Introverted Extrovert

That sounds like a contradiction in terms, really, doesn't it? It's not. I know someone who absolutely suits that description right down to the ground... As a matter of fact, I know *2* people, who can talk for hours, without revealing any personal information about themselves at all; but I'm only talking about one of them today.

His name is... well, Duncan, for the purposes of this blog. Everyone who reads this knows what his name really is, but fuck it. I said everyone's having a fake name, and they are, and if he doesn't like his, he can sit on a tack. Can't you, Duncan? So ner.

Duncan, as we are calling him, can talk for hours on virtually any subject you suggest--my personal favourites are the mathematical properties of circles/triangles, powers of two, and how beautiful and efficient his code is/what a code-breaking ninja he is--but ask him for some personal details about his childhood, or his family, or how he feels about himself, and boy howdy, does he clam up; then, of course, he goes back to interesting, factual, meaningless chatter. He'd even give my sister, Jessica-I-can-talk-for-hours-about-anything-except-what's-really-on-my-mind-Rabbit, a serious run for her money. Occasionally, I refer to him as 'the Waffle,' both due to his propensity for doing just that (blah blah blah) and also, because it's the phonetic pronunciation of the acronym my ex occasionally applies to him (WFL--Wallet From Leeds).

He's lovely. He's absolutely lovely. But he has, I think, no real idea how to express the darker aspects of his personality, without someone to help him explore those sides of himself. No word of a jest, I am the perfect person to help anyone discover what's really floating around, underneath the surface of themselves. I have a million and one personal, probing, largely inappropriate questions, and no shame or fear in asking them. I sometimes (not always, not nearly, but sometimes) see the questions that need to be asked, and even if I *don't* know the right questions, I am unafraid of the answers.

My Duncan needs to be asked questions, sometimes; and they're not even that hard to work out. I've never met a man who's more inclined to wear his emotions (if not his thoughts) on his sleeve/in his voice/across his face. I don't see how more people haven't devoted days/weeks/months of their lives, to asking him about all the things he *doesn't* say. But it doesn't matter, anymore. Now, he has me, and I'll never quit stalking, and studying, and collating, and cataloguing the Data of Duncan.

I will learn him. I will know him. He can't waffle enough, to keep me from reaching what's underneath all his nonsensical, playful, charming, adorable bullshit.

Drugs are BAD

And some of them are not even tasty. And they are not even drugs, either.

They are hormones.

I would like to apologise in advance, for the fact that I won't be around blogging as much, over the next little while. I have been fitted with an instrument of torture known as the Mirena Coil. This device, although apparently suitable for preventing pregnancy without the need for smelly uncomfortable things like condoms, has one un-redeeming feature that can only be overlooked at one's peril...

It contains *pregnancy* hormones.

Arrrrghhhhhh!

How did I miss this? How could I not have realised, when they said, 'progesterone' in my pre-surgery assessment, that that is the very name of the very hormone that made me VERY ILL AND UNPLEASANT for, oh, about 8 months at a stretch, twice in the last 4 years. How did that word, with its horrible connotations and sinister implications, just fly right past me and not even set off a single alarm?

'P' is for 'progesterone.' 'P' is for 'pregnancy.'

'P' is for 'pillock.'

I'm honestly forced to go down the road of blaming myself for this mess; and mess it is. I am tired, sore, itchy, my legs have begun swelling periodically, my body temperature's all over the place, and my skin looks like it did when I was 17 (that's not young and smooth, that's covered in acne and oily patches, in case you're wondering). I have no patience and less control over when I burst into tears, and my ever-present anxiety is continually threatening to upgrade itself to a full-blown panic attack. I can't stop eating, I'm putting on weight--not entirely unexpected, that second bit, when you take into account the first bit--and I'm actually slightly constipated.

And my left breast hurts. Just the left one. So instead of thinking it's hormone-related, I jump straight to OMG-what-if-it's-cancer.

And then I DO have a panic attack.

FFS. Even I think this is all getting old. If it keeps hurting, I'll just chop it off and feed it to my cat. It's not like I need it for anything. I'm not planning on having any more kids, after all, and nobody wants to have sex when they're under the influence of prego-hormone.

ROFL. That is a blatant lie. The *worst* thing about being pregnant, is the constant desire to have sex, juxtaposed with the sickening realisation that nobody wants to fuck you, ever, because you look like a cow and you act like a hungry crocodile.

