Things I did this week.
As January is only eighteen days in, and I'm failing at life and 2019, I sit here wondering when the swells of damage will subside. Perceptions will always fool you.
In seven days:
I lost one of my emergency contacts as she made it clear she wanted to know my contingency plan. Well, it was never for her to take care of me. So, I won't bother her again. That one rips me to my core as I've never asked anyone to take care of me. I'm done being there for people, as in the end . . .
Had someone comment, more than once, that we've known each other for a long time. Well, we've known each other so long that he lied to my face. Even more: he doesn't know me. At all. He doesn't know my brother's name, my favorite color or flower, doesn't know that he's a big reason the occasional date usually ends as a dud as the dude across the table falls flat in comparison. He doesn't know I still remember the day he told me to call him by his first name and not title. He doesn't know the hell of my own soul. He doesn't know I still remember that day he said "I love you." I still remember my own shock. He doesn't know the damage from him. From life. From every bad decision I've ever made.
Made a new bra pattern, as I can barely move but I can only stay stationary so long. With the last remnants of silk scrap, I lined it with purple bra fabric (scrap from another), and used scraps of trim and lace . . . If you sew, see the Harriet Bra, from Cloth Habit, and know I did a DD in my band size and it fits like a dream. I haven't had a man want to be near me since last summer so my saying it feel better than man hands probably means less than I think it should.
In the course of a conversation, dude wants to know what I do for a living . . . At some point, he wanted to make sure I wasn't a shrink. I told him I'm a writer and professor, for which he said you teach English. I responded, rather emphatically, "Fuck no, I have a Ph.D. in history, cultural theory, and gender!" Him: "So you're a feminist. You hate men." Two points to that: teaching English isn't bad. It's a noble life, but he meant it in another way. Secondly, being a feminist doesn't say I hate men. I have no words.
Someone else, whom I was talking to in December, resurfaced. He wants to meet for a drink and take me to Liberty Inn. Wanna know what that one is? I won't link it here, but it's a pay by the hour hotel. I'd like to think I write pretty good fiction, but this shit I couldn't even make up.
I went to the allergist that the hospital insisted I see. In the course of that, I learned that the hospital thought I was lying. Yeah, I'm lying about antibiotic allergies that are well documented, and the primary care physician I've had has seen said allergies in person. Yes, I lie about red pepper allergies that cause anaphylaxis shock because I really enjoy this complicated life (if you can't see sarcasm I can't help you). The allergist said it was a waste of my time since there is no test for antibiotics . . . As she said if you ever need penicillin (as it's the only option) tell them you'll need to be desensitized. That requires an ICU and an allergist. I won't be doing that anytime soon. I'm so glad I got to waste more of my time and money. I was the idiot single female who found herself admitted, via the ER, on a holiday weekend. Doesn't matter if the stay was a week, I'm still just another single female who clearly just wants attention otherwise I would have stayed home. I often think I should just stay home. Maybe I'll get a puppy and then the howls of the dog can alert the neighborhood of my demise.
Got rejected from some fiction publications, but I was told to resubmit with praise. I have no words, as it makes no sense to me.
Broke down and paid fifteen dollars for a bottle of cough syrup, as the regular ones weren't cutting it. I bought that all natural, no drugs, let's commune with nature Zarbee's. Here's the thing: It smells like a floral and honey armpit (yes, I smelled it), and it tastes like a hippie threw up in your mouth. But, sweet baby Jesus that shit works. I still cough, but I'm not hacking half the night anymore. Only a third. That's a win. Though, today hardly at all. Good signs.
I put on a ton of makeup and faked it for a few pictures. As, years ago when we were young, my quiet, nerdy cousin Micah married a girl named Carol. Carol, one of twelve I think, has a handful of sisters. One, Jane, is a painter. She paints jeans, and in October she painted me a pair of sunflower ones. Anyone who has ever known me knows sunflowers and me go hand in hand like the hills of Tuscany. Life, Lupus, and my body didn't let me wear these until now . . . Her little place is Art Gallery Jeans; My pair were around 175, which--in all honesty--feels like a steal as a Picasso sunflower is far, far more.
Jane's got a sweet Instagram too. If you're wondering, I'm dying for a pair of cherry blossom ones, but that's gonna be a few months. Things like copays and prescriptions take priority. And, as I said to my Mom when she noted how lively I look, "I fake things well." I still feel like hell about fifty percent of the time, and one hundred percent of the time I'm in various stages of pain and exhaustion. Life is what it is.
Came close to ending all of my medical treatments. I'm still close, as I'm done being lied to and having to beg for care. I'm also done depleting every resource I have to pay for this life, and then still having nothing at the end of the day. As I've already noted, every ounce of me hurts, and there's little end in sight.
Took up tutoring again, as a subcontractor via a large company, that grossly cuts the wage and pays me near nothing. What I'll make tomorrow, for two hours (well four and a half after round trip subway) will be around four or so days of groceries. I'm just thrilled to be humiliated on another level.
Someone, whom I didn't expect and (and as she says) barely knows me, sent soup in the mail. There's a company that will send homemade soup, socks, and a ladle. It was all very sweet.
I certainly don't feel like I have anything, especially after this week. On that note, my pulmonary doctor told me I could have a drink. He said that last week. I finally had one cider last night, and tonight I'm having one cider with a shot of Pama liquor in it. I'm out of fucks, and with that note I'm going to try and write another agent and work on a novel chapter. These days I wonder why I still bother trying. Yet, like a fool I do.
