"There's nothing here to salvage, and yours is another problem."

I sometimes wish I twittered simply so I could say cryptic, short things. 'cause, dude, that was some serious weaksauce.

Another too-hot saturday night spent on the couch with Light and Skin. The cats are swarming, it's four minutes to their dinner, Light's playing Bastion and I'm a little bit in love with the tom-waits-esque narrator voice. Called the on-call doctor to talk about withdrawal, since I figured there was some reason I couldn't pry ambien out of my pcp, but I got another month.

I wish there was some way to get all of my prescriptions in sync, an application where I could enter what I've got, how many refills, which doctor it was associated with. It was worse before, when there were medications that needed to be taken on a full stomach and medications that needed to be taken on an empty stomach.

And I always feel like it's my fault, I should be more vigilant, I should keep better track of it, I should be able to force my mind down the channels it would prefer to ignore. Or, I shouldn't need all these meds, that the migraines and the crazy and the insomnia are things I should just live with. Or that they're paths I chose, and in choosing, I should be able to deal with the consequences.

And there's the crux of the problem. I feel like since I'm choosing this surgery, I should be able to shut the fuck up about my fear, be able to handle all the consequences, be prepared and by prepared, I mean unshakable and self-sufficient.

A clothing site I like emailed me a coupon today, and I was happily browsing, and then realized I can't really assume I'll be the same shape when I finish as when I start, so I oughtn't buy clothing. That little newsflash did not go over well with me.

I'm thinking a lot about how faith develops, and how faith gets lost. Mostly because I read the new Borderlands anthology, and it's making me sad, because I remember believing that I dwelt in possibility, and I remember realizing that in fact, it was pretty much going to be all prose from here on out. The book, however, was fantastic, and made me cry by not killing the dog that I assumed was a goner from the moment he was introduced and I bought a hairpin and a pendant made from an ARC of it. (The pin says "do you know any elves who need girls with sparkles" and the pendant "bordertown kitchen witch"). The jewelry led me to a mad fancy, where now that I have my "fuck off I'm reading" bookmark, I could begin cross-stitch other words from other places, and tea-stain them and sell them on etsy. I'd start with "when will you rise?" and continue on all over the place, and I'd send them to authors, and they'd be charmed, and then I would Know People and feel less like I wasn't getting picked for dodgeball when I went to cons. (Incidentally, I wasn't actually picked last for dodgeball. Running things, yes. I was however a ruthless and twisty dodgeball player.)

The urge to write letters hasn't yet passed, but I'm not certain who I want to write to anymore. I think I got the imaginary boyfriend (which in the end was probably a manifestation of an imaginary support system) out of my system, though. I used to write excellent long-form emails to people, and I don't know why I stopped (well, part of it was that I began living with Light, and then moved somewhere where I actually get to see Chile) but sometimes I miss it. OKC seemed like it might fill that gap for a bit, but it didn't.

Ah, well. Time to drink still more water. And maybe eat something more than carrots and hummus for dinner.

"There's nothing here to salvage, and yours is another problem."

I sometimes wish I twittered simply so I could say cryptic, short things. 'cause, dude, that was some serious weaksauce.

Another too-hot saturday night spent on the couch with Light and Skin. The cats are swarming, it's four minutes to their dinner, Light's playing Bastion and I'm a little bit in love with the tom-waits-esque narrator voice. Called the on-call doctor to talk about withdrawal, since I figured there was some reason I couldn't pry ambien out of my pcp, but I got another month.

I wish there was some way to get all of my prescriptions in sync, an application where I could enter what I've got, how many refills, which doctor it was associated with. It was worse before, when there were medications that needed to be taken on a full stomach and medications that needed to be taken on an empty stomach.

And I always feel like it's my fault, I should be more vigilant, I should keep better track of it, I should be able to force my mind down the channels it would prefer to ignore. Or, I shouldn't need all these meds, that the migraines and the crazy and the insomnia are things I should just live with. Or that they're paths I chose, and in choosing, I should be able to deal with the consequences.

And there's the crux of the problem. I feel like since I'm choosing this surgery, I should be able to shut the fuck up about my fear, be able to handle all the consequences, be prepared and by prepared, I mean unshakable and self-sufficient.

A clothing site I like emailed me a coupon today, and I was happily browsing, and then realized I can't really assume I'll be the same shape when I finish as when I start, so I oughtn't buy clothing. That little newsflash did not go over well with me.

I'm thinking a lot about how faith develops, and how faith gets lost. Mostly because I read the new Borderlands anthology, and it's making me sad, because I remember believing that I dwelt in possibility, and I remember realizing that in fact, it was pretty much going to be all prose from here on out. The book, however, was fantastic, and made me cry by not killing the dog that I assumed was a goner from the moment he was introduced and I bought a hairpin and a pendant made from an ARC of it. (The pin says "do you know any elves who need girls with sparkles" and the pendant "bordertown kitchen witch"). The jewelry led me to a mad fancy, where now that I have my "fuck off I'm reading" bookmark, I could begin cross-stitch other words from other places, and tea-stain them and sell them on etsy. I'd start with "when will you rise?" and continue on all over the place, and I'd send them to authors, and they'd be charmed, and then I would Know People and feel less like I wasn't getting picked for dodgeball when I went to cons. (Incidentally, I wasn't actually picked last for dodgeball. Running things, yes. I was however a ruthless and twisty dodgeball player.)

The urge to write letters hasn't yet passed, but I'm not certain who I want to write to anymore. I think I got the imaginary boyfriend (which in the end was probably a manifestation of an imaginary support system) out of my system, though. I used to write excellent long-form emails to people, and I don't know why I stopped (well, part of it was that I began living with Light, and then moved somewhere where I actually get to see Chile) but sometimes I miss it. OKC seemed like it might fill that gap for a bit, but it didn't.

Ah, well. Time to drink still more water. And maybe eat something more than carrots and hummus for dinner.