Memories fade as time passes. Things change; they're no longer recorded as how they were, but as we wish they had been. Bitterness, longing, joy, betrayal--every possible emotion colours our memories until they bear only the slightest similarities to the actual event.
That in itself is sad, I think. Even the past is mutable; nothing is set in stone. While that should be relieving, knowing that even mistakes of the worst sort can be forgotten or glossed over, instead it makes me worry a bit. If our memories change the way we see things, how will we ever know what really happened? What was true, what's delusion or wishful thinking?
Sorry, I didn't mean to start on such a downspirited note, but today my friends graduated from university, and I was supposed to be with them. Through a series of events, though, I wasn't even able to finish out the year. While a portion was my fault, and I acknowledge that, an equal portion--though unrelated--was not. Various tests are still being run; they're hoping an endoscopy will show some explanation for the weird weight loss thing that happened back in January and February.
My allergy test results came back. I'm allergic to some simple things; unfortunately, it's not like a gluten allergy that you can actively avoid. Turns out, apart from my happy food allergies, I'm also allergic to dust, pollen, and mold.
Which are kind of everywhere. Fortunately, allergy shots should help. I'm both nervous and excited about this; after all, it will reduce the severity of my allergies a great deal. But at the same time, I don't like injections. I don't scream or cry or anything; I just don't like them. I'm not sure if anyone truly enjoys having an inch-long (or longer) needle inserted into their flesh and having a viscous liquid pushed through said needle into said flesh.
Or it could just be me.
On a completely different note, I got into a blazing row with my parents. I was reminded that I'm a failure and a disappointment, and lectured on being so. I didn't respond well--I don't think that, in a situation like that, it's possible to respond well--, but I didn't yell, cry, or say anything I regret. I thanked them for pointing out my shortcomings; told them that since clearly their opinion of me was so low that they didn't really want my input; and walked out. On the same day, the computer firewall was somehow turned off and the computer was infested with viruses, trojans, and spyware up the wazoo. I'm using my brother's computer right now, since the other one's still not working. I've spent about 3 hours on it at this point, trying to fix the bloody thing. I'm getting there, but it's slow and it makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or kick it.
I'm conflicted right now. I'm not sure how to respond to some things that are going on; well, that was poorly worded. Let me try again. I know how people are expecting me to respond to certain things that are going on, but I don't know if those responses would be best for me. They make sense, they're reasonable and understandable, but not necessarily the best idea. Granted, I'm not exactly the type to sit down and ponder the appropriate answer for hours on end, debating pros and cons with myself until I've reached the inevitable conclusion that Option X is better than Option Y. At best, I go with my gut instinct. At worst, I flip a coin. It's probably a bad thing, my not thinking about my decisions, but my "gut" has rarely told me wrong. It's when I haven't listened to it that I've had problems.
I miss my Seattle guys. And my Taylor and Muskegon friends. Oh, well. I'm here. They're not. We're all sucky correspondents. I guess that's all there is to it, really.
On that note, good night.
oh, P.S. Blizzard, the company that made the highly addictive World of Warcraft, announced last night the release of a new (kind of) game: StarCraft 2. If you're not sure what, if any, significance this has, ask a gamer. They'll tell you all about it, possibly for hours upon hours, forever and ever amen.
P.P.S. I'm a huge fan of Robin McKinley, and in exploring her site recently I read a paragraph she wrote about LotR, and I thought I'd paste it here (from here) to maybe try to explain to some of you people some of the reasons why I don't like Tolkien. At all. So here it is.
"I'm aware, at least some of the time, of his defects: there are no women at all in LOTR, although Galadriel at least has a few lines and Eowyn almost gets to do something (although Merry does it first); everybody speaks Old High Forsoothly, except the hobbits, who incline to Early Public Schoolboy; and there are an awful lot of things that seem to be tall and fair, or as clear as clear water, or that shine like silver, or that are silver and shine like the stars, or that are dusk-silver as water under the stars, or . . . well, if you've read Tolkien, you know what I mean."
If course, I have other reasons, but this is a well-expressed paragraph stating some of why I dislike his writing. So there you are.
8.5.07
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget/What thou among the leaves hast never known
Several points of potential interest.
1. I have ceased playing World of Warcraft. Again. While it was originally for a positive reason, i.e., I wanted to have enough time for grading and lesson plans and so on, it isn't anymore. Now, I'm quitting out of boredom and lack of income. I'd offer to sell intelligent conversation, but considering the potential clientele (mostly people my parents know), I don't think they would either appreciate or even understand said intelligent conversation. Every time I come back here to C.R. I am once again astounded at my parents' ability to put up with such raging ignorance and stupidity. I just want to smack people. With a 2x4. It has the potential to actually make them smarter. The sad thing is, I'm only exaggerating slightly.
2. I am no longer going to be teaching. Apparently, the students all chose Biodiversity and Puppets. I'm having a hard time believing that, but, well, there it is. Two students signed up, but a minimum of 3 were needed. In any case, it has saved me from a potentially awkward situation--my little brother was one of the people who signed up, and I'm not a fan of nepotism, or even the possibility of nepotism.
Plus, now I don't have to wake up at 6 am every day.
3. My doc took me off the anti-psychotic, which makes #9 or 10 (lost track a couple years ago) on the list of mind-altering meds I've taken at some point. Since it made me incredibly sleepy--I could have easily slept 24-7 while on that stuff--it's probably a good thing that I'm not on it anymore. Apparently it was prescribed in an attempt to make the motion trails I still see--that are getting worse--go away. Obviously, that failed.
