there are innocent bystanders EVERYWHERE

So tomorrow I'm going to a convention. Like, an important one. Where people will probably show up in slacks. The last time I went to a con people showed up in their underwear and body paint and posed for pictures and I was kind of belligerent for, um, the entire thing. I sort of wanted to step it up for this one... you know, leave the rum at home and wear pants. Little things.

I was even going to wear slacks until I realized that I had to do laundry to do that, since I wear slacks for my something-like-work. I'd had a shit day that day, in the sense that in the middle of a lecture I was giving I started cramping up so hard if I were a lesser person (and I am NEVER a lesser person) I would have had to cry. So I figured I still had clean capris, and that meant I wouldn't be wandering around in my panties, and that's about as good as it's going to get for these people anyway.

But I knew I still had things to do, which involved shopping. My only painkiller available to me right now is a little prescription for 'Percocet,' a bottle of close to 200 pills that I got as a gifty when I had a sunburn so severe I kept throwing up and couldn't get up to do so into the toilet. I figured my cramps, while not on that level, were still pretty bad. Blinded by pain, I took two.

Vicodin is a painkiller that just sort of makes me sleepy and does nothing to actually kill the pain. Percocet, on the other hand, not only makes the pain STFU and GTFO but I then feel the urge to giggle for about two hours and feel the carpet.

I believe the kids nowadays are calling that 'blitzed out of their mind.'

Remember, I still had things to do. This involved driving approximately five minutes, pulling into a parking lot, and the full effect of the pills hitting me while pulling into a spot.

I started frantically IMing with my friend on my space phone, having a mild panic attack as I remembered how to blink. I knew I was there to buy a shirt for my Halloween costume but I wasn't quite sure how to go about doing that. I still have no idea how potheads function if this is their life:

Me: I think I can make it into Ross.
Her: Alright, be safe...
Me: Fuck. I'm here. There are so many goddamn shirts.
Her: Take it one step at a time.
Her: How high ARE you?
Me: I can talk with you. And I can recognize the color blue. That is the level of my functioning atm.
Her: ...this is so very entertaining.
Me: Shit, where am I? Please tell me you know. There are shoes everywhere. I don't think I wanted shoes.

I did manage to find shirts of a sort. I also found gloves, pillows, the roof, and random strangers who spoke French. I think. At one point I sat down on a pillow and just stared, hoping a kind stranger would help me out. No such luck, I mean, I was in a discount store.

I did make it home. Driving through a parking lot while high? Jesus H. Christ there are at least five times more people around when you're high. And also it was 'drive like an asshole' day. Nobody told me, and it really sucks to be confused and trippin' balls. But I'm alive.

And sometimes it's the little victories you have to focus on.

Do I have to have a sexuality? Can't I just be sexual?

So in all honestly, when I spewed this word vomit onto my keyboard I was kinda emo about being stood up for a date that might've made me question my sexuality but I wasn't in danger so I just deleted that shit and I want to replace it with this:

When it comes down to it, after so many drinks, gender is just a number.

One vodka tonic, hold the medication

I think I just had my first panic attack.

Or, rather, anxiety attack mixed with panic mixed with 'get me the fuck out of here.' I've had anxiety attacks before due to my medication. When I started taking atenolol I felt randomly like I was being choked and got short of breath. I also had the strangest nightmares, but that's neither here nor there.

But today in sign language, I just felt the overwhelming urge to cry. Like, hyperventilate, freak out, leave, go sob myself into a little ball of self-loathing for no apparent reason. It was close. I stared at my desk and hated that the class made everybody so visible to everybody else.

I... am really good at hiding it. My emotions, my feeling. Like, A+ actor. All I needed was to use that 10 minute break to hyperventilate around the corner and sob a little and I was good until the end of class. Then, repeat.

Seriously, there is a beautiful little cove around the way from that class that's pretty much totally closed off right now due to construction, and it has a running fountain and privacy and. Now my favorite hyperventilating spot.

I don't know if this is hormones. I think it's that class. Why? Because we were supposed to get into groups and do group projects. I haven't. I have no idea why I'm suddenly too shy to ask people if I can hang out with them to do the projects, but I literally freeze up and 'forget' and... I've already missed turning in one lab report, in danger of missing two and a questions paper. There is absolutely no reason for me to be afraid of these people. For one, I'm social. I hang out with people. I love company and talking. I have several of these individual's phone numbers.

The only thing stopping me is this paranoid little feeling that although they are my friends, they are MORE each other's friends. That although I am included, I am also excluded in a very fundamental way.

I DON'T EVEN KNOW.

Unlike the title suggests, I am not curing my problems with alcohol. No worries. It's just weird for me to be anxious about anything social. I typically just jump right in and start talking about dead baby jokes and nipples.

