June 7th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

because I always thought of Christian Slater as my evil spirit animal.

You know what? I'm not even going to go over my stats. I'm not going to look up the various sites and take the various counts and see what my various reaches were and try to do the math on my actual brain penetration. Not this week. Suffice it to say that I have reached a plateau. I can't go forward because I am not ready to, yet. And I can't go back because stairway collapse. So I guess I keep on doing what I have been doing. That means releasing a bunch of stuff on Clammr this week. I'll do the youtube stuff.

This weekend has just been waiting on Doc and letting him do as little as possible so he can heal on his two days off. He is getting better. The massive bruising is yellow and black now, almost gone. And the road rash scabbing is all done. It's just his shoulder that is killing him still. I believe it was his shoulder that took the initial impact, and vis a vis, his entire weight. So it just needs time and frequent massage, which I can provide in this one case.

Tomorrow I will clean the house. Maybe even art another painting. He goes back to work tomorrow. I'll be lonely and looking for a reason to turn on the cam.

Iggy and Izzard came out to eat right after sunset, so they weren't around at 10:30 when all the excitement went down.

I was on my couch, with the dog and Boomer and I think Major was up here, too. Simon came rushing in from my bedroom and jumped up in the window and started freaking out and meowing at me, so I opened the window wider and Boomer jumped up with Simon (I have worked long and hard to make sure that those two get along) and started meowing at me, as well. Then we heard a knock against the wall of the house. Chewy jumped up from a sound sleep and bounced off the couch. Then there was another knock at the wall. Full on fight or flight mode was now in effect, Doc was asleep. I grabbed the nearest knife and the torch flashlight and let Simon and Chewy out and they ran around to the side of the house, I followed. There was nothing there. Then Simon meowed behind me and I swung around with the torch and saw wild flapping and a settling trail of feathers hovering in the air, leading to the back of the yard.

I focused the torch on the center of the activity and discovered Teeny (who's name turns out not to be ironic) has, in her mouth, a pigeon that is easily twice the size of her. She's about the size of a 9 month old cat, that's when she stopped growing. This pigeon was HUGE, even by our standards. And we both grew up near large cities plagued with the creatures. And it was flapping its wings madly, simply madly. And its feet were digging at the ground because, of course, they could easily reach the ground. And she started to lose her grip on it, and put her tiny little paw on its head, and it stopped moving completely. She reached down, got a better grip on the nape of the bird's neck, and then removed her foot. The bird resumed madly flapping and she trotted away. I tried to get her to put it down. Simon came up on her and tried to make her see the folly of her adventure. Bagira came up on the other side, and Chewy, the rear. She held a death grip on to that bird and proudly traipsed around the back yard. I watched one circuit, lamenting that my camera's flash couldn't be activated for the video function, and then went inside.

I checked out back about 20 minutes later . . . no sign of the bird. All cats and dog lounging on the patio, waiting for cocktails to be served.

Speaking of beverages, Doc has been making me coffee, without the aid of a coffee maker. Yesterday, a pep talk from me got him in the kitchen boiling coffee like my Papa used to. He used to curse the percolator, call me by my mom's name (all my damn life), then my own, and tell me to "get the pot!" so he could make coffee the right way. And he would do his thing. I didn't pay attention, I was little, too little to see into the pot. So I played with the dog or climbed up to the cafe table or ran randomly into another room. I was little. Okay, so Doc has been making me coffee and I have been (I don't know what my problem is, I know I'm rotten, but I haven't been able to stop myself) giving my opinion. And it has been bad, "Oh, no, it's okay . . . I was just expecting Papa's coffee." Utter nonsense. But he really topped it today. He did it. I am drinking the last cup of it now. So strong, so good. Not anything so thick or dense as espresso or Turkish coffee. But stronger than what you get from your average drip coffee machine we all have. So good. Oh! He just woke up, if I play my cards right, he may make me a fresh pot. I'll offer to cook a steak for him.

