“All Lives Matter?” Shootings. Protests. Noise. Silence. But “All Lives Matter.” I guess some more than most.

I’ve had it up to here with “All Lives Matter.”

The shootings recently have me completely jaded. Not because they don’t matter—they do.

But because they’re everywhere. All the time. Most recently, the domestic terror incident at the Planned Parenthood in Colorado. The shooter was taken alive. Three dead.

And the first thing that I could think of at the resolution of the situation was: the suspect cannot have been anything but a white man.

Because, in situations like this, that is the only way the suspect ever gets out of these alive.

Let me back things up a a bit.

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Thank you, Mr Iwata.

The honest truth is that the news late last night that the president of Nintendo, Satoru Iwata, had died from cancer of the bile duct, hit me harder than dropping the man who is now my ex.

At the time I’d been thinking: he’s been a huge part of my life and there’s no way I’m going to be able to go back to things without him. Everything reminded me of him. It hurt, and I was losing my mind on a daily basis.

But that was connected to a distant abuse, a long manipulation. These are things I’m still washing off my skin.

This… Is different.

I never met Mr Iwata. The closest I’ve ever been is Nintendo Directs and the impossibly affable Iwata Asks. But thanks to his work programming so many of my favorite games, he has pretty much been a part of my whole life through his work. Even now there’s a stash of games and things around—I never was able to put down the sticks, as they say where I’m from.

And last night I saw the news, late, in a place that perks my “do a damn two second google search” sense, so I didn’t believe it until I did.

I’d be lying to you if I didn’t say it felt like I had just lost my favorite uncle. And when I found out how it happened I wanted to punch something. We can’t fucking do anything about cancer and it just takes from families, friends, the world.

So, once again I’m stuck in a room with things reminding me of someone out of reach. But again… This is different.

Mr Iwata’s work, both as programmer and president, has had such an impact on my life. Things that have brought me enjoyment,  things that he has said that have inspired me to no end—I will probably be making a compilation of things he has said to keep by my side to keep me going—and the difference is… These are things that I want to be surrounded by. This body of work is a worldwide legacy of perseverance, generosity, talent, humility, kindness, and humor. The world has been changed for the better for his influence. Really, there’s only one thing I can say:

Thank you, Mr Iwata.

My Beef with the Food Stamp Challenge


I have a lot of opinions about the whole thing with the “food stamps challenge,” where a usually well off, usually white individual takes the challenge to live like a person on food stamps for some arbitrary period of time.

Half of the time they seem to be doing it to prove that it’s doable. They go into it with the attitude that it’s easy, and so chipper about it.

Then, they’re surprised when they can’t do it.

Let me tell you about the real food stamp challenge.

The food stamp challenge is having a job that barely covers the bills, so you NEED them or you don’t eat.

It’s being grateful that you don’t have to pick between your prescription and a week worth of food.

It’s the sudden realization that you can afford to have meat with this meal—and it doesn’t have to be from the dubious “this is a day away from the sell by date” section.

It’s realizing that the only thing keeping you from this meal is the bone crushing exhaustion of the job—or jobs—that still don’t raise you up high enough to not need the assistance.

People are out here taking this “challenge” like it’s some kind of game. But for millions of us, this ain’t no game.

It’s life.

Returning from Hiatus: and a comment on current events (#Ferguson)

No off  days until next week.

Tore a muscle in my arm.

Typing hurts because I overloaded it at work and until I get my day off it’s gonna be overloaded.


When I get a chance to breathe, I’m putting myself back on a schedule of updates. …the fact that I have developed a mild (HAH) Civ V habit also hasn’t helped things, but I think I’ve got a handle on that now.


I do not live in Ferguson. I live near enough that the events are concerning.

With the events in Ferguson, MO–a suburb of St. Louis, a mere stone’s throw from the city I live in, racial tension is at the whistle point. The kettle will either pop or have to be removed, and I’m suspecting a pop rather than a timely removal. Without going into the gory details (they’re all over at this point, to the point where the beleaguered souls in Palestine are giving us here in the US tips on surviving teargas and counter-riot brutality), things are at the point where even though I don’t live in Ferguson itself, the area is still tense. Solidarity protests have taken place in my city, a city known for its racially tense history (we are not far removed from race riots), and when I heard about them I was concerned that things would turn ugly. Later in the day I heard about a threat on the post office and federal building–potentially unrelated, but there was nothing in the paper or online to confirm or remove my suspicion.

