The key to becoming a master writer?
Hemingway: Writing drunk and editing sober.
Upon hearing this, the glowing bits in my liver were like:
- HA HA!
- Sucks to suck
...among other things, because I am sure they are sentient beings and can like, talk and stuff.
But I now realize I don't need to drink, because I am in a state of perpetual confusion! Prescription pain killers: the pregame of choice!!! I now get to double up on the fun because my doctors pity me and I admitted to feeling anxious over having to take Vicodin every 4 hours because that is hardly enough time for a good nap or to forget one is about to be in pain. So, now we have a once-every-12-hour "base" of Oxy and the occasional Vicodin.
I have gone from 0 to Real Housewives of Orange County in a matter of days. Truly impressive.
Once upon a time, I could say: All I need in life is Gatorade and Tylenol. Then it became: I run on Gatorade and Vicodin. Now it would be most accurate to say: In my bloodstream one will find Gatorade and (insert any narcotic Prep school boys snort in the locker room). Oh, and pita chips.
Oh lord, I cannot think. I just want to make weird sounds, roll over, and take another nap because really what else am I capable of these days? I must say I have become fantastic at napping, sweating, and "totally not crying" as in "I am totally not crying during 'Prince of Egypt' because of my newfound narcotics-inspired appreciation for music". I don't know why people take painkillers when they're not supposed to because I actually feel crazy. Maybe I am just a "high functioning crazy".
I should not give myself too much credit. We will go with "functioning crazy".
Lately I've been giving myself points for interacting with human brings outside of the house. This requires me to actually leave the house, so... fuck? Is it socially acceptable to walk around in a blanket as Linus so artfully did? I don't want to be a style-biter or worse, bullied by a tyrannical 9-year-old girl with a bad haircut.
These are the things I concern myself with.
Back to the point system -- Doctors and hospital staff aren't supposed to count but today I've decided that they do because my doctor and nurse told me they loved me in two separate instances. I don't know if it was to see if they could get a react out of me, drug zombie, or I am actually in a relationship with my hospital as I've suspected all along. It would make sense, as I've felt guilty "cheating" on hospital with the other hospitals I've been visiting.
If people can fall in love with ostriches and mailboxes, surely I can be in a relationship with my hospital? Let's not even explore the logistics of that as I've already carried this a bit too far for my liking.
Besides, I'm only back at my hospital to do screening tests for a clinical trial I'm ditching it for next week (hopefully). And get more drugzz, obviously.
The screening tests cover a host of things, but they're mostly concerned with how not pregnant I am. Under the clinical trial's exclusions, amidst all the blood, goo, heart, mind specifics that can disqualify a person, for those who still have some shred of a uterus one must be really, really unpregnant. If there are degrees of "not being pregnant", clinical trial patients should be on the "vagina dentate" end of the spectrum.
Me, clueless, is all: So uhmmm, do I just pick up a pregnancy test?
...Because I have long awaited the day my mother and I would go pregnancy test shopping together.
*drinks bleach*
Clinical trial facilitator: Uh, no.
She informed me I had to go to "legitimate testing center" where they send the requesting facility a report indicating if the eggo is in fact, preggo.
Unfortunately, the testing center we went to was run by a woman who, even after being corrected multiple times, was convinced I was born in 1998. So I am a little bit worried about the results getting...anywhere. Or getting a call from child services. Fortunately the other tests are being handled at a facility where the receptionists have proven themselves capable of entering numbers/can read and stuff.
Things are looking up.
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