I just need to figure this out before I settle for a C in sign class because I can't do any group assignments.

I am NOT a dog person

Dogs have not gotten this memo.

I agreed to house/petsit for a family friend, because although he's a dumbass and lost me over 200 grand (I wish I was kidding) he did do a lot in the process.

Yet this is making me bitter.

I have to get up at 5:30 am so I can take care of his animals and get home in time to take a shower (thus catering to my OCD). I'm then going to work or school, and not coming home at all until 9:30 pm at the earliest (my classes get out at 8:45). After walking the dogs, feeding them, picking up poop, and making my own dinner, I am finally ready for bed at 11:30 pm.

At which point I have homework, as a full time student and part-time teacher.

And when I finally do get to sleep, the dogs either sit at the foot of my bed and lick their personals so loudly it wakes me up (I have slept through earthquakes, fire alarms, thunderstorms, and being kicked in the neck, so this is defs saying something) or stay outside and whine the whole night. They act like locking them out of my immediate presence is the equivalent of kicking a baby. And giving it AIDS.

Also, not a dog person. Did I mention this? They are loud, one of them is obsessed with licking me, and they both follow me around when I'm there like kibbles is going to shoot out my ass (incidentally, their dog food? SMELLS LIKE INFECTED ASS, and I have to dig around to get to the food at the bottom of a huge bag and I get the smell on my arm and then start hating my life). They are also bigger than me, and one likes jumping and gnawing on me when he's excited. Hint: apparently moving my arms is cause for excitement. Or, if I am being still, blinking does the trick.

I haven't slept properly in three days. I am NOT good with no sleep. I smell blood and get dizzy when I stand. This has 100% messed up my schedule and I've also missed taking my heart medication three days in a row. I will not remember posting this. The guy already knows that I'm never doing this again when he gets back, but I still have to last until Wednesday.

Over a week away.

Please kill me now. If I die in the house the slobbering monsters will eat my body and that's just not the way I saw myself going.

Forsooth, fair maiden

My friend: "Wouldst thou care to frequent an establishment for the purpose of alcohol consumption with my sisters and I upon the eve?"

Me: "I would be positively delighted, my love."

Basically, my friends know how to cheer me up. My health care might be canceled (which is okay, what with my heart condition and all), I have to housesit at an old guy's house that includes taking care of 3 large, untrained dogs, and my taxes just became 50 times more complicated. Fuck this noise. The cure? ALCOHOL.

What the hell, day?

Today I fed a cat Valium, parked in a semi-flooded lot, locked myself in a room with a random couple dozen or so colorful children's tricycles, and gutpunched myself on a gate so hard I stopped breathing for a minute or so.

The only clarification I feel like giving is that the tricycles were for whatever reason behind the physics and chemistry classrooms, and the gate was one of those bar things that they open or close in front of parking lots. And that spot is red and swollen. I hope I'm not going to die.

Let's see if this day can top that. *drops mic*

EDIT:

I tried to pay for a parking pass online for the college, and my credit card wasn't working. Wondering why, I went to go check my bank account and found that the company that overcharged me for an oil change by about $40 had double-charged my credit card, on top of that. So a sudden $200 was gone (yes, they overcharged me, but my car wasn't going anywhere until I got that oil change). I need to call them up, but in the meantime I had to pay for ANOTHER parking pass today.

And then I walked out and there was a Worry doll on my porch. She was tied to a string and the whole thing was rather voodoo-esque so that kind of freaked me out.

And I busted my lip open a while ago, and it's not healing and it looks really gross.

I feel like I got into a bar fight.

Oil tastes like regret

Oh Christ on a cracker, life's been just going on and on and on. I look at it and go "Is it time to sleep yet?" Life just laughs and shits in my oil filter. My car broke down this morning on the way to the high school, right when I needed it to work properly, so that was a reference to getting my oil changed. FINALLY.

Sorry, but every memory of oil changing is a good one, which makes the whole process bittersweet. So thinking about my long overdue oil change sort of made me nauseous, mechanic-man, for reasons you cannot explain. So I'll just blame this on my mother and you'll charge me out the ass. LESSON LEARNED. But now that my grad application (for a teaching credential) is in, let us breath a small sigh of relief. I can focus on the little things. Like getting to bed at a decent hour. For now.

However, at this very moment, I am unable to get to sleep. Mostly because I am learning ASL (American Sign Language) and my friend thought it was a marvelous idea to take me to Deaf coffee, a Deaf event, at 11 pm, so the caffeine-sensitive chick can load up and stay awake until 4 am before her Saturday guitar class. So now my mind is wandering and I think, hey. I want to be a guy.

