Life without spoons is actually okay right now

On Friday, THINGS happened. Some good; some bad. But overall, my life is awesome.

Friday wiped me out.

Overall it was a good day. The positives outweighed the negatives. Or they didn’t, and I’m just in a place in my life where the positives have more of an effect on me than the negatives do. Friday was my first Zoloft day after a week without, because I’d run out of my first month of pills. That may have something to do with it.

But it wiped me out. I slept for twelve hours today. I got nothing done when I did wake up, because I was tired enough to go back to sleep. And I had weird dreams. The only one I really remember in any detail involved my boyfriend driving my car, which would never happen because it’s too small for him. The car was FULL of my stuff, which is basically still true because moving never ends, and we were on the highway and he was bitching about really needing to go to the bathroom. I finally convinced him to pull over so he could relieve himself by the side of the road, and while he did that, some weird dude came up to the car and started trying to open doors to steal my stuff. So I got out of the car and beat him to death with my cane.

And then I woke up and discovered I had to pee. Funny how our brains work.

On Friday, my car broke down, I slipped and fell, torquing my back out of alignment even more, and then twisted my ankle later on in the evening — it still hurts — and in general I was already feeling crappy physically and emotionally, because a). whoever designed the human body so that some humans will have terrible pain and cramps and bloating and general feeling-like-shit once a month or thereabouts and some humans will not is the DEVIL, and b). there will always be people on the internet who will piss me off and/or trigger me.

Nevertheless, I did have a pretty good day on Friday, despite all that. I saw the 200th show put on by Screaming Chickens Theatrical Society, which was a Taboo Revue — a night of burlesque. There were a few things in the show that really bugged me (a sideshow portion that involved something that’s probably really not good for other former cutters to watch, and one of the new dancers has a name that includes an anti-trans* slur that’s also been reclaimed by many trans* people — but I have no idea if he’s trans* or not, so there are some complicated emotions there for me), but overall I had a really good time. I got to wear my fancy gold dress, and some fancy gold makeup. Any day I can do that is a good day.

I also sold a book! I brought along a copy of Bellica on a whim, thinking I’d maybe show it to one of my burlesque friends. And Star Buxom, who is one of the most amazing burlesque performers I’ve ever seen and a really incredible person all around, bought it! The best part? I got to sign it using her back as a table. I feel like a big-time star author now.

Afterwards, Ogre took me out to dinner at Denny’s. This was probably the best part of the evening, because I got to build my own burger. That’s right — Denny’s now has a build your own burger option. I got to have two types of cheese, bacon, onions, lettuce, and sour cream on a burger. On potato bread. With no tomatoes or pickles. It was magically delicious. They even let me name it, and I told Ogre we have to name one of our kids after this magical, beautiful burger.

I called it Burger of Enrampagement.

I regret nothing.

Anyway.

Today I spent recouping spoons, and I’ll probably spend a good portion of tomorrow doing that too. My fall on Friday hurt me harder than I thought.

But I can’t help but be grateful. Because if the low-points of my life right now are as mild as all this, then you know what? Life is frigging fantastic. And it’s only going to get better.

When did I become old?

I’m sitting at home eating dinner at a quarter to 11pm (which actually seems a reasonable time to eat dinner during summer; the sun just set) and wanting to go to the bar. Instead I’m eating salad. Salad of mixed baby greens and spinach with some bell peppers, and some of my Four Thieves’ Vinegar drizzled on top. (So, you know, not an “American Salad” that’s so covered in meat and thick dressing and croutons and cheese that it’s not really salad anymore, it’s a sandwich that tried to run away and was beaten for its transgression.) My drink is water (and some tea later). This whole meal is about 100 calories.

Mmmm, fibre.

Meanwhile I’ve got friends in Vegas drinking a bottle of $800 Cristal, and a friend in the UK who would gladly go to the bar with me if it weren’t for that damn geography. I’m 25; I’m supposed to be a hip jet-setter, going out with friends and traveling and hitting the bars and dancing my arse to pieces.

Instead I’m a shut-in. You know, being a shut-in means never having to wear pants, but killing means never having to say you’re sorry. Wait, no. That analogy got away from me.

My point is, I’m okay with being a shut-in, largely, because I prefer to be alone most of the time. But it’s becoming too much. I’m no longer the party animal I once was; hells I’m not even going out for coffee with friends as often as I used to.

This is what an injury can do to you. It can completely overturn your life to the point where you don’t recognize yourself when you look in the mirror anymore.

And yeah, I suppose a healthier lifestyle is, well, healthier, but it’s not that I’ve gone healthy but I still occasionally hit the bars or whatever. It’s that I’ve jumped from age 25 to age 95 in the past few months. Basic tasks exhaust me; I’m literally afraid of going out-of-doors; I shake my cane at kids and scream Damn youngsters, get off my lawn! when I’m at the mall.

I just got this new phone — the Samsung Galaxy Note. And it makes me feel so alive! This is the phone for my age, this is what I should be using while I’m out hitting the bars and dancing oh wait….

I just want to go to a bar so I have an embarrassing photo to take and upload drunkenly to Twitter. Let me be 25, oh gods of bodily health. Let this pain end.

PS: On the ‘being proactive’ front, I’m wrestling myself a physiotherapy appointment tomorrow. I’m not just bitching and whining to WordPress. I am trying.

PPS: I sort of can’t see because I spent all afternoon looking at a small screen. I may have an addiction.

Wednesday at my brother’s house

My brother lives in a boat.

That is, it’s a really long and narrow semi-legal basement suite with two bedrooms, a bathroom that used to be two closets (so, two bathrooms: one with a toilet, sink, and toiletries, and one with a shower), a kitchen that redefines the term “galley kitchen”, a bar, and lots of wood paneling.

I think it’s pretty neat-o, myself.

Upon meeting up with him in Union Square at his workplace, my brother took me to sushi (because he’s awesome, that’s why) and then we walked a lot and met up with his boyfriend, who had just bought forty dinner plates. I asked my brother if they needed forty dinner plates; he said they did not. This seems perfectly reasonable to me.

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SyFy Original TV Movies: possibly worse than syphilis

Last night we drove for far too long and finally staggered into a room at a Hampton Inn & Suites in West Sacramento, CA. At first, there was good TV — The Daily Show and The Colbert Report — but then I turned off the satan-box for some downtime. Mom complained, saying she needed some mindless background chatter to make her mindless paperwork seem bearable. So I turned it on and went to the SyFy channel.

Phantom Racer was on. What ensued was my drunk liveblogging of it on Twitter.

Some choice tweets:

Above is a literal transcription of her lines in that scene.

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