Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Keep in mind I'm fuckin' nuts, okay?
And I'm blaming it on my thyroid for now. But it's terribly frustrating. Side effects that started out orgasmic have suddenly metamorphed into a flaming skin rash and a numb tongue (Tweren't the lollipops and Mr. Goodbars a'tall). I see my doc tomorrow, but in the meantime, I'm fucking miserable and seriously depressed, to boot. I'm trying to remind myself to be gentle with myself, but it's so hard. And you know, thanks for reminding me that you love me, because when a gal's feeling lousy and depressed and completely isolated, it's easy to forget such blatantly obvious truths. So, it's me who's so solly. . . . But I'm still crazy.
And rude. I know it's just mean to say I'm not looking forward to SF when I've orchestrated the whole trip, made myself the center of it, dragged you and Carlos into it to spend your hard-earned money and time with a bunch of hooligans (whom you'll love, by the way). We'll have a ball, no doubt; but right now it's hard to see that anything will be okay again, ever.
Mind you, a tweaked dose of TSH could make me a walking orgasm again. Which I'd prefer. Of course, now I realize that what I thought was orgasm might actually have been little seizures. Not good. And in fact, could freakin' kill me.
Which sometimes doesn't sound like such a terrible alternative, honestly. But then, there's depression for ya. The real problem is t'ain't nothin' sounds good or worthwhile: living, dying, working, sitting on my ass, dancing, dating, writing, not writing, here, there, running, standing still. Even potentially scoring a ticket to U2 doesn't thrill me the way it should. I guess that means this is serious.
Grrr.
And rude. I know it's just mean to say I'm not looking forward to SF when I've orchestrated the whole trip, made myself the center of it, dragged you and Carlos into it to spend your hard-earned money and time with a bunch of hooligans (whom you'll love, by the way). We'll have a ball, no doubt; but right now it's hard to see that anything will be okay again, ever.
Mind you, a tweaked dose of TSH could make me a walking orgasm again. Which I'd prefer. Of course, now I realize that what I thought was orgasm might actually have been little seizures. Not good. And in fact, could freakin' kill me.
Which sometimes doesn't sound like such a terrible alternative, honestly. But then, there's depression for ya. The real problem is t'ain't nothin' sounds good or worthwhile: living, dying, working, sitting on my ass, dancing, dating, writing, not writing, here, there, running, standing still. Even potentially scoring a ticket to U2 doesn't thrill me the way it should. I guess that means this is serious.
Grrr.
// posted by divine m @ 11:20 AM 
