Things have been crazy, and crazy gave me the excuse to not write.
I didn't have anything to say. I am both happy, and incredibly depressed.
But thus is par. And this is terrible already.
Things:
- Move, dammit
- Stop fucking whining
*sigh*
Okay. Previously on Buffy.
(Ed note: Chronology may be off. Memories in mirror are not as they appear)
She was going to Seattle.
She took the train to Toronto. The Artist picked her up, after a good half hour of walking/driving around opposite blocks. They did not die in Toronto traffic. But it was close.
Crossed the border. Border crossing went well. Only sat in immigration for a half hour or so. Nice men-with-guns.
Met the Artist's house. Memory of specifics is vague. But it was good. Was gifted with a first pair of honest to god Hot Topic bondage pants. Bliss. Rode the merry-go-round. Finally. (Ha)
Missed the plane. Caught a new one.
Arrived in Phoenix.
Was recognized by The Hat. "Only a friend of Blue could have a hat like that."
*smirk*
Speaking of, is exactly like one would expect. Good hug, many many years overdue.
Passed the frak out. Note to self: Must buy poof.
Woke up to a small serious person wishing me good morning. Best morning ever.
The wedding was beautiful. Took babysitting duties to try and feel useful in a overly intimate situation. Not that she is not loved, nor reversed, but a backstage pass had not been earned, and it was uncomfortable.
Broke the photographer's spare camera. Need a technological warning label.
Various wondrous memories of things and experiences and people.
If it was remotely possible, there'd be a one-way ticket to Phoenix in the future.
Nearly missed the plane to Seattle. *headdesk*
Very sketchy memories here. Miss Russ something fierce.
Dammit. Stupid opiates and long term memory retention problems.
Went to Oregon, to meet Oregon!Boy finally.
Honestly, would take that back, excepting that it was necessary for closure one supposes.
Regardless, nothing worth remembering but an item crossed out.
Ice cream. Hung out with Di and Shell and Mal and Russ at an adorable little pub and got a migraine and ruined it.
Hit on Josh's girlfriend. Got hit on back.
Ruined the ebook. Oops.
Had dinner with the kids. Miss them, even poor emo Isaac.
Back to Rochester.
Spent a day alone in the Artist's room. Less fun than it could've been as social recalcitrance infected agoraphobia as it is want to do. The bed was comfier than expected.
A good night watching walkthroughs. Which is kinda like movies.
Only cooler.
Had zero want towards going home.
Get home. Settle in.
Get a call.
"Surgery on the 13th." Shit. Excitement!
Look into colleges. Start to apply.
Get a call.
"Surgery on Friday." Two weeks early.
SHIT. Panic.
School stuff completely lost. Barely manage to pay rent.
Hospital was. Have zero need to discuss it really.
Though there are some good pictures.
Was terribly alone.
And it was... okay.
The contrast was amusing from last time.
Alone, alone, alone. And antisocial.
(Still antisocial)
Everything went beautifully.
The surgeon said the abs were thicker than expected.
Heh.
Was disgustingly sick at one point.
Par for the course, apparently.
But then everything started to mellow out.
Was out of diapers days after leaving the hospital.
This is far far better than anticipated.
Working on straightening out a body used to favouring the right.
Full body hugs are heavenly things.
Never thought the bathroom was a missable place.
As of today, there is no pain at the surgery site.
So... healed?
I am loved. I am going to be okay. Ish.
The doctor has given up trying to figure out why my arms hurt.
"People with Crohn's hurt."
My welfare lady has been on vacation for ever, and I need to talk to her.
I want to get my college stuff dealt with so I can feel like I'm ever going to accomplish anything ever.
I'm very demoralized, and I don't know why.
I am so static, and it's sick.
Everything's the same, everything I say, everything I think, and that's already death.
It's the personification of hell.
But I don't really know what to do about it.
I bought a tin whistle. But I've had one before.
I play the piano, but I've played better before, and it's just mimicry anyway.
I clean my house, and it's as seductive a lie of productivity as a video game would be.
I have nothing to say. But my Artist says my words are beautiful when I stop trying.
I just want to feel the hypnotic beat of my feet on the road, but I have no endurance.
(Or his hands on my neck. But he neither wants nor should be my only star.)
Fail better. One step, two.
But I don't even know where I'm going. |
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