Cardiac.

Three in the godsdamn AM.

Current music 🎶 : Avenue of Shapes— Robin Guthrie and Harold Budd


I can’t sleep.

Today at the doctor’s office, I walked in looking for an answer to the narcolepsy and blood sugar episodes that have been growing more and more frequent and disruptive. When I described just a few of them, and exactly how they manifested — the ones that came on when I was feeling at my most wide awake especially bugged me — I saw a look of intense concern flash across my doctor’s face.

It’s never a good thing when your doctor loses his poker face.

He broke out his stethoscope then, and instructed me to do the deep breathing thing.

After this, he told me that this did not sound like narcolepsy OR blood sugar — though yes, my hypoglycemia is being a problematic little bitch. (My words.)

This is cardiac.

“… oh.”

Everything between that and “You’ll need to call the hospital to arrange to pick up a monitor to wear for a few days” is a complete fucking blank. I’ve been in shock since 4:30.

I’m supposed to be up for work in two hours.

Fuck.

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The BDD Demon.

Today, my BDD was out in full force.

Sitting on the bus, a voice in my head repeated: “Fattie. Fattie. What happened? You were so good last week. One piece of toast a day! You can do it again! Maybe half! Do you want to stay like this? Fattie? Look at yourself. Fattie.”

It was all I could do to not scream “SHUT UP!” at the voice in my head.

The trigger?

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shiny surface.

There is a reason why I don’t own a mirror big enough to see my body.

It took some mental wrangling to get myself to eat when I got home. Hell, I’m still hungry. But I’m also trying to shut that voice up again so I can eat in peace.

I mean, I was too sick to eat last week and the voice HEAPS PRAISE on that

It’s not easy. It’s not simple.

But it’s everyday.

… I better eat so I won’t get sick again.

“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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