I'm just chock-full of excuses, aren't I? It's one of my many talents. Right up there with growing mold in the refrigerator and ignoring the cat puke behind the sofa. Princess indeed. I don't mean to be a dick. And despite my renewed burst of happiness and peace mentioned in my last entry, I've caught a bad case of writers constipation and mental melancholy. There are blocks of ice attached to my feet and it doesn't take much to slip and break my crown.
Stress, thou art not my friend and press upon my shoulders thus making me wish to turn inside-out like a hedgehog and hide away in my own ass.
God. I wish I could really do that. But since I'm a homosapien and not a little furry animal with cool tricks and a built-in duvet cover, turning me inside out would be rather, uh, unsightly. Hi! Here's my ovaries! And lord knows someone would grab me while I was taking a nap or something and put me on display in a museum with those other gross fleshless people.
Digression:
Yes, I know hedgehogs don't actually turn inside out and it's more of a tight roll up maneuver but I couldn't do that on account of my gut and my boobs and I'd be more of a lump with my ass in the air than a ball. Also, these people are WAY into hedgehogs. Like, scary into it. And I quote, "It has been said that no other exotic animal has caught the attention of the public quite like hedgehogs have." Um, where? At the hedgehog convention with a bunch of freaks sporting animals in their pants? Riiiiight. And we move on.
I was hoping this week would have been a tad bit more manageable than last week. I was tired for days on end after my long weekend up North and there have been several really crappy things going on that took the wind right out of my sails and no amount of fluffing is getting them puffed all the way back up. They're better than they were a few days ago, but still, bleh.
Let me just say one thing that will make you understand one component of crap on my plate at the moment, Insurance Companies. See, needn't say more. I also don't want to go into all of it right now since there's one situation in particular where I've promised to keep my big yapper closed, but most of it is one of those, OK, if certain people don't keep their cryholes shut I will disappear for goddamn good and I'm not kidding.
Without giving too much away or confusing anyone further, someone said something to me within the last week that I'm sure they didn't intend to be incredibly hurtful nor did they understand the impact of the statement. But please, when someone has gone through a life-altering experience or illness, or is still in the grips of a shit-storm, please, please don't ever tell that person that you want the "old Betty" back. Or whatever.
It's an extremely damaging thing to say and I can tell you, plunged me into days of unable-to-lift-my-head depression. Yea, no shit, I'd like the old Betty back too. I cry for her too. But she's gone forever. I'm changed, forever, and it's not my fault. Doesn't mean I won't recover most of her when I do just that, recover, but right now I'm covered in poo and until it's all gone, things are not going to be the same. There are much better ways of communicating to someone than that. I'm just sayin'.
My desire for invisibility is also not an issue of not letting certain people get to me, because there are some who totally don't matter but think they do so save it ya'll cuz I have a healthy "whatever, ya crazy coont" on about that. It's an issue of not having the mental fortitude to spread around and handle my impending cancer treatments, tests, appointments, etc, daily shit we all have to deal with that sucks, and dickwads. I'm a'scarit and that takes a lot of energy.
And there's an element of, I totally suck and oh shit, I think I totally suck. Which sucks. So, there's been some crying. Suck.
Therefore, in my downtime when I'm being Miss Avoidance of All, and since all decent evening television has ended and we're left with some reality dance-a-thon with old has-beens and reruns of Reba, I've turned to my new obsessive compulsive disorder, JT's Blocks. This little exercise in torture and frustration can be found on Yahoo Games and is a constant taunting of my spatial skills, or lack thereof. Hours and hours of blocks. I'm dreaming of blocks. Blooooooocccccckkkkksssssssss.
Yahoo, unlike it's gentler and kinder counterpart Google, forces you to see the other shmucks wasting their life in front of a computer screen and lists the scores of other players. So, while I watch my game pause, mock my incompetence and flash "GAME OVER. YOUR SCORE IS 2" I can see the cyber geeks laughing at me while they furiously play to beat their own high score of 125,400,995. But I get offered lots of free porn, so I guess it's all good. Hey Jennifer! You're tits were not so tr00.
So...........I'm about ready to unravel and emerge from my self-imposed cocoon. About. Not yet. I'm stung all over like I was attacked by a swarm of angry ants and don't feel like jumping back into the cyber-fray today. Sometimes the internets is just too much to take and you have to check out for awhile. But I miss a bunch of awesome peeps and hope they understand. And they'd better fucking miss me too, dammit.
My rain cloud isn't covering my entire head, however. The bestest thing happened, finally, and I am very, very happy about that (at least). Whitey arrived promptly at 8 o'clock last night, safe and sound and sexy. I think we're both slightly stunned that this move has actually come to fruition. It's a lot to process and I'm looking forward to getting into a groove and letting it soak in that neither of us has to say goodbye to the other in 3 short days. But sweet Mary, he's finally here! FULL-TIME SNOGGING! How awesome is that? Let me represent my happiness in picture.
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Also, to a very special friend of mine (who I've also been hiding from and occasionally reads this drivel), super hugs and squeezes to you. She had a very painful and scary boob episode last year and endured many awful tests and one fucked up biopsy. Thank god everything came out OK and I have a good idea how terrifying and grueling the whole ordeal was. She had her follow-up tit-smashing today and got another all-clear. I choked up with relief and wanted to give her a shout-out. Get those digital mammograms girls and don't let any fucking doctor intimidate you, ever. 35 is sometimes too late. I give this news 2 smiling dogs. Love ya, babe.
Next up: One gnarly rant and a tale of childhood trauma. Should be fun. :)
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