This is all I've ever wanted

From Postsecret - thanks to whoever posted this.

I'm starting to think it's not possible, though, for someone to accept me as I am.


Stop being so damn closed-minded

I think the internet is an invaluable resource for absolute crap. The more I see, the more it fills me with dread. But, I also find some of that crap that makes my heart swell.

For instance, this guy made a prosthetic leg for a parrot named George, who could be heard yelling out "bloody hell!," in his frustration of not being able to stand up on one leg. Two days later, they followed up on the story, to see how George was taking to his new prosthesis. Deemed by the aptly titled "Parrot Eats False Leg," turns out, he ate it.

Good boy, George. &=)

As a sidenote to this, some ass was making comments as to why they didn't just let the bird die, because there are no prosthetic legs in the jungle - I pose to you this. The United States spends billions of dollars a year on the most useless things, while people are dying and starving, WITHIN OUR OWN COUNTRY. I think this is a great deal cooler than that.

As Gandhi said, "
The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated."

Ok, not that that means a whole lot for the United States, who continues to somehow allow children to get gunned down within the sanctity of their own schools. Gun control, my ass. It's called "WARNING SIGNS," people! Anyway, I think the treatment of animals pretty much boils down to the true being of an individual. If you don't like animals, then I don't like you. And, if you don't like me, then what are you doing here?

But, I'm wandering.

Ok, so there was this other story, of which I'm sure you'll be receiving the cutesy emails with these pictures attached in T-minus 5...4...3...2...

Here's the only story I've been able to discover thus far. Whether or not it's true, I'm not entirely sure:

Dachshund mom is fostering this guy for another mom who couldn't take care of him. He had his eyes closed, but now they are open. He is just a little bigger than her other pups. She loves this little guy more than the other puppies and she is nursing him back to health. He is the cleanest "puppy" ever because she licks him all the time.

I know everyone's also heard the wonderful story about Dennis & Nubs:

I hate to abbreviate, but to sum it up, while on duty in the Anbar Province, a Marine found this dog, who's ears had been cut off, possibly to enhance the dog's aggression. Nubs would come visit with them while they were on border patrol, and they'd repay him for his companionship by feeding him. He'd also chase their Hummers as they'd pack up to leave. Later on, after Nubs had barely survived a harsh, freezing winter, they discovered he'd been stabbed with a screwdriver, so Dennis nursed him back to health, and has managed to raise the $3500 necessary to have him sent to San Francisco. So, now Nubs is going home to live in the lap of luxury and wait until his new daddy gets home.

Whether or not it's fake, I could care less. I just think it's an exemplary story of how all humans should STRIVE TO BE, in any and all scenarios - compassionate without hope of reward.

Here's a pic of a lady who lets turtles hibernate in her fridge. There, of course, people made comments about the food being in with the possibly salmonella-laden turtles. I think the food was probably placed there for aesthetic value. And, if you get salmonella from a turtle touching your pepper, then oh well. I held a baby bat and didn't get rabies, when he bit me thirty-eleven times. And if I did, then oh well. I just have that opinion of stuff. At least I'm not racing damn race cars or wrestling alligators.

Again, it boils down to my "GOD, keep your nose out of every mother-fucker's business already!!!!" philosophy. You can give someone the info, but you're sure as shit not going to change them, so stop trying!

Or as xkcd so satirically puts it:

If animals can love beyond skin, color, imperfections, and boundaries...

...then why can't we?


Dog Sees God

Briefly, let me just say that we went to see Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead by Bert V. Royal last night at the Playhouse, and it was incredible. I'm trying to find the script online right now, in order to quote some things, but insofar, I've been unsuccessful.

Snoopy, for some reason, has always retained this mystical, etherial, all-knowing quality to me. Even when I was a young child, it always seemed to me that Snoopy knew so much more than he ever let on.

Heather, you have GOT to stay on my ass about these auditions, ok? Like I said, I've completely missed my calling.