But maybe. Just maybe. Maybe this time, since I'm not actually shaped like a balloon, and my moodswings are presumably not going to get any worse than they are right now (as opposed to in actual pregnancy, when they start off as scary and progress to terrifying in about a month) maybe, just maybe, I'll actually have *more* sex, due to the wonders of this unique implement. I'll have to hope for that, and be thankful for silver linings--silver linings like, for example, the fact that you can't get pregnant if your body thinks you already are.

Cunning. Cunning, and wretched.

Oh, Mirena Coil. Why do you torment me so?

Blue (If I Was Green I Would Die)...

Do you ever feel like you're just wasting your time?

I do, sometimes. And sadly, I am not a patient woman. There's only so much time I *will* waste, before calling it a day and moving the fuck on with my life.

It's a funny thing. This time of year always hits me the same way--the end (of said year) is nigh, what have I accomplished, if I'm going to get anything done I'd best get doing it. It doesn't help that my birthday's just around the proverbial corner.

26. I'll be 26 in a few weeks. I know it's not a milestone of any real significance, but it feels like it is... my mother was 26 when she had her first child, namely, me. I have 2 kids already. Score? Result? Hazaa? Because, what, there's some sort of global competition running? If there is, well, I'm not doing any better than most of the other entrants. Most people who have a kid go on to have another one, and most of their offspring are probably higher-functioning than mine seem to be.

That's not me being nasty. My babies are beautiful, wonderful, fun individuals, and I am thankful every day for their amazing personalities. From an efficiency standpoint, however, I am forced to concede that my eldest is somewhat less productive than your average child, and my youngest shows similar traits. Not that babies are *meant* to be efficient. They're almost frivolous, really, in their small, cute helplessness and general inability to do anything useful. But they are supposed to grow into slightly more purposeful versions of themselves.

Or. You know. Not.

Look at me, after all. What discernible purpose do I have? Now that's a question for the ages, that is... what do I do? Raise isolated children, in my little, isolated world? Maintain my own amazing standard of aloneness? Avoid the telephone? Hide offline on MSN all day? Never leave the house? When's the last time I actually DID anything of use?

I am really good at being a nice person. I'm not unfailingly nice, but I am better at being caring and/or compassionate than a lot of people are, and that's a great thing to be good at. That is, in theory, an excellent purpose; to make the world a nicer place.

But what good is it, if I never *see* anyone?

Drugs are Good

And they are tasty.

I managed to spill scalding coffee between my legs this weekend, and THANK GOD for my hypochondria and miser's-purse-of-a-cervix--due to my recent hysteroscopy/hormone coil insertion, I had about 400 mg of codeine with which to ease my pain.

And it did.

I'm now left with the rather unpleasant knowledge, however, that all joking aside, I'm starting to get to the point where I like being high more than I like being sober. When you stroll into your local doctors' office, and you realise there's even a very small part of you that's *glad* you poured boiling coffee all over yourself because it just *might* lead to the gift of narcotics, it's probably also time to realise you've got the beginnings of a problem.

Of course, it's likely I'm (as usual) overreacting. I was in a great deal of pain, and my codeine use was well within the recommended amounts. In spite of the date of this blog entry--which I began on Sunday evening, lol, no doubt while slightly incapacitated--I am actually writing *this* line on Tuesday the 22nd, and I've not only had less codeine yesterday than on Sunday, but I've managed not to take any today, because I'm not in serious pain right now.

I think only taking prescription painkillers when they're A) prescribed to you, and B) you're actually in pain, is a reasonable guideline, really, don't you? So as long as I stick to that, I'll be fine. And the reason I'm so nervous isn't even... I mean... it's not to do with me, really.

I had a grandmother. I had 2, actually, in the same way as most people, but 1... she had something like 11 stomach surgeries in the 60s and 70s, and she wound up addicted to a plethora of narcotic substances... she died, is my point, really. She wasn't young, but she sure as shit wasn't old, and she died. And I miss her.

I don't want anyone to miss me, because I fucked my pancreas/liver/kidneys/pick the organ of your choice, and I died 30 years earlier than I should have. I mean it's one thing to eat fried food occasionally, and overindulge on sweets or alcohol from time to time, but... no one should inundate their body with *that* level of Class A substances. Not that I'm sure codeine is a Class A substance--it's pretty mild, for a morphia derivative--but you take my point. It's strong enough. It's not *good* for my internal organs. And it constipates me, quite seriously (and then my tummy hurts and it's bad and I need more codeine... haha). And too much of my taking codeine for fun, and I'll need to move on to something stronger, and I *really* don't want to get to the place where I start asking my friends and family members if they've got some OxyContin/Percocet/Methadose spare.