Has anyone seen "Mr. Robot" on USA Network? I finally have a TV show with someone I can really identify with. Doc saw it first, then insisted that I watch it, and pointed things out to me, and I pointed things out to him. The main character says something to the effect of, "I don't expect good things to happen without consequences." YES! Fuck yes. That. Right there. So much that. He is me, I am him. It's kind of funny, because I always thought of Christian Slater as my evil spirit animal.
2013, cyd, new

Right down here in 2015

Can I really compare carrying a fetus that is the result of rape to a mad serial urologist breaking into a governor's home, drugging him and giving him a vasectomy? This is my premise for my open letter to Scott Walker regarding his comments that women who carry "rape babies" are only concerned with the "rapey" part of things for the first trimester or so. I guess after that we are supposed to be so overwhelmed with the miracle of carrying a parasite around in our bodies, sucking us dry, that we overcome the trauma of being raped. These Republicans are SO clueless. And there is no way to wake them up, these penis toting fools, because they simply will never experience the violation, helplessness or shame that rape permits to run around your head.

And big, grown up punk rock women like me can compartmentalize what they say and discard most of it. But what of the younger generations? The younger victims that don't have the privilege of hindsight and 30 years of angry poetry to shore themselves up with? All they get is this garbage, and it's sick, it's diseased thinking, and the GOP is running around infecting every woman they can with it. Giving us some freedom (the vote, shoes without heels, automatic dishwashers, the Pill, Lady's razors, underpaid jobs, washer/dryer sets) didn't shut us up, we want equality. All they have left is to try and tear us down, destroy utterly our self-esteem, as half a species, because they are too weak to deal with us. And mostly for reasons that they made up in the first place.

Truth be told, we carry and give life, we should be in charge. That just makes sense in the natural world. Far from making us the "weaker" sex, it makes us stronger, more resilient. We can survive hosting multiple parasites and bounce right back. We can carry on with jobs and family responsibilities while doing this. Men still think they should get a special reward for just taking care of their children. When dad's home with the kids, it's babysitting. But when mom is home, it's parenting. Why is this? If men cannot take care of their own young without feeling entitled to special kudos, how can we expect them to run our lives, citizens that aren't even related to them, with any amount of common sense or compassion?

I am not by any means anti-men. I am in love with a wonderful one. Proof to me that they exist. But they don't seem to be running for president right now. All we have are these GOP boobs who have so fetishized boobs that they can't even begin to think what else makes up a woman.

It was summed up perfectly in "One Million Ways to Die in the West", when Sarah Silverman showed her pussy to her god-fearing, Christian boyfriend. He asked, "Are you in pain?" That's about the level of understanding we are dealing with here, in 2015.

OK, wow, don't know where that was festering. It wasn't the Scott Walker rant I was thinking of, it was a general GOP rant. I had no idea I was that pent up. I really should be writing for some online left wing rag by this point. I should be getting a penny a word, or a link per paragraph or something.
2013, cyd, new

We're frauds, we are not grown-ups.

How long has it been since I tweeted something? Hmmm.

So sweet, Doc just called from work to check in on me. How was I doing, had I stabbed anyone, the usual questions. He urged me to take some hydroxizine (sp), since I am out of Xanax. It's an allergy med that is used off label as a light-weight anxiety med, like Benadryl used to be. For all I know, it is generic Benadryl.

I think I know what happened with my shrink. Robin, the receptionist/nurse person, was abducted by aliens. In a bind, the doctor hired the first person he could. This person is the person that called and woke me up and talked to me unmedicated and got me to say I was a cash patient, because I didn't have the good sense to pick up the insurance card sitting right there and give her the numbers, I figured in my state, that I could fix it when I went in and saw Robin in a few days for my appointment. I do believe now that Robin is well and truly gone, and this cash thing has put me on a no-call list of some kind, so I can't get them to call me back to fix this. Doc is going into the office tomorrow or the next day and setting this straight and setting up the first possible appointment. I can't believe I fucked myself like this. I am NEVER to answer my phone without Doc in the room unless it's Kelli. I make bad decisions. Especially when the person on the other end of the line has some sort of authority over me. I panic and say shit that makes me just think, "who the hell just said that?"

I still can't figure out why the IRS is taxing my SSI. I've gone over the math, and it doesn't make sense. We are under the threshold, by a mere $4,000, for my SSI to be taxed, according to both the IRS and the SSA.

I got a letter from the SSA. We filled out a form earlier this year about my ability to hold down a job, and I thought for sure it heralded a psych audit, the going over of my records, possible inpatient assessment, definite out-patient assessment. But no, this letter said, no there would be no audit. They were confident in the continuation of my disability. That's 8 years since I've been audited. They'd be wasting their time to do it. The records clearly show I'm mad as a hatter.

So things are up and down. The things that are down seem really, really down, though. It's like all of these adult problems are hitting us. And we are not prepared. We're frauds, we are not grown-ups.