No, I'm not transgender. I am very firmly a girl. I wear makeup, I do my hair, I use soap in the shower. On occasion, after looking in all directions to make sure nobody is around, I frolic the fuck out of some flowers. Let's just say, if I were to suddenly be a guy, I would be gayer than a handbag full of rainbows.

But at the same time, I feel physically, I'm more gender fluid. Honestly, if I were to wake up with a penis sans boobs, my biggest reaction would probably be something along the lines of "Whoo! I don't have to shave my legs anymore!" Followed very closely by "oh my god I can pee standing up sweet Jesus." It would be nice.

But I could settle for looking more androgynous. If I were to ever want to look like a guy... no dice. I can't cut my hair short (or I get a Jew fro made of curls and frizz), my face is too ugly-femme (though my jaw is pretty wide), and... well. My meatsacks? They're not going anywhere. No amount of gauze in the world can tie these puppies down without serious damage in the chesticulars.

I wanna be skinny with straight hair and a more vague face, so I can on occasion tie down the sweatermeat and cut my hair short (I would kill for Asian straight black hair) and go as a girly guy. Or a boyish girl. This would be amazing.

And so not going to happen, ever. But for cereal, turning into this creature of androgyny (because androgynous people? HOT) would be my first wish for the genie I shall discover. Oh, you plan that shit out too. Don't deny it.

But if you wish for flying, LAME.

My mouth hasn't hurt this bad since high school

Of course I start this shit off with a blowjob joke. It's funny.

Oh god oral surgery is like the suckiest thing EVER. Besides AIDS. And like a list of other things that suck worse.

But that day was pretty sucky in and of itself. I did the surgery and very distinctly heard the dentist tell his assistant that they were "going to go for broke. Do the best we can for her." Because apparently MY MOUTH FAILS. I just injured a gumline for a lower front tooth and the frenulum (little flap of skin that connects lip to gums) was just making it worse. So they nicked the sucker off and did a skin graft from the roof of my mouth to the tooth. They didn't mention stitches were involved but there you go. DENTISTS LIE.

And for that trouble I got ibuprofen and a gold star. A metaphorical one. He didn't give me an actual gold star.

ALL LIES.

Then when I was loopy and tried to drive home I nearly ran into a wall because once more, I performed the trick where I confuse brake and gas pedal. A bad idea in most situations, but my lysdexia is particularly nerve-wracking when coming down from the shock of seeing your blood everywhere.

Then two days later I ripped the graft off.

I RIPPED THE GRAFT OFF.

I RIPPED THE MOTHERFUCKING GRAFT THE FUCK OFF.

Basically I need to go in again later to redo the graft and it sucks and I gotta slap a bitch. So close to my other surgery. Hate.

Thus ends this edition of 'your life is better than mine'! Tune in next week when I get heart surgery, make a joke while under local anesthesia, and cause a surgeon to nick an artery. Headline: 'Girl killed by dead baby joke.'

Now let's make like a dead baby and hit the road.

If this post was censored it'd just be one long 'beep'

You know, I never used to hate Friday the thirteenth's. Mostly because I'm not a superstitious asshole. Not calling all superstitious people assholes, except I am, because superstition is stupid.

Especially that one. A number isn't gonna kill you, bitches. Suck it up. But we still fail to have thirteenth floors and room number skip the dreaded one-three, so apparently the world needs to invest in a backbone. Right after we fix the economy.

What REALLY pisses me off is that the number can ruin a perfectly good Friday. Back in the day it was an unlucky day (thus, FRIDAY the thirteenth) but right now it is the day where you're like fuck yeah, it's the weekend, and the afternoon is like more time off. It's an amazing day and thirteen just pissed all over it. Especially since back in high school I had to listen to all the fuckwads talk about how thirteen is actually their lucky number because of course nobody else has ever thought of that ever, whore.

I don't fall for superstition. I couldn't care less about walking under ladders unless they look old and someone's on them, I don't break mirrors cuz that shit is expensive and hard to clean up, and I've owned (and currently own) black cats, which have been the best cats I've owned. Mostly. On Friday 13th I couldn't care less, just went around my business. I usually wouldn't notice, though, until someone went "LOL IT'S FRIDAY THE 13TH." It was really just another day. Nothing bad happened to me on them, ever.

Today, actually, was alright. I talked with a boy who wasn't doing his work in the school project and got him to grow a pair for almost five minutes, some of the kids were pretty cool, last night I went clubbing and I only overslept a little this morning, and I just had a delicious popsicle. But it was a sucky day.

Mostly because this year, on a Friday the 13th, my dad died.




So quite frankly little Miss Bitch could just shut the fuck UP about being tired from being on the wrestling team and he can't plant flowers because that's GIRL'S work, his life is SO HARD. Jesus. If whining was electricity I'd be RICH.