And. I kind of *am* in that place. At least some days. And what does that tell you?

As much as we all love better living through pharmaceuticals, I think it's time that we strive to be high on life, instead.

Birthdays

There are a few coming up.

I have some stuff to buy. Cards, maybe a small gift or two, you know. That sort of thing. But there is the teensiest, tiniest problem, with this whole gift-purchasing idea:

What do you get your ex-husband for his birthday? Ideas suggest themselves, but I'm not sure how good they are... a card? A multi-pack of Durex? A yearly subscription to Playboy? It all seems a bit too little, for a man I spent 8+ years with, and at the same time, it's a bit too much. I am left with no genuinely good ideas, and that's not even the worst bit. Even worse than buying for my ex-husband, it's his mother's birthday this month as well. Now really, what DO you get your, I guess 'ex' mother-in-law? Seeing as she's your ex-husband's actual mother, does she even *want* anything from you? Or will it be returned un-opened? Thrown straight in the bin? Burned, as part of a voodoo ritual, in the garden? And how much is too much, to spend on a gift that you're actually fairly certain won't be welcome?

I'm thinking I'll go with a card, on both fronts. Easy to find, versatile, personal, and friendly, all without crossing any kind of weird line.

Not that there's a line on my side, really. I want us all to get along, and be groovy-groovy friends, and send each other Christmas and birthday cards and even small presents when the occasion warrants. But there's a suspicion, sneakily creeping around at the back of my mind, that that might be asking too much (at least for now).

But hey. Maybe next year, yeah?

The Daily Blog

More to come later. Maybe a rant. We'll see.

Right. Well. Here we are. I don't particularly feel like ranting--I do feel a bit pensive, though.

Do you ever stop and look at your life, and just go a bit... '....what?...' ? (All the improperly used ellipses points are meant to indicate long, thoughtful pauses, by the way.) Sometimes, I wake up and I look around at what's in my life, and what's not, and it's not that I'm unhappy so much as... bewildered.

In my heart of hearts, in the innermost part of me, I am still 4,000 miles away from home. In the place where I am most myself, in the thoughts that occur without any kind of prompting or personal agenda, I am a shy 17-year-old with bigger dreams than abilities, and I am just waiting for my life to begin. I don't know how I got to this point, and I don't know where I'm going. I've made some friends and I intend to make some more, and we're all gonna have a groovy time, I hope--but beyond that, some days, I feel like I don't have a clue.

What do I want? What do I need? What am I going to do next?

Like the Tootsie Pop commercial, the world may never know.

And *I* sure as shit don't.

Kiddlywinks

I have 2. I don't know what to say about them, aside from the fact that they're awesome.

I have a daughter. She is like a snowstorm, all howling wind and biting cold and natural ferocity; and then, she's like a frozen lake, so still and patient and lifeless-seeming you can hardly believe she's breathing; and then, if she smiles or laughs, she's like the sun, and she thaws herself and the entire room in one burst of warmth, and no one can resist her quiet, amused smirk and sideways glance.

And I also have a son. He is all sweetness and light, a cheeky, cheery ray of toothy, smiley goodness, a greeting for everyone who walks through the door, and just enough energy, force, drive, to accomplish everything he sets his mind to. And then, if his tiny baby will is thwarted, he is made of sadness--great fat tears, rolling down his face like a waterfall, while he sobs as if his heart has shattered.

My kids. They are so beautiful. So unique, and funny, and special, and playful, and sweet, and clever, and pleasant, and just plain fun. I love them more than I ever realised was possible, in a way that I didn't really realise was possible, before they got here.

It's so scary, though. Terrifying. What if something happened to one of them? I can't even think it. My heart might stop, from fear alone. Everything they do, each new milestone they hit, is a cause for celebration, and panic. My eldest is at nursery now--3 hours every day, in the company of randoms, where I can't watch her, look out for her, take care of her. My youngest is walking, mostly across the couch--every time he falls, every time he tries to climb onto the windowsill, my stomach jumps up into my mouth.

I read in a book (the book wasn't even about kids/progeny/breeding, it was a one-paragraph conversation amid 300 pages of other topics) the statement by one of the character's that she'd never had kids because she, 'couldn't handle that kind of fear.' The author of the book must have children, to have been able to create a character with such a concisely-expressed, deeply-felt opinion on procreation.