In seven days:
I lost one of my emergency contacts as she made it clear she wanted to know my contingency plan. Well, it was never for her to take care of me. So, I won't bother her again. That one rips me to my core as I've never asked anyone to take care of me. I'm done being there for people, as in the end . . .
Had someone comment, more than once, that we've known each other for a long time. Well, we've known each other so long that he lied to my face. Even more: he doesn't know me. At all. He doesn't know my brother's name, my favorite color or flower, doesn't know that he's a big reason the occasional date usually ends as a dud as the dude across the table falls flat in comparison. He doesn't know I still remember the day he told me to call him by his first name and not title. He doesn't know the hell of my own soul. He doesn't know I still remember that day he said "I love you." I still remember my own shock. He doesn't know the damage from him. From life. From every bad decision I've ever made.
Made a new bra pattern, as I can barely move but I can only stay stationary so long. With the last remnants of silk scrap, I lined it with purple bra fabric (scrap from another), and used scraps of trim and lace . . . If you sew, see the Harriet Bra, from Cloth Habit, and know I did a DD in my band size and it fits like a dream. I haven't had a man want to be near me since last summer so my saying it feel better than man hands probably means less than I think it should.
In the course of a conversation, dude wants to know what I do for a living . . . At some point, he wanted to make sure I wasn't a shrink. I told him I'm a writer and professor, for which he said you teach English. I responded, rather emphatically, "Fuck no, I have a Ph.D. in history, cultural theory, and gender!" Him: "So you're a feminist. You hate men." Two points to that: teaching English isn't bad. It's a noble life, but he meant it in another way. Secondly, being a feminist doesn't say I hate men. I have no words.
Someone else, whom I was talking to in December, resurfaced. He wants to meet for a drink and take me to Liberty Inn. Wanna know what that one is? I won't link it here, but it's a pay by the hour hotel. I'd like to think I write pretty good fiction, but this shit I couldn't even make up.
I went to the allergist that the hospital insisted I see. In the course of that, I learned that the hospital thought I was lying. Yeah, I'm lying about antibiotic allergies that are well documented, and the primary care physician I've had has seen said allergies in person. Yes, I lie about red pepper allergies that cause anaphylaxis shock because I really enjoy this complicated life (if you can't see sarcasm I can't help you). The allergist said it was a waste of my time since there is no test for antibiotics . . . As she said if you ever need penicillin (as it's the only option) tell them you'll need to be desensitized. That requires an ICU and an allergist. I won't be doing that anytime soon. I'm so glad I got to waste more of my time and money. I was the idiot single female who found herself admitted, via the ER, on a holiday weekend. Doesn't matter if the stay was a week, I'm still just another single female who clearly just wants attention otherwise I would have stayed home. I often think I should just stay home. Maybe I'll get a puppy and then the howls of the dog can alert the neighborhood of my demise.
Got rejected from some fiction publications, but I was told to resubmit with praise. I have no words, as it makes no sense to me.
Broke down and paid fifteen dollars for a bottle of cough syrup, as the regular ones weren't cutting it. I bought that all natural, no drugs, let's commune with nature Zarbee's. Here's the thing: It smells like a floral and honey armpit (yes, I smelled it), and it tastes like a hippie threw up in your mouth. But, sweet baby Jesus that shit works. I still cough, but I'm not hacking half the night anymore. Only a third. That's a win. Though, today hardly at all. Good signs.
I put on a ton of makeup and faked it for a few pictures. As, years ago when we were young, my quiet, nerdy cousin Micah married a girl named Carol. Carol, one of twelve I think, has a handful of sisters. One, Jane, is a painter. She paints jeans, and in October she painted me a pair of sunflower ones. Anyone who has ever known me knows sunflowers and me go hand in hand like the hills of Tuscany. Life, Lupus, and my body didn't let me wear these until now . . . Her little place is Art Gallery Jeans; My pair were around 175, which--in all honesty--feels like a steal as a Picasso sunflower is far, far more.
If you're wondering, that's my Carrie Scarf from a couple of years ago (the hat pattern is here, as I knitted that too). I still love it and no you can't have it. I also prob gave myself another bought of hell being outside sans coat for about ten minutes. At this point, what does it all matter anyway?
I seriously want to be a jackal and go back to Amsterdam in these jeans . . . just to flounce around in the Picasso Museum again. I would tell you I don't do stuff like that, but there's a video of me singing in ancient amphitheaters in Turkey and Bulgaria, and there's evidence of me dancing in Austrian Alp fields (for which you already can figure what I was singing). I probably sang ABBA in Greece. I have no shame.
Came close to ending all of my medical treatments. I'm still close, as I'm done being lied to and having to beg for care. I'm also done depleting every resource I have to pay for this life, and then still having nothing at the end of the day. As I've already noted, every ounce of me hurts, and there's little end in sight.
Took up tutoring again, as a subcontractor via a large company, that grossly cuts the wage and pays me near nothing. What I'll make tomorrow, for two hours (well four and a half after round trip subway) will be around four or so days of groceries. I'm just thrilled to be humiliated on another level.
Someone, whom I didn't expect and (and as she says) barely knows me, sent soup in the mail. There's a company that will send homemade soup, socks, and a ladle. It was all very sweet.
I certainly don't feel like I have anything, especially after this week. On that note, my pulmonary doctor told me I could have a drink. He said that last week. I finally had one cider last night, and tonight I'm having one cider with a shot of Pama liquor in it. I'm out of fucks, and with that note I'm going to try and write another agent and work on a novel chapter. These days I wonder why I still bother trying. Yet, like a fool I do.
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