Another cash panic…

10:31 PM.

The sudden call from the gastroenterologist was…less than welcome. That bill hanging over my head makes me more than a little nervous. I do not need my treatment cut off. So I impulsively, panickedly, set up a payment plan using money that I may not actually have. The impulse was not all folly–it was set something up or it goes into collection, my account goes into bad standing, and my health…I don’t want to think about it. I’ll take any help I can get.

I have a good feeling my money for payday is already spent, throwing the idea that I had for a business venture out the window.

Speaking of the window, there go the gunshots, and my meds are kicking in. Despite the terror that is the rent and this bill, I’ll sleep deep.

Gotta Hand It To Me???

I’ve developed a very annoying problem since stopping a couple meds in the last few months.

It began life as a plain ol’ twitch—the thumb on my left hand would just sort of tick-tock back and forth once in a while, and I’d just have to ignore it for a while until it stopped. For a while, that went away, and I figured I’d be done with the problem.

Except now I have a weirder, more painful problem.

Instead of a periodic tick-tock twitch in the thumb, now sometimes, the entire thumb—and sometimes, the whole damn hand—sometimes just…fists up.


I’ll be going about the usual business, when suddenly, there’ll be a series of painful stabbing sensations in the hand, and the thumb will just…snap into my palm, like I’m attempting to make a fist but a couple steps in the middle get missed. On bad days, the thing goes to the entire hand, and I could be in the middle of writing an entry—like this one—and the hand just slaps shut like a…hm. Uh.

Ya know, that simile was going somewhere at one point. The point is, the hand just suddenly goes WHAM shut, completely independent of me trying to do anything with it. In fact, in the course of writing this, the thumb has done that seven times, and the entire hand twice.

It’s gotten common enough that I routinely forget to bring it up to my doctor. You’d think “AUTO-FIST FUNCTION ON HAND ENABLED WITHOUT PERMISSION” would hit priority, but it slips my mind…until I’m doing something that requires the fine control on that hand and suddenly I’ve just squashed the thing because my hand’s turned into a fleshy mousetrap.

MOUSETRAP! THAT was the simile that I was trying to remember earlier. Ah-DOY.

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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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Content-related announcement.

Actual content–interesting things, 100 Things, challenges, fic, original content, basically me NOT being a reclusive dick–will return on Saturday, October 19th.

Why then?

That’s a day after I get back from my NEXT doctor’s appointment.

The fact is, things keep getting worse. My leg has flared to the point where it feels just like the beginning, the muscle having wasted to the point where it is visibly thinner than the other leg. My arms and legs are a searing, burning pain throughout half of the day, my eyes are a painful, scrapey mess, and–the most annoying thing right now–motherfucking ESTROGEN. My brain is so scrambled, it’s like the brainzaps are the norm now and sudden bursts of clarity are the brainzaps now. Friday, I’m hoping to get some answers. Right now, the act of physically positioning my body into positions that work to write is INCREDIBLY painful.

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Doctor, doctor, ain't got no news…yet

I know I’ve been a little antisocial lately, so here’s a friendly fennec fox to break the ice.

Anyway, I got to the doctor today, and told him that yes, I want the Topamax for my migraines because it’s making me functional; yes, I know that it’s not a good idea to take medicines prescribed to someone else; yes, I was taking the risk anyway because otherwise I was intentionally overdosing myself into a torpor to get a modicum of rest; and yes, I know there would be bloodwork involved and GUESS WHAT, I’m already fasting so come at me doc-bro.

I also explained the annoying as hell blisters that I’m getting in my mouth, the odd lesion/laceration that’s cut its way around and into my cheek outside in, the weird-ass blisters and raw areas, the total numbness that my feet and arms are getting, and the fact that three hours of last Saturday went missing. Oh, and the stupid knee, and waking up and my leg being as responsive as a log.

We’re looking at a couple forms of anemia to be the GOOD!bad news that we find. I say that because the OTHER thing that everything matches up with IS IN FACT LUPUS and we’re doing all this blood work to actively attempt to rule THAT out.

I’m thinking protein shake then bed.

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A series of mini-rant-updates:

Fitly Written:

Firstly: The next 100 Things post will be up sometime Friday evening. There is no guarantee that I will work that day, but there is no guarantee that I won’t either. In either case, there will be much work done with the upper body and I will need a GENEROUS nap before I do any writing. I didn’t work today, but I decided to work out today. *listens carefully* Ah, there’s the ever-present question:


Actually, thanks to my knee, it’s all I CAN do. I have the feeling that by the time June hits, I am going to be amusingly off-proportion.

Despite my crap leg, I have to try to stay in passable condition for working, and thus, I have to make sure I do a few things a week. Depending on how money is, this may include a few mall walks—I had the money to pay my rent and…that was it.


I was at work today picking up my scrawny little paycheck when I found out that there would be a Comic Con in my area in a very short time. It’s a little more than the usual price for Anime Central in Chicago, but the fact is that I might not be able to go for a reason completely irrelevant to money—my damn leg could sideline me before I get the chance to do anything else. In fact, not even the SIDEWALKS, at last check, were accessible worth a damn—I was gimpy as hell last year for the Distant Worlds event, and the steps were agony. If I’m lucky, the overflow will jam up the hotels to the point even our location’s full up.

