Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

I had these tights . . . not just any tights, but spectacular tights.  They were sweater tights, without the bulk.  They were grey plaid, with blue and yellow.  They were cool, hip, happening tights.  They were 25 bucks from Mod Cloth. They ripped, on the second wearing.  How did they rip? I snagged them on the foil wrapper from a yoghurt container.  In my house.  Shit.  Of course the larger question is why in the hell did I spend 25 bucks on a pair of tights? Okay, they are cool . . .But, my poor, cheap self really was lost in a Lupus haze of hell literally sitting on the floor, in the corner, with a hand on each wall praying for the room to stop spinning.  When the room did stop spinning, after a round or two of upchucking, I crawled into bed.  As the dizzy subsided I laid there fearing to get up, so I watched movies online and window shopped.  Yea . . . I blame the dizzy.  I also blame the sheer and utter exhau...

There's something to be said when I willingly take a round of prednisone.  Clearly, I'm on a crappy road of pain, fevers, rashes, and exhaustion.  This time I'm only on it for seven days, but sevens days can feel like a lifetime . . . sometimes.  A decade ago I took several rounds of prednisone, and they were the extended rounds of a couple of months.  One word: unpleasant.  When I went on it this time my mother said she's glad she doesn't live near me (and she didn't a decade ago as I was in NM and her in VA).  When I called the house two nights ago she hesitantly answered the phone.  Clearly, she was fearful that the prednisone had sent me into an emotional flurry of fire, rage, and cloudy gray.  It hasn't.  An old friend, who lived through predinsone 90s-style with me, keeps reminding me to not kill my students.  She seems very afraid that I'm going to get all ragey and go apeshit.  Naw.  Not this time.  Besides, I'm to...

For what feels like forever I have been making jokes about the state of my heart, the lack of mainstay relationships in my life, and the type of "men" who cross my path.  Lovers, or wannabes, beeping me eight hours before meeting a hundred or so of their closest friends in a church to say "I do" to another woman, fading Ladies Men lying to say they want me in the end, and outright loosers with badly placed come-ons fill these pages.  Yet, they aren't the only things to break my heart. As much as I would like to place solitary blame on one, or two, of them I can not.  At seventeen I learned my heart was broken, in a minimal kind of way. Unfortunately, over the years, it has continued to beat on and sometimes it needs help to make it through the day.  Yea . . . this time around it is called an irregular heartbeat.  At seventeen I was first diagnosed, but my doctor back then had the good sense of mind to tell me the Cardizem was for migraines.  I had been di...