Just yesterday, during my shift at work, there were a number of persons who will not be identified lamenting the destruction of the QuikTrip store involved in the whole affair. It made me sick. Had I been in charge of the property, they would have been thrown out–not escorted, not directed, not told, THROWN OUT. To hear someone with more concern for property than life–no. Fuck you.

I do not believe that it will get quieter soon. Not with the press release that just went out. The timing was terrible, the tone was worse. Anonymous is already involved, and we know how they work. (While their intentions have been not-shitty their methods have been…ech.)

My input stops here–not for lack of things to say, but because of injury.

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Money Marchin' In…and Out…

In case you couldn’t tell, my table-making skills have gotten a bit rusty—that thing up there is UGLY. But that’s not the point.

In case you couldn’t tell from the last entry in that list, the bill from the time I got shot came in. In case you ALSO couldn’t tell, there is no way in fucking hell. It’s been knocked down a bit—my insurance pays a little bit of it each month, which is apparently why my prescriptions are variable in cost now—but THAT BILL just got sent to me and there is just No Freaking Way™ that is happening, barring some kind of miracle occurring and me getting this job after all.

So I’m ignoring it. What are they going to do, confiscate my damaged nerves? DO me that favor, you whoresons—maybe I’ll be able to work well enough to pay you back one day…HAHAHAHAHAH…aaah.

The phone’s through already. It seems to go through on different days each month.

The lights…the 20th or my taxes come in, whichever comes first, I start making payments on it.

The good news is, I did manage to strongarm my internet bill down. But I may or may not have that new job.


Oh, hilarious true story.

I got a notification today that I got into the Google Glass thing—as long as I was on that list I’m like WOO A CHANCE TO TEST DRIVE THIS THING YEAH BETA

Nope. I would’ve needed a MINIMUM of $1500 USD to get started.

So nerdy dream totally deferred, there.

I’ve avoided looking at the options there because I don’t want to give myself a bad case of gear envy. I’ve been lusting after this thing for months, too, thinking how AWESOME it’d be to have my own set of HUD-glasses and crap, testing it out and stuff and dealing with the beta but still, LOOK HOW AWESOME, and then LOOK AT THE COST.

Oh well. Guess I’ll wait until I have another shot at a second job.

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(That title is sung to the tune of the Barenaked Ladies song “One Week,” by the by.)

I wake up this morning mumbling to myself that it’s too damn early to be waking up. Of course, this is my own fault for being up at four in the damn AM, slinging ink, vaping a stimulant, and forgetting about taking the meds. I roll out of bed thinking that a glass of juice would be the perfect thing to get the taste of dry cotton out of my mouth, and also thinking to myself If I hear that damn cucco clucking this morning it’d better be that someone broke their leg in six places and their arm in three and I’m the only one working for the next two weeks.

Sure enough, I hear that familiar “BAWWWWWK-BAWKBUKBUKBUK” while my head’s in the fridge.

“No no no no NO, dammit,” I say, dropping ice in the general direction of my glass. Two cubes make it, one lands in my fuzzy slipper as I slap the lock off of my phone. It’s the call-off message.

This makes a solid week that I haven’t worked. I spend one week snowed into work, and then nothing.

With nothing else to do, I get up and get ready to run errands.

The first trip is to the grocery store. The pharmacy’s in there too. When I get there, there’s two problems:

  1. since it took me so long to raise money to get the prescriptions filled, it’s going to have to be done again, and could I wait twenty minutes please, and
  2. there’s a couple problems with a couple medications, namely that a few aren’t quite covered and one of them is being flat out refused, despite that I need it to combat the extreme TWITCH one of the others has given me.

Fast forward about half an hour, and I’ve plopped $27.71 on medicine.

Food stamps don’t cover everything—if you’re not buying shelf-stable things and going fresh you have to buy things on the fly every once in a while. Today was one of those runs. That ran me $16.09—but luckily it’s for an ingredient that lasts for a month or so.

So today I’m under $43.80.

Luckily, my pops came through with a favor, and spotted me $86. That puts me on the POSITIVE side at $42.20…or, basically where I started when I woke up this morning, if you count the dollar I found in a shoe when I got home.

There’s a minor problem with my insurance that I’m going to have to look into. On top of that, Paypal is being moderately slow about getting the transfers done. We’re hoping that at least SOME of it’s done by payday—even if it isn’t, I’ll SQUEAK past on Thursday for the rent. (Lights can slide by until February…it wouldn’t be the first time.)