(If you’re a con chaser, consider coming down/up—for one, Stan Lee’s gonna be at this one; for another, if you haven’t had St. Louis style pizza, you’ve GOTTA. The provel cheese may be a love-it-or-hate-it affair, but the crust—whoa, MAN, that buttery crispy thin crust is delicious.)

I used to be an adventurer like you, until I took a hotel to the knee

I’ll be perfectly honest with you guys: right now my pain is NOT managed. I’m out of the prescription I got at the initial injury, and the antispasmodic I take is nowhere near as effective as it used to be—which is to say it’s fine if I need to sleep, but it doesn’t do much beyond stopping the unrelated hand twitch (it MIGHT be related to the fact that it’s literally the same bottle as the last fill, stashed an squirreled away in case of such an emergency as this). …you probably have no idea how hard it is to type with one finger constantly going “twitchytwitchytwitch” every time you try and remember how the word pfefferneuse is spelled.

I’ve tried to climb stairs (HAHA NOPE) and the left knee just isn’t having it. For the first few hours of movement in the day, I’m pretty mobile, but it doesn’t take long for me to be reduced to dragging the thing around like some sort of dead weight—and the direction of the stairs, up versus down, makes no difference.

So my erratic presence is therefore explained. It’s going to be a while before I’m reliably present anywhere, as I focus on training my knee to stay in place while waiting to hear back from my doctors.

Best guess for acceptable management: Monday. Saturday at the earliest. I don’t have much in the way of painkillers—some off-brand Excedrin that may or may not be expired, a few borrowed naproxen tabs, a few prescription-strength ones whose potency and freshness are up for debate—I’m going to be pushing my luck here.

But hey, it could be worse. My leg hasn’t fallen off yet.

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As if I needed another reason to despise people.

So the new year begins and it’s going to be better than the first, right?


I began the year with a fucking misdemeanor.

I get on the bus and get a ticket—as ill luck would have it I don’t have a pass yet. So that’s $3 bucks spent right there to get home. To give you an idea how bad that is, it’s $6 a day to get to and from work. Assuming I work five days a week, that’s $120 a month if I don’t drop $72 on a bus pass. And this is saying ‘fuck-all’ to grocery runs and freelancing, or getting out of the house at all really.

So I’m on the bus and trying to get off when I get bumped once. I freeze up—it’s men who’ve bumped into me—and try to phase out of awareness of the situation, because it’d be bad to have a flare on the bus. I eventually get up the bus platform, flash my transfer, stand under the heat. Train’s running late.

I get bumped again. Again I try to zone out of it. The train shows up.


notice this guy, reflected in the glass. He’s looking WAY too hard at me. Young guy, obvious jailbait, wearing aluminum foil on his teeth in the imitation of a grill. I don’t like how much attention he’s paying to me, and my mind runs through a string of expletives. Bunch of other jailbait guys talking to him, his attention never seems to switch off of me. Bored and trying to get my mind off of the fact that there are TOO MANY DUDES on this car, I do a little earhustling. I overhear him mentioning he isn’t sure where his ticket came from, that he got it from ‘some girl.’

I remember being bumped.

I slide my hand into my pocket in search of my ticket.
Half of it is missing.
I look up the reflection and I see the missing piece.

He has it.

Fuck, I think.

Security picks NOW to patrol. As they catch the kid I demonstrate what the bottom half of a ticket is supposed to look like—with the other half of said ticket. Of course the halves match up.

“So, ‘some girl’ at the mall, huh?”

“WE DO NOT KNOW EACH OTHER,” both the kid who got hustled by my pickpocket and I say.

“Do I look like I associate with someone his age?” I add.

However by this point it’s too late to do much defending—the fact that he happens to have the back side of my ticket works against me. No amount of convincing is going to do anything, now that the ticket isn’t in one piece.

Insisting that we don’t know each other we get herded into the next stop’s security station.
The station is uncomfortably tiny. Every officer is male. Every officer is big. Every officer is also being a condescending ass when Jailbait and I insist that we don’t know each other from Adam.

The panic attack, luckily (or not) gets knocked off the rails right away when one of the officers calls me a liar outright.

There aren’t a lot of things that will knock me right out of a flare—but being called a fucking liar is one of them. Of course I object. Vociferously. I stop short of detailing the assorted parentage of the rent-a-cops in the room, but by the time I’m cut off—by an officer who DISREGARDS my request that he not approach at that angle—we’ve got our points across.

…and two tickets.

In retrospect Kid Jailbait got as screwed as I did—like I said, we’ve never fucking met, he’s jailbait, he ADMITTED that the two halves did in fact form a perfect match and he wasn’t sure where the person he got that half from got it, and neither of us has anything to gain from such a STUPID hustle.

But I still have thirty—wait, twenty-nine—days to pay off a fucking ticket now.

All because some DICK boosted two-thirds of my bus ticket.


2013, you suck.

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