I don't understand why it should be this way. How can the most wonderful thing you've ever done, cause you more fear and distress and pain than anything else in your entire life? My kids are so beautiful, and I love them so much. How *can* it be, that that equates to abject terror, as often as not? I'm not complaining. I'm not wishing things were different. I'm happy to worry over my kids, as much or even more than I worry about myself. I just... like all parents, I wish there were more guarantees. I wish I could know that they'd be safe, and happy, and healthy, and long-lived, and fulfilled.

My advice to anyone who's thinking about having children, is to make absolutely certain you have the emotional strength and resilience you'll need, before you even start trying.

Random Poetry?

It's not random at all. But I feel like posting a bit of poetry, and so I shall.

Pop Culture Love

Love: having the time of your life.
A movie told me so
And movies never lie.
You: more fun than a monkey-filled barrel,
Than dancing in the rain,
Or singing Christmas carols.

Love: compromise, that's not;
When you're happy doing what you should
To keep the thing you've got.
Me: a little bit reformed, remade.
The only boy I chase is you;
A light to foil my shade.

Love: making a whole, from 2 parts.
You, completing me;
Where do I start?
We: almost, less like 2; more 1.
And as the poets say,
We've only just begun.

It's been a sappy couple of days, and it may continue... we're gearing up for the holidays, the end of the year, now. I'd rather the year finished on a happier note, than not.

And I have so much love, sometimes, it just has to come bursting out of me. I don't mean love for any one person, although I do like to focus on one, for the purposes of blog entries and poems and the like; but primarily, the love that I feel is just the overwhelming love that I have for all of you, for everyone I love, for all my family members and friends (the two terms are not mutually exclusive by any means--they say friends are the family you choose for yourself, but if I'd had a choice, I'd have the same family I've got now, thanks, and they *are* my friends).

And, in keeping with the saying I've just quoted, my friends are as good as family.

I wouldn't trade any of you for anyone else's friends.

I love you, plural.

And I love *you*, singular. You know who you are.

D.I.Y

This is not an entry about do-it-yourself home renovation projects. It is, rather, an entry about a different acronym (or differing words, for the same acronym?). Either way, today's comments are not about my house, but rather, about my boyfriend.

The first thing I have to do, however, is give him a fake name, just like everybody else. Except my sister's boyfriend, who has been referred to by his actual name. Actually, I'm going to go change that. Be right back.

Ah. Much better. According to me, my sister's boyfriend is called Norbert.

ROFL.

And MY boyfriend shall henceforth be known--for the purposes of this blog, anyway--as Duncan. My boyfriend. Duncan. Like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but gayer (sorry Duncan). And so, onto today's acronymous title--Duncan Is Yummy.

:)

Right, I can actually stop there, if you guys want. What do you think? Shall I stop there? No, I think I'll keep going. I feel like being a bit nice today, mostly (but not entirely) because I've been a bit of a bitch over the weekend. In the interests of fairness/diplomacy/not boring to tears *everyone* who reads this, I shall limit myself to a short mention of the first 5 yummy features of, hehe, Duncan, which occur to me.

Right. My very first thought. His smile *smiles, as usual, every time she pictures it* He has a lovely, almost shy, slightly crooked smile; it's almost the opposite of the way everyone in my house smiles. Some people smile instantly, broadly, with their whole face--usually me, and usually the kiddlywinks, smile like that. My boyfriend's smile is, uncharacteristically for him, a more subtle affair; if he smiles properly, a full-faced grin, he's probably not smiling so much as laughing, and smiling by default. If he's simply smiling, though, it's a quiet little smile, the barest lifting of the left side of his slender pink mouth, a glimmer of small straight teeth and a hint of softness in eyes the colour of Brazilian blue apatite.

His eyes are the colour of Hugh Laurie's, actually, if that description works better for some of you. Gemstone blue, with gold and chocolate framing the pupils, little lightning bolts of contrast, to make the blue even bluer--eyes like wild forget-me-nots, sunshine-yellow centres surrounded by a burst of English summer sky (as opposed to a summer sky where I'm from, where the heat and fire of the sun bleaches the sky to a pale, washed-out remnant of the glory that was the winter sky). His eyes are not dark enough to be sapphires, or brilliant enough to be diamonds, or uncertain enough to be turquoise; they are blue, blue, blue, and only as bright as they are soft.

