"But Kay, weren't you already crazy? I mean... C'mon. Really?"
SHUT IT YOU!
I woke up with a migraine. Then stubbornly stayed in bed waiting for it to magically go away on its own. When that didn't happen, I got up and fetched the vicodin. It worked for an hour or so.
I've been playing the "maybe this will work" game all day.
My ears are killing me.
The lymph nodes in my neck started hurting an hour or two ago.
This tiny voice in my head has started yelling "It's cancer! Ha! Suck it! That's what you get for saying cancer was easier than Fibro!"
Another voice is reminding me that the last time I felt like this it was shingles. I mean, herpes. ;) (So sexy!)
Ha! There's a shingles commercial on my TV right now (The virus may already be inside you). Big Brother, man. He's always watching.
Yet another voice is telling me that it's really not healthy to have voices in one's head, and that I should probably not cancel Friday's shrink appt. But what does she know?
I'm going crazy. If you want to watch the madness in action I'll leave the back door unlocked. Come over whenever. If you make my ears stop ringing I'll share my vicodin. If you make the dog stop touching me I'll hug you.
Is it just me, or is this "The Lucky One" movie a ripoff of a Lifetime/Hallmark movie about a soldier and a Christmas card from some lady from Nevada City or something? (Here we are: The Christmas Card-2006).
You know I DVR all the cheesy Christmas movies. I can't get enough and I have seen a shameful amount of them. My favorite might be Melissa Joan Hart's Holiday in Handcuffs. Screw Disney movies, when I'm sick, I want cheesy Christmas chick-flicks. There aren't any in my DVR right now, sadly. Ooh, JTT's "I'll Be Home for Christmas" is on Starz on Thursday though.
Want my undying love? Cookies and cheesy Christmas movies will put you on the right track.
Showing posts with label Crazy Bitch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Crazy Bitch. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Shake It Off Sunshine; We Don't Delete Here
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 to 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 to 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.
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 to 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.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Eruption of an Angry Bitch
Dear Mother,
I know that you've had two surgeries in six short weeks now, but we need to talk. You're a perfectly functional 49 year old woman. You managed to raise five children, and you normally work every day with special needs high-schoolers, an admirable task that I do not envy you.
Your recent surgeries have not affected any of your limbs, and were not life-threatening. You are very lucky to have not had any infections, and that you've healed rather well. And I know that a hysterectomy is a very stressful thing for a woman to go through, both physically and mentally.
That said, you need to grow the fuck up, man the fuck up, and back the fuck off. I have had five surgeries and countless minor procedures of my own, none of which you were there for. I went through eight rounds of chemo, of which you were there for one. When I finally broke down and swallowed enough of my pride to beg you to come help me, you gave me half-assed excuses for why you couldn't. My last back procedure I drove myself home from, and believe me-I felt it. I do not want or need people to care for me when I have surgeries or procedures, because I plan ahead and make sure I have everything I need to take care of myself. I've got me.
So if I have to hear you whine one more time about the pain you're in, or that you're nauseated, or bored, and you choose not to listen to me when I tell you to take your meds or call your doctor, I will not be held responsible for my actions. I understand and can empathize with pain and boredom, but do not whine at me just to whine, not when you're going to ignore everything I tell you.
I'm not your fucking lackey, I'm not going to ask if you need something, then spend the next 10 minutes drawing it out of you, insisting that I really do want to go to whatever fucking store you want me to go to, even though it's out of my way. I will offer once, because once is how often I truly mean what I say. I am not your babysitter, and I do not appreciate being used as such. I respect your husband enough to not have any plans for this weekend, because he asked me as a personal favor to be here for you while he had to work, but don't fucking push it.
I'll help you out and get what you ask, but you'd better realize that I'm doing it as a favor. So why don't you do us all a favor and grow the fuck up, man the fuck up, and back the fuck off.
I know that you've had two surgeries in six short weeks now, but we need to talk. You're a perfectly functional 49 year old woman. You managed to raise five children, and you normally work every day with special needs high-schoolers, an admirable task that I do not envy you.
Your recent surgeries have not affected any of your limbs, and were not life-threatening. You are very lucky to have not had any infections, and that you've healed rather well. And I know that a hysterectomy is a very stressful thing for a woman to go through, both physically and mentally.
That said, you need to grow the fuck up, man the fuck up, and back the fuck off. I have had five surgeries and countless minor procedures of my own, none of which you were there for. I went through eight rounds of chemo, of which you were there for one. When I finally broke down and swallowed enough of my pride to beg you to come help me, you gave me half-assed excuses for why you couldn't. My last back procedure I drove myself home from, and believe me-I felt it. I do not want or need people to care for me when I have surgeries or procedures, because I plan ahead and make sure I have everything I need to take care of myself. I've got me.
So if I have to hear you whine one more time about the pain you're in, or that you're nauseated, or bored, and you choose not to listen to me when I tell you to take your meds or call your doctor, I will not be held responsible for my actions. I understand and can empathize with pain and boredom, but do not whine at me just to whine, not when you're going to ignore everything I tell you.
I'm not your fucking lackey, I'm not going to ask if you need something, then spend the next 10 minutes drawing it out of you, insisting that I really do want to go to whatever fucking store you want me to go to, even though it's out of my way. I will offer once, because once is how often I truly mean what I say. I am not your babysitter, and I do not appreciate being used as such. I respect your husband enough to not have any plans for this weekend, because he asked me as a personal favor to be here for you while he had to work, but don't fucking push it.
I'll help you out and get what you ask, but you'd better realize that I'm doing it as a favor. So why don't you do us all a favor and grow the fuck up, man the fuck up, and back the fuck off.
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