Ugh, I need to redo this page.

I need to find another damn background.

I need a vacation, yo. And, a car. And, for everyone to leave me alone about some stuff, eh?


The dreams that kill

I've been having the same dream for weeks. It won't stop.

He's completely paralyzed, from the neck down. I know he's done it to himself.

He's the reason they're dead.
She had her reasons for writing the letters.

But I keep going to visit him in the hospital. I keep showing up, strictly to take care of him - to delicately bathe him, to feed him, to make sure he's getting the care he needs, but doesn't deserve. I try to make myself stay away, but I can't. I can hear his voice resonating in my ears. His smile keeps me going. He's so glad every time I show up. And, I always feel relief...once I get there.

When I leave, the resentment sets in all over again. Although, I can't help but miss him.


Then, I flash back into that black house.

I see the stairs going up and down, in and out of the portico.

It's dark.
There are no lights.

I can only barely make out the details of things by the light of the moon that washes over the mostly roofless house, bathing everything in a sick, muted light. I can feel evil in the house, and there's absolutely no escape.

It's back before he got hurt.

We perilously try to make our way through the house, to find some way out, but it's almost impossible. The only way we can keep from going insane is to huddle together, to find joy in the presence of the other. I can feel "things" flying overhead, but I don't dare look up. We pray they don't notice we're there.

There's a darkened basement.
There's an accident.
He falls.
But he's not dead.

I try to defend him, but everyone knows what's happened. They blame him. I say, "he's not like that. He would never do something like that. You don't even try to understand him."

But somehow, I'm wrong.

I don't even know I'm wrong, until it's too late. Until everyone else knows. I feel so stupid and betrayed. Why am I always the last to know?

But I keep visiting.
I keep taking care of him.
Because I always will.
Because I know what happened in real life.
And, I know he deserves so much more than this.

Yet, he'll never be ok.
Not after what's happened.

He's not the one who's paralyzed.

It's me.


Quick! Post something!

For some reason, my blooger is working again at work.

I've actually had several posts that I haven't posted, be it that they're broken and unfinished. Obviously, I hate putting things out there that are undone (um, hello, life?), sooooo....I don't know if I should just rewrite the posts, post them as is, or date them as to their true dates.

Ugh, I don't know. All I can think right now is that I smell barbeque, and I'm about to vomit on this keyboard. My tummy is really bad, and it's only going to get worse, due to some of the things that are about to, eh, "go down" in my life. Bleeding ulcer, meet rectal fissure.

Those stupid Fergie lyrics keep coming up in my head: "You don't want no drama, no no no no drama!" No shit, Fergie-Ferg. There are very few people I know who can completely sustain from drama - I'm not one of them. BEING DRAMATIC and pure drama are two different things.

I will admit, though, that I'm some serious high-maintenance. I know this, and I refuse to ever deny it. Well, and of course, I guess it depends on what you're looking for and to what ends you're willing to consent. All I want is to be kept in books, video games, and technology.

Clothes? Meh.
Jewelry? Absolutely not.
Attention? Oh, hellz yeah.

Somehow, I got into the discussion about this with someone this weekend. And, it's one of those "this is who I am, and I srsly doubt it's going to change any time soon" things.

Oooo, also, I'm starting to apply for some travel xray positions. It pays almost 5% more than what I make now, and considering the next raise we're ever going to get will be about the time Scrushy gets out of prison, I'm really needing to consider other options. Car's still dead, not getting another one anytime soon, don't have time to put up with any of that bullshit anyway. But they totally take care of you, and although I'm scared shitless to leave town by myself, eh, I gotta do something.

Anyway, I'm sorry I haven't been incredibly dilligent. I'm working REALLY, REALLY hard at healing other aspects of my life, my extensively fucked-up mind, and striving to find all the pieces of my broken heart, so my life has been unintentionally chaotic and shit-filled as of late.

Forgive me. At least there is progress being made.


