The music was cut and Joan had a mic. She was cheerily telling the crowd about the next night's Big Gay Charity Date Auction and telling them about the charity and how much fun it would all be. My fellow Auctionees were called by name to go stand on the stage. I don't remember hearing my name, but I remember the horrible slow-motion walk from the safety of the darkened backstage into the ridiculously bright light. I couldn't see anything. I could hear the crowd give their polite cheer for each of us. I took my place next to the other vict-Auctionees, and shyly waved to the crowd.
Don't puke, don't puke, don't puke, don't puke, don't puke running through my head the entire time I stood there until we were finally, mercifully allowed to leave the stage. I'm sure I was only on the stage in the crowd's view for seconds, maybe a minute. Two tops. But it felt like a horrible, never-ending eternity. I have no desire at all for the spotlight, and while I adore live music, I never want to trade places with the person on that stage. It is terrifying to have all eyes on you, even if you can't see those eyes.
I slunk back into the safety of the darkened hallway, through the doorway and made my way back to Lillian, trying to smile politely at the strangers I passed and squish down the panicked urge to flee. We stuck around for maybe another hour, dancing and laughing with some of the other Auctionees.
We were almost back to Lillian's when she realized she didn't have her debit card. Now it was her turn to panick, realizing she must have left it at the bar, and Lillian decided she'd hop a bus when I dropped her off and go back and get it. This was an utterly ridiculous idea and I told her so. There was still at least an hour until the end of the event, I had no problem driving back. This girl was silly and it made me question just what sort of people she normally hung out with. It took next to no time to head back to the club, I parked in the same spot in the lot we had vacated (but didn't pay again, shhh!) and we ran back inside to fetch the missing card.
Once it was safely in her pocket, we again set out for Lillian's. It was growing late and I still had an hour-plus drive to my own bed, so I dropped Lillian at the front door of her building, promised to meet up again soon, and once she was safely inside, set my GPS for home.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Kay's Blind Gayting (mis)Adventures: Know Your Baggage and Be Yourself
Read the whole Blind Gayting series here. Scroll down to 8 February and work your way up.
To the Blind Gayting (mis)Adventures:
I've come across a lot of articles lately about "celebrities" (let's not start the debate about what qualifies someone as a celebrity today) saying they don't think they're pretty. And then people tear them to shreds in the comments or even the article itself.
But I totally get it. I am becoming more and more anti-label as a whole as I spend more time on this earth. I'm not particularly comfortable with undeserved complements. I don't have really any choice over the face I wear around every day, I didn't pick my name, and my voice is the one that comes out when I speak. I look in the mirror and yeah, I'm cute. I've got interesting eyes. I've usually got a cocky smirk on my face and something interesting going on with my eyebrows.
But I'm also sarcastic. A bit of a smart-ass. I'm quick with a come-back. I try to be informed about a wide range of topics and things that interest me, but I recognize that there are millions of things that I don't know anything about. I know that my taste in clothing and sneakers and music and movies and my sense of humor aren't always shared by everyone else, and I try to gauge if I've anything in common with my conversational partner so that I'm not blathering on like some completely self-absorbed douche or sitting in awkward silence. I try to stay away from the 3 conversational no-no's at all times: Religion, Politics and Hunting, because I enjoy getting to know people via conversations, not debates.
But all of that is MY baggage. They're my issues to work through, not something to expect other people to pick up on and be aware of. And above all, I'm almost painfully polite. I will never tell someone to please shut up, stop saying that thing they're saying, that they're making a complete horse's ass of themselves.
That said, I'm not comfortable with people I don't know (or barely know) who hand out superfluous complements in an unending stream. Who assign intimate, pet names upon first or second meeting. Don't call me Beautiful like it's my name when we just met 20 minutes ago. Don't have a glasses fetish (or at least keep it to yourself the first couple of meets, like everyone else). Don't be overly touchy when I'm not drunk and I have no personal relationship with you that lets you in my bubble. In fact, assume that everyone has a bubble and that you should respect it until you are invited into it.
People: BE YOURSELF. I know everyone gets nervous, or tries to hide up their unsavory quirks, but for fuck's sake! Shut your mouth for 5 seconds and pick up on what the other person's not saying. If they're tense or relaxed. If they're focusing on you or looking at anything but. If you're boring them out of their mind or making them so uncomfortable that they're squirming in their seat every time you open your mouth.
If you choose a first date/brand new relationship to start introducing yourself by a new name, how about don't meet up for a first date at a place that everyone knows your actual/common name. Because when you go to the restroom (and you will at least once), your friends or regular bartender are going to attempt to put your date at ease. And then that date will say something about what a funny person you are. And they'll use your name. And the friendly bartender will look at them like they're on crack, because apparently NO ONE FUCKING CALLS YOU THAT NAME OR ANYTHING CLOSE TO IT.
