I am considering not expiring of impotent rage but enacting this involves voluntarily going out when the rain is occasionally coming down sideways. Will it be invigorating?
Comes the voice, dripping with scorn, of John… “I won’t dignify that with an answer.”
Aware. It’s hard to find the holy in the hellfire. Moloch’s marching up with thousands of human servants and my terror is a place I try to stuff into a reasonable sized compartment. Now I understand why apocalyptic stuff is so figurative, how do you describe a transition zone of culture when shit just quits working and even the rich (rarely, especially the rich) are having a tough time.
Sometimes I think about ideas and governance and self governance and (my always favourite) moderated delegated consensus across people’s aspirations, needs and capacities. I think I’m minutes from a breakthrough. Now that’s what I call gullibility. It is, and always has been, a feature, a very distinct feature, of my autistic nature.
Will I stop being such a feckin’ nervous Nellie? Of course in our family Nellies weren’t nervous.
I send hogs and kisses to my pOp, because he’s feeling porely, although well enough to comment on his own behalf (usually relayed through mOm on the phone). If he’s in the room he’s in on the conversation. I always enjoy mOm passing along the message because either she’s trying to truncate the message to meet pOp’s stringent requirements with respect to What is Germane? or she’s trying to get the quote exactly right, and either way, for unintentional comic effect it’s an experience with few peers. Okay without the sevenhundred thousand injokes it might not be the same experience for you. But for me and mOm and pOp it’s about as much of a communal experience as you get these days. But this isn’t the phone, so Hogs and Kisses pOp.
My doc was a no show for my last appointment, when I was supposed to get my prescriptions updated, and I got victim blamed after half an hour of trying to get through to the clinic for not realizing she doesn’t do phone renewals. I knew that, I just COULDN’T GET A FUCKING APPT and now I can’t for FOUR WEEKS.
I’m about to run out of meds that, if I don’t take them, will cause me to be at risk of stroke or brain bleed so FUCK MY BLOOD PRESSURE DURING A PANDEMIC, RIGHT?
ANYWAY if I die, please ask Jeff who my doctor was so you can send her my regards posthumously. I’m so angry and scared I’m losing it, hard.
AND I WAS SUPPOSED TO GIVE BLOOD TODAY and I can’t because I was reluctantly given an emergency appointment that my doc may very well bail on that falls at the same time. I’M TRYING TO BE SOCIALLY RESPONSIBLE HERE and fuck my life, seriously.
Someone posted a pic of their pet Eclectus and I was thinking of Little E. I tried to find the pictures pOp sent me in 2016 but I can’t find them, or I’d post them.
I have a nasty sore on the back of my neck from where my necklace was rubbing. Sigh. I am not a jewellery person. I shall douse it with peroxide at some point today.
The abdominal pain, if I’m interpreting the signs correctly, is actually back and muscle pain from a lightly pinched nerve from shovelling, worsened by inactivity and the fact that my ribs shift around a little. I need to get out for a walk and unkink myself but we’re going to get rude amounts of rain today and I’m not walking around a mall in COVID spike whether I’ve got the N95 to deal with it or not. When I took a bath and submerged myself with a flat back the pain briefly quit and it’s been much better since. I thought it was my abdomen in pain referring to my back but it was the other way around. Bodies are weird man, getting ghosts to run meat is weird, weird weird.
Very close to finishing a fanfic, deleted about two hundred and fifty words that were running the story off a cliff and recovered my aplomb. It’s the shortest one. The 20K one is just gazing at me biliously.