Swan dive, into the asphalt

So, we're starting from the beginning. I saw my psych on Friday, explained to him the feelings I've been having, and he just looked at me thoughfully, rubbed his face and said, somewhat exasperatedly, "Well, everything you've just described to me sounds exactly like depression...which means the medicine (cymbalta) isn't working." I started crying and said, "Why does this keep happening to me? Is this normal, that every medicine I take, I eventually develop an immunity to it?" He said it happens to some people, so we went over the list of meds that I've already been on, to see if there was any hope in the marketable, cheap meds.

I mentioned that Celexa was what got me going after Mom died. He said that he wanted to try that one once more. At first, he suggested Lexapro, but then changed to Celexa, because you can buy it at Wal-mart for $4.

And, then we had a little incident on Friday from which Heather and Lee had to rescue me from. Let's just say, it's been a rough weekend. I slept almost the whole time, yet here I sit at work, and I feel like I haven't slept a wink (usually a good measure of the severity of my depression).

The only good news I have to offer is that when I went to see Stannard last week, there was more bone growing in my fracture site. The screw is still well-intact (I have to say, though...that thing is a BITCH and hurts terribly when I bump it), and my pain has decreased significantly. So, I asked, with a somewhat pleading note in my voice, if I could go back to the gym. He said yes, and I grabbed him around the neck, and he said, "BUT...you've got to be careful and use your common sense." In specific, I'm forbidden to do any straight-leg raises. Which is fine with me. I hated those anyway.

Also, what else happened? Crap, I can't remember. Another indicator for how I'm feeling.

I actually got called in to Chris' office on Friday to talk about the times I've called in. I made a note on my write-up that all of this is resultant of the depression I'm dealing with. Chris read it, and I told him that I know it probably sounds like a cop-out, but that I'd made an appointment with our EAP (employee assistance program) for sometime this week, and that I really am trying to fix this. He said, as seriously as he could, "You know, we want you to get better, and we'll do anything we can to help you. Because you're a good tech, and I don't want to lose you." I jumped up, ran to the door, and wrenched it open. I said, "Don't make me talk about it, or I'm going to cry (I already was)! I want to get better, too!," and ran out like I was on fire.

I absolutely can't talk about this with anyone, especially at work, because it's just too hard. It's too hard for me to explain, and it's too hard for them to understand. You know, because depression is a booboo - but it's not a booboo you can see. I'll be damned, though, if it's the only thing you can feel. And, I slept SO WELL last night. But right now, my heart is fluttering and flipping, my eyes are heavy, my whole body is heavy, like it's made of lead, and I just feel like any minute, I'm going to drop to the floor in a "Sleeping Beauty" kind of coma.

I have very brief lights of "me" things. Like I can get a little excited about something, but it's really short-lived. Other than that, all the rest of the time, I look like I've lost my best friend (no offense, Heather). Someone once told me that although I look happy at times, I always look like there's a touch of unconsolable sadness in my face and behind my eyes.

God, I can't believe it's not even 830a yet. I just want to go home and go to sleep - forever. I can't, though. I'm going to try to get the car and make it to the vet with the girls. They really need their checkups and shots, and Jammy needs to get her stitches/staples out of her tummy. Plus, I've got to ask them about their fatty underbellies. I love kitties, no matter what they look like, but making kitties overweight is just cruel.

Oh yeah, UB started dayshift today. She was already here when I got here. Now if only a crazy person would come through the department and kill me, life would be good. Or death. At this point, whatever.

Sooooo, back on the Celexa. Again.

Here's to new beginnings - again.

I'll let you know when life feels liveable. Right now, I'd rather be anything but alive. I'd even pay money to have one of those good, long, hard cries, to feel like I'm releasing some of this...whatever it is. Cry out my grey cloud. Cry out my pain and senseless suffering - there's nothing over which to suffer. You're just a spoiled child with a fucked up brain. You mean nothing to anyone, so you have to meaning.

Starting over - - - - - again.