*Clears throat* But I digress, be yourself. You're pretty cool. There's a reason this person though you were pretty cool. Don't suddenly get so nervous that all of the things that make you awesome and uniquely you fly out the window. Just take a deep breath in, let all the retarded rules and advice your friends have given you out, and smile. Say hello. Repeat as many times as necessary.
Will you look a bit peculiar smiling and saying "Hi" again every 5 minutes? Yes. But hopefully they'll find it endearing and you'll still be better off than if you're rambling on like a jackass, playing some stupid mind-games or working The Rules.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Friday Morning
6 shots in 4 hours. So drunk. No pain, thank goodness. I feel like I could stay up for days but Lolo is quite firm that it's bedtime. She's kind of ridiculously demanding. She was chilling in my hoodie for a while. The hoodie I was wearing. I'm so my dog's bitch.
Want to know what shenannigans Kaylena gets up to when drunk at home alone? https://twitter.com/kayfro
I feel the gypsy call to move along, move along. NorCal is not going to be my home for long. Kind of, sort of, maybe just a wee bit thinking in song lyrics tonight. Forgive me. I have a (not so secret) undying love for atrocious pop music.
Want to know what shenannigans Kaylena gets up to when drunk at home alone? https://twitter.com/kayfro
I feel the gypsy call to move along, move along. NorCal is not going to be my home for long. Kind of, sort of, maybe just a wee bit thinking in song lyrics tonight. Forgive me. I have a (not so secret) undying love for atrocious pop music.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Things That Are Distracting/Inspiring Me Right Now
Someone on the Twitter Machine just fell in love with Adidas Superstar 2s. I dug out all of mine to clean them and tell them how much I love them. If you pay attention, you see them ALL THE TIME in movies and television. It appears I've been a bad Kaylena. Seriously, all 13 pairs need to be cleaned. Dirty shoes are unacceptable. Dirty anything is unacceptable, but I really hate dirty shoes.
I've noticed I like to collect things that I like. The love of these collections is really clashing with my urge to purge my life of material things. Specifically: my t-shirts, my sneakers, my heels, my baking supplies and tools, my books. I refuse to make Lolo get rid of her toys, but I will admit that she probably has too many.
I've decided upon 3 actresses that I can now shape the General, La Femme and Kaylena around. This is probably odd to you, but groundbreaking to me.
I've started reading some of the literary classics, because obviously those writers did something right. Did you know there are some classics available for free (No monies at all) on Google's eBookstore?
I particularly like Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy's "Music and Moonlight." You should recognize the opening lines of "Ode:"
We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
And then there's Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms:"
The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
Even Twitter can be inspiring. (Hemingway to Linda Perry? You know it!)
The universe is talking and I am listening. Thank goodness I'm not "very" anything, except for very contrary. And maybe stubborn. When it suits me.
There will be much more Blind Gayting. A very dear friend likes to dole out advice like "Diagnosis: you need a new set of boobies to play with." She is the same friend who is on a non-stop campaign to turn me into a slore. Plus there are many, many stories of failed dates that you have not yet heard. I'm just trapped in my head (and in my closet cleaning my sneakers) today. I love you. Be awesome today. You deserve it.
I've noticed I like to collect things that I like. The love of these collections is really clashing with my urge to purge my life of material things. Specifically: my t-shirts, my sneakers, my heels, my baking supplies and tools, my books. I refuse to make Lolo get rid of her toys, but I will admit that she probably has too many.
I've decided upon 3 actresses that I can now shape the General, La Femme and Kaylena around. This is probably odd to you, but groundbreaking to me.
I've started reading some of the literary classics, because obviously those writers did something right. Did you know there are some classics available for free (No monies at all) on Google's eBookstore?
I particularly like Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy's "Music and Moonlight." You should recognize the opening lines of "Ode:"
We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
And then there's Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms:"
The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
Even Twitter can be inspiring. (Hemingway to Linda Perry? You know it!)
The universe is talking and I am listening. Thank goodness I'm not "very" anything, except for very contrary. And maybe stubborn. When it suits me.
There will be much more Blind Gayting. A very dear friend likes to dole out advice like "Diagnosis: you need a new set of boobies to play with." She is the same friend who is on a non-stop campaign to turn me into a slore. Plus there are many, many stories of failed dates that you have not yet heard. I'm just trapped in my head (and in my closet cleaning my sneakers) today. I love you. Be awesome today. You deserve it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)