It's not a toomah!

I've been on and off crutches for a few weeks now. It was just over three weeks ago that I dislocated my kneecap and made my back to Los Angeles with a nifty cast. The recovery is going really well, but I do keep the crutches around to help my balance and just in case I get stuck in a chair that doesn't have arms.

Tonight, I was looking at my arm and was wondering what was wrong with it. My forearm had this really bizarre bump on it near my elbow. It didn't hurt or anything, it just seemed to pop up out of nowhere. Then I looked at my other arm and noticed the same thing. Hmm... that bump doesn't hurt either. Now that's just weird, right?

Then as I grabbed one of my crutches, I noticed that the little bump came up bigger. Yes, apparently I have so little upper-body strength that I didn't recognize a muscle when I developed one. Nice. At least it's not a toomah!

I'm outta here!

I'm going to be out of the country, so you can catch me here for the next month or so.

In which our heroine **sigh** talks about her feelings

No good stories going on right now. I'm busy with school most of the time, but this is what I have had on my mind:

I'm not a huge LoTR fan, but there's a fantastic line in one of the books. Bilbo is describing why he has to give up the ring. He says that feels like too little butter spread over too much bread. Okay, now that I've said that, I've become obsessed with getting it right, so here's the actual quote: "I feel thin, like butter spread over too much bread."

Anyhow, that's a pretty fair description of how I feel: I feel sharp and brittle; I feel cracked like the desert floor; I feel raw, like a scab you keep re-opening; I feel like I'm swaddled in cotton; I feel like butter spread over too much bread.

I've fought with depression for most of my life. I have chosen to remain unmedicated, and I often review this decision. I ask myself if normal people feel like this. I ask myself whether medication would improve my standard of living. The biggest question for me is about what makes up... well, me. I am my brain, and whatever chemicals I'm stewing in at the moment. I worry about taking anything that will alter my thought process -- I mean, where do I end, and where does the medicine begin? So, I remain unmedicated, and work through my problems the best I can. One day at a time. One hour at a time. One minute at a time. One second at a time.

Part of the problem is that I know I have a hard time managing my time. I'm ever the optimist when it comes to the amount of time something will actually take, and when I pad my time estimates, it usually turns out to be pretty spot on. Unfortunately, that fact doesn't actually stop me from being optimistic. I always think that the next time, I'll get things done faster. The issue? I am right occasionally, and it only enforces my time mismanagement.

The other problem is that I have no idea of how many responsibilities I can handle. One day, I'll be berating myself that I'm so freakin' lazy, and I can definitely get so much more done than I do. The next day, I'll realize that the next time I have a chance to read a book for leisure is in about two months, while I'll be in a plane going to Europe. A very important concept in my life is one of balance, and I can't quite seem to get it quite right.

I'll get there, though. I'll keep trying, I'll keep failing, and eventually I'll get there.

Thoughts in English Class

I was in my english class, bored out of my skull, and this is what I wrote instead of taking notes:

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I live halfway between my real life and my dream life. When I take my shower in the morning, I spend the time grasping at my memories -- seeing which ones fall away and which ones I can keep my hands around. Unfortunately, this means that I can never be sure what is a dream and what is reality until about 10am.

My dreams are in technicolor with dolby surround sound and comfy seats. Real life is a 13-inch black and white TV with bunny ears and crappy reception. My dreams have three acts with sub-plots, villians, heroes, and a wacky neighbor. Life is reruns of a cheesy soap opera you saw 10 years ago. You can't quite remember exactly what happens next, but you're never quite surprised by its convolutions and plot twists.

Would I trade my real life for the small world inside my head? Maybe. Lord knows I tried, but it didn't work out well for me. What's worth more: entertainment or the truth? Are the two mutually exclusive? And how true are my dreams, for that matter? They have more internal logic than the real world, so I suppose that's a good argument against my dreams. Life, on the whole, is not internally consistent.

I love my dreams. They make me laugh, they make me cry, but in the end, I can't share them in all of their colorful glory. Pinning them down takes away their luster. It's like listening to that song you adored in the summer between your junior and senior years, but haven't heard since then, and when you hear it, something is missing. The song no longer sounds like sunshine and freedom, it sounds like over-engineered pop from the early 90s, cotton candy light and cringeworthy. You remember it had these mind-blowing lyrics that, like, totally changed your life, man, and now it makes you laugh at its treacly-sweet platitudes.

So how do I share the stories my brain entertains itself with during my nightly collapse into unconsciousness? How do I take these gossimer strands and weave them into something I can hold up and see how the light shines through it? Movies? My dreams *are* cinematic. Music? They *are* lyrical. Writing? I *am* lazy, and that *is* the easiest way to share things these days.

Unfortunately, it seems like quantum mechanics: the moment you observe them, you change their quality. Dreams are their own medium, and no other will do.

In which our heroine is proposition in the most curious of ways

This was a while back, but I didn't realize I hadn't blogged it. Here we go:

One of Asimovian and my friends was in town and wanted to go to a club. There is a Friday-night-only club that several friends like to go to, and it was decided that this was the club we would be patronizing, even though we'd never been. This club is... I guess you might consider it a saucy kind of club. Free spankings on stage and all that. However, being freaky is only encouraged, not required, so we fit in just fine. I spent a lot of the evening hanging out with Space Kitty.

Now, I have to take a second to explain a couple of things here. First off, our heroine is not particularly a looker. I mean, everyone who gets to know me totally wants me, of course, but people aren't stopping me on the street to ask my phone number, if you know what I mean. Space Kitty, on the other hand, is adorable as hell and was dressed particularly saucily. And was very drunk. Very, very drunk.

So back to the dance floor. Several of us were shakin' our respective thangs. This creepy guy had been following Space Kitty around (cute + drunk = creepy guy magnet) and he was just STANDING on the dance floor STARING at Space Kitty, looking her up and down, repeatedly. So, I maneuvered myself between Creepy Guy and Space Kitty and turned my back to the guy. So, a few moments later, little creepy guy came up behind me, put his hands on my shoulders (yick), leaned into my ear (double-yick), and said,

Creepy Guy: Hey, wanna come back to my place? I have bagels and salmon.
Me: WHA?
CG: You wanna come over? I have bagels and salmon.
Me: Uh, no. I'm married.
CG: Wha?
Me: Married. ::points at her wedding ring, then points at her visibly upset husband::
CG: Huh?
Me: ::points at wedding ring, then her husband, then waves bye-bye::

I mean, I do look like a gal who enjoys herself some tasty breakfast snacks, but first off, does he not even know what it's called lox? Secondly, EW! Thirdly, don't piss off the black man who has 6 inches and 100 pounds on your scrawny ass.

Truth be told, it was more pathetic than anything and hey, I got a funny story out of it. The most amusing bit is that we're going back to the same club on Friday. I guess I'll bring my appetite in case he offers again. 'Cause who am I to turn down bagels and salmon?