…of course, then there’s one more problem that I forgot about. I’ve got a surgery to worry about. I forgot about the birth control in my arm. It’s due to come out. This is covered, but…my arm will be useless for work when that surgery happens! Now, I’ll put this to a ‘cross the bridge when I come to it,’ but…I. DON’T. LIKE. SURGERY. Granted, I like the clusterfuck that is my untreated hormone levels even less (I WAS disabled without it pretty much), but still. Knives that I don’t get to look at and go “ooh pretty” at, eeew.

…on the upside, my folks will finally shut up and stop trying to micromanage my ovaries when they find out the rod’s coming out next month. >.>;

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Let’s start with…well, how the hell does one describe THIS?


Yesterday I had a doctor’s appointment.

Yes, I realize it seems that I start every other entry with that phrase, but I have a lot of doctors, and therefore there are a lot of appointments to be had half of the time. And I have to work to keep them all straight sometimes. It’s a good thing that three of them are in the same building, or there would be some trouble. Anyway, the usual happened—poke, prod, measurements, weight’s high, blood pressure’s…actually, THAT was alarmingly low that day. We’re keeping an eye on that.

I’ve mentioned once or twice that there’s a problem with my system—peripheral neuropathy, that thing where your body’s nerves are just sort of fried, misfire, and in general HURT A LOT even without provocation. The problem is, we couldn’t figure out why it was happening, because I’m not diabetic. I don’t have rheumatoid arthritis. I don’t have MS. I don’t even have your basic pernicious anemia, the B12 deficiency that would ALSO cause the problems I’ve been putting up with.

The last few months have been a game of Dr. House—work with a list of ideas, throw ideas at the list, throw as many medications as my constitution will allow at it, and see if it will work. Everything that we did that approach with had some problems with it—the annoying one, the time we thought it was shingles (excuse me, the time we HOPED it was shingles), the medication gave me the worst nosebleeds, and I had to drop it like a hot potato. It was unpleasant. What was MORE unpleasant was the fact that it took three instances of elimination process—dropping everything else I was taking at the time—to uncover it.

*record scratch*

I don’t recommend that, especially if you’re on a crapton of head-meds. It will Fuck You Up if you don’t know what you’re doing.

*music resumes*

Anyway, back at the doctor’s office, I explain the NEW annoying crap that my system’s been doing, plus the return of the stomach ulcer and the havoc it’s wrought on my system in the interim. As I’m explaining the new neuropathy stuff, the doctor explains that Ulcer 2: Electric Bugaloo is because—LUCKY ME—I have severe IBS, and anything that could irritate my gut will therefore come with a free dose of the It Gets Worse trope. In my case, that means the ibuprofen that I had to take after the time I got shot wrecked my stomach a bit more hardcore than it would have otherwise. All I really can do right now is avoid any stomach irritants until it heals.

Oh, and THAT’S the good news.

Next thing that happens, doc orders me to stretch out on that cold table thing and starts prodding at places
To my shock, EVERYTHING IS RAW. (Especially the ulcer zone.) The bad leg goes twitchy when he gets to it, just like it did at the neurologist’s office, which I explain when he jumps—it’s a fairly violent twitchy, like if everything in the leg was a joint and he hit all of it at once with one of those reflex-hammer-things (I have no idea what those things are called).

It’s at this point that the doctor informs me that now we KNOW what we’re dealing with, and that there is no way my insurance is going to cover these medications.

“What are they?”

“Gabapentin, Neurontin, that sort of thing.”

Fuck, I think. “That sounds like fibro meds.”

“If I were you, I’d think about filing for partial disability, or medical, both if you can manage it.”

Fuck, I think again. “What if I did and it didn’t work?”

“Keep at it, make’em tired of seeing you, and as SOON as you even get a MAYBE,” he says, “get back in here, because if we can’t get this managed, it WILL get worse.”

“Ain’t gotta tell me twice.”

So, what Friday boils down to is this: the neuropathy diagnosis was an UNDER-diagnosis with a dose of optimism, hoping that it WASN’T worse than that. What we’re actually dealing with is fibromyalgia, which is a step ABOVE your garden-variety neuropathy—for one, it doesn’t take the diabeetus to show up. Medicine knows jack shit about it, or what causes it, or why it hits who it hits. It doesn’t kill, but boy will it make your life hell.

But there is an upside:

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