I think that counts as two things, and it's goes against my principles to have so much about Duncan's physical attributes, without mentioning the things that really count (although smile, well, that was kinda half-and-half, I like the way it looks because of what it implies, if you see what I mean). But. However. Moving on to something that matters a little more.

He is so nice. I know everybody says nice guys finish last (well of course they do, after their partner's gone half a dozen times) but all double-entendre-ing aside, sometimes, genuinely nice guys don't get the credit they deserve. Mind you, in my entire life, I've met about... well, I've just counted up 4, and 1 of them's a stretch. Of those 4, 1 *may* be married: the rest are currently single, or were single when I met them. I *love* nice boys. But genuinely nice--so nice you really don't like hurting people, so nice you find it easier to let something go than hold a grudge, nice without compromising the moral fibre that it takes to have a backbone and some principles--that kind of nice is exceptionally rare. I mean, most men who call themselves nice, are assholes masquerading as decent fellas, and they deserve what they get; but actually, they stand a fair chance with girls. It's the absolute angels among men, who get trampled all over. Or, no. They just get ignored. And finally, one day, something snaps inside them, and they either give up entirely on finding anyone, or decide to settle for the next thing that comes along (whatever it is) or, worst option of all, they turn into complete bastards. Bitter, unhappy, lonely little whinges, probably with a twitch and a hygiene problem.

Not my boyfriend. I found him in time. He has been unaltered, by the wretchedness of this world. He still *feels* things, as if he were a child, or an innocent. He's shiny, bright, sweet, clean. He is nice, nice, nice, his soul is as nice as his eyes are blue, and I love him if for no other reason than the fact that there's not one truly nasty, gleefully cruel bone in his entire body.

Right, 2 reasons to go, and it's not that I'm running out, it's that it's difficult to narrow it down at this stage...

Briefly. Briefly, I will mention the fact that he can read. He's, oh, something like a scientist, or a maths geek at the very least; but he understands English, he understands it well, no, very well, he has a thorough grasp of grammar and syntax and style, he can read things like Shakespeare without having to think too hard about it, and if he doesn't catch something I say/write, it's generally because I've said/written it badly. Which rarely happens, just so we're clear--but it's wonderful to have someone about, whose opinion I can trust. It's such a relief, a surprise, an unexpected pleasure, to know that there's someone around who is actually capable of correcting my grammar/word usage, and of comprehending any obscure words or archaic language I decide to use.

Oh thank GOD he can read.

Finally--and this may seem like a small thing, but I assure you, it is not--he kisses me all the time. He kisses me for no reason, for good reasons, for obvious reasons, for vague and unimaginable ones. He kisses me in private, and he kisses me in public. He kisses me no matter where we are, or who we're with. He kisses me sweetly, urgently, casually, passionately, affectionately, hungrily. He kisses me like he's drinking my breath, and he kisses me like he's breathing life into me. He kisses my hand, he kisses my neck, he kisses my cheek, he kisses my forehead. He kisses my breasts, he kisses my thighs, he kisses my sex and he kisses my feet. He kisses me in places *everyone* has kissed, and he kisses me in places *no one* has kissed. He kisses me like he can't help himself. He kisses me like he is just helping himself. He kisses me badly, beautifully, messily, skillfully. He kisses me until my lips are raw, and then he kisses me until they're soothed.

He kisses me all the time. Sometimes he just looks at me, and he's across the room before I realise what's coming, and then his lips are on mine and I forget what comes next anyway; and then he reminds me. He kisses me until I forget his name. He kisses me until I forget *my* name. He kisses me like we're the first people ever to kiss, in the history of everything, and he kisses me like he'll still be kissing me after everything ends. He kisses me like he can't get enough of me, like he'll never get enough of me, like there's no such thing *as* enough of me. He kisses me like it's the right thing to do, and the best thing to do, and the most fun thing to do, all at once. He kisses me, and he kisses me, and he kisses me, and then he kisses me.

He kisses me as if he knows, the nicest thing in the world, is being kissed like that. He kisses me as if he knows, when he kisses my skin, I feel it on my soul. He kisses me as if he can tell, somehow, that every touch of his lips on mine heals one more tiny fracture in the centre of my heart. He kisses me, as if he means to heal me, from the outside in.

Not that I need healing. I'm alright. I'm fine, as always; I am peachy-keen, jellybean.

But *if* I were in need of healing, soothing, fixing, renewing, kissing me like you can't live without me would probably be the way to go... And he seems to know that. Or he just does it, by instinct. Intuition. His own desperate need for touch, for love, for... me?

He's yummy. He is just so yummy. And he doesn't even realise it, most of the time... But I promise. I promise. I *promise*. He tastes so good, I'll never eat anything else, if he'll agree to stay on the menu.

Important Update

I am *not* dying of liver failure. Nor anything else that would be picked up on a blood test.

I *am* still awaiting the results of my chest x-ray, though.

And just for the record, I have a really CONSTANT pain in what is vaguely my chest... or my back... or my throat... or my arm. But, you know. They're all *connected* to each other. It could be the same pain.

Like, you know. From RSI/Carpal Tunnel.

OR it could be...

Oh, just shut up, woman.

Hypochondria

It's a nasty... disorder?--hypochondriacs are those poor souls who are afflicted with the perpetual affliction of feeling perpetually afflicted, or something to that effect.

I am the Original Hypochondriac. I started this nonsense when I was young, and the trend has continued. I may *never* stop worrying about my health. On the other hand, I suppose it's unlikely that I'll die of some random, undiagnosed/too-late diagnosed illness.

That's kinda the point, really.

After all; who do my doctors think they are? *I* know how *I* feel. Don't I? Don't I? DON'T I???

And I've had the dubious good fortune to be right, once or twice in the past. I diagnosed myself with strep throat when I was 17, and my tonsils were so badly infected they had to come out, after I spent a week on super-antibiotics. I picked up my daughter's autism months before any of her healthcare professionals. I've told my sister on several occasions that she had an ear infection, and been right.

Of course, I've also been wrong. Like when I thought my son had a respiratory problem. Or when I thought my daughter had Rett's. Or any of the *number* of times I've diagnosed myself with cancer/leukemia/AIDS/HIV/MS/TB.

Or half of the times I've *thought* I had strep throat, and actually, it was just a bad case of sinusitis.

Or that time I thought I had a bladder infection, and didn't.

Or the 10+ pregnancy tests I've taken, and been wrong about (at least 2 of which were *after* I had my kids, and should really have known I wasn't).

Or with my numerous insistences that I *definitely* have cavities all over my teeth (my teeth are beautiful, the dentist always tells me so, and I *know* I look after my teeth better than 90% of the population).

Or that time I thought I had angina (that time? who am I trying to kid? I've mentioned it several times, to several different people, and the last time was earlier THIS WEEK).

Or that time I thought I had liver failure, no, not the time a week ago, the time when I was pregnant with my daughter, and the doctor just laughed at me.

Much like the time he laughed at me when I said I was tired all the time and had random bruises (I have 2 kids under the age of 3 at this point, who climb all over me and keep me up all hours, you realise) and when I said the L-word, he barely managed to get me out the door before he collapsed in a fit of somewhat exasperated mirth (he only sees me all the time because he thinks I'm first-rate entertainment...) He mostly thinks I'm full of crap.

Like, quite literally, that time I went to him about severe abdominal pains and a 'lump' in, what do you know, my large bowel, and he told me I was constipated (as opposed to dying of bowel cancer... we did that fun again last month with a nurse practitioner, by the way...)

Or the time I went for a chest x-ray, and the radiographer didn't ask me to stay a bit longer for a chat, and didn't call me the next day, and didn't want to biopsy my lung, and didn't call me or send anything in the post after 10 days OH WAIT THAT'S RIGHT NOW...

The thing is, I only do this every 6 months or so. I can have a general healthcheck that often. It's something like sensible, especially since I genuinely can't tell a worrying symptom from a normal ache or pain. If I keep my smears up to date (they are) visit the doctor any time I have a pain that lasts longer than a month (I do) and force them to explain to me *exactly* why I don't have Swine Flu/Malaria/Sleeping Sickness/Ebola (the doctors are sick of me, but very tolerant) then, for 5-6 months in between, I can chill out.

But for godsake. I wish they'd just do a yearly check-up, like we do back home. I felt *much* healthier, then. Or at least, my spaz-outs lasted a day or two, and then went away again.

I've been convinced I'm dying for 2 weeks or more. It's a bit stressful.

Sometimes I just wanna go home.

Stygian Gloom, Revisited

Awesome :) I'm really pleased--my sister has decided to give our friend Norbert another chance.

This is most uplifting news. I had thought she was being maybe just a *tad* hasty, and perhaps she has rethought things, and come to the same conclusion herself. I hope everything goes well for them... *sigh* I am just a walking cliche, lately, but isn't love lovely?

And. Welcome back, Norbert. We're glad to still have you around.

Peace.