Speaking of fail, my parents are looking up long-term residential "facilities" for me. I'm not a fan. I finally conveyed to them that no, I'm not actually any better than I was. It's frustrating how they don't seem to get it, though heaven knows I've tried to explain things. It's starting to drive me up the wall.
I read the latest Jeffrey Deaver novel, The Cold Moon. It wasn't his best effort--too many plot twists and it just became absolutely ridiculously convoluted. There was a nice effect, though, when some characters from The Bone Collector (great book, by the way) make a reappearance. Oh, and I would recommend The Eight, by Katherine Neville--great conspiracy-theory novel from the eighties. Lots of interesting bits about chess in there; any chess nuts reading this, you may enjoy it.
There are junebugs everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE. I had one fly down my shirt the other day, as another flew straight into my lamp and clanged off. I know more than one has died in my fan, too; which is really nasty because it's right next to my bed and I'd rather not sleep on a surface littered with bits of butchered junebug all over it. I'm waiting for some to make a nest inside my computer, since that seems like something that could, and would, happen at some point.
I went in for allergy testing--just a blood test--and the results aren't back yet. It was 2 weeks ago. Apparently, the machines broke today so they can't run my sample. Meanwhile, I'm thinking, there's no possible way you could be backed up by 2 weeks for allergy tests. And I ended up seeing the wrong doctor, anyway--instead of an allergist, I somehow wound up at a dermatologist. I wasn't thrilled by any stretch of the imagination that somebody somewhere fucked up royally. The derm was nice, though, and (I'm pretty sure it was out of sympathy) got me some powerful allergy pills that have, thus far, worked rather well. But we'll see how long that lasts; all good things must come to an end, and so on. Right?
1. I have ceased playing World of Warcraft. Again. While it was originally for a positive reason, i.e., I wanted to have enough time for grading and lesson plans and so on, it isn't anymore. Now, I'm quitting out of boredom and lack of income. I'd offer to sell intelligent conversation, but considering the potential clientele (mostly people my parents know), I don't think they would either appreciate or even understand said intelligent conversation. Every time I come back here to C.R. I am once again astounded at my parents' ability to put up with such raging ignorance and stupidity. I just want to smack people. With a 2x4. It has the potential to actually make them smarter. The sad thing is, I'm only exaggerating slightly.
2. I am no longer going to be teaching. Apparently, the students all chose Biodiversity and Puppets. I'm having a hard time believing that, but, well, there it is. Two students signed up, but a minimum of 3 were needed. In any case, it has saved me from a potentially awkward situation--my little brother was one of the people who signed up, and I'm not a fan of nepotism, or even the possibility of nepotism.
Plus, now I don't have to wake up at 6 am every day.
3. My doc took me off the anti-psychotic, which makes #9 or 10 (lost track a couple years ago) on the list of mind-altering meds I've taken at some point. Since it made me incredibly sleepy--I could have easily slept 24-7 while on that stuff--it's probably a good thing that I'm not on it anymore. Apparently it was prescribed in an attempt to make the motion trails I still see--that are getting worse--go away. Obviously, that failed.
Speaking of fail, my parents are looking up long-term residential "facilities" for me. I'm not a fan. I finally conveyed to them that no, I'm not actually any better than I was. It's frustrating how they don't seem to get it, though heaven knows I've tried to explain things. It's starting to drive me up the wall.
I read the latest Jeffrey Deaver novel, The Cold Moon. It wasn't his best effort--too many plot twists and it just became absolutely ridiculously convoluted. There was a nice effect, though, when some characters from The Bone Collector (great book, by the way) make a reappearance. Oh, and I would recommend The Eight, by Katherine Neville--great conspiracy-theory novel from the eighties. Lots of interesting bits about chess in there; any chess nuts reading this, you may enjoy it.
There are junebugs everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE. I had one fly down my shirt the other day, as another flew straight into my lamp and clanged off. I know more than one has died in my fan, too; which is really nasty because it's right next to my bed and I'd rather not sleep on a surface littered with bits of butchered junebug all over it. I'm waiting for some to make a nest inside my computer, since that seems like something that could, and would, happen at some point.
I went in for allergy testing--just a blood test--and the results aren't back yet. It was 2 weeks ago. Apparently, the machines broke today so they can't run my sample. Meanwhile, I'm thinking, there's no possible way you could be backed up by 2 weeks for allergy tests. And I ended up seeing the wrong doctor, anyway--instead of an allergist, I somehow wound up at a dermatologist. I wasn't thrilled by any stretch of the imagination that somebody somewhere fucked up royally. The derm was nice, though, and (I'm pretty sure it was out of sympathy) got me some powerful allergy pills that have, thus far, worked rather well. But we'll see how long that lasts; all good things must come to an end, and so on. Right?
25.4.07
Kept beating--beating--till I thought/My Mind was going numb--
So my brain has for all intents and purposes shut itself off. For the past several days, I've barely been able to think, let alone think straight. I keep forgetting what day it is and blank out. My twitching isn't better, either; in fact, it started up on Monday again. The doctor prescribed Ativan for me until the MRI and EEG results get back (which was supposed to be today, but due to hospital bureaucratic procedure, or Latin slowness, or a combination of both, is actually going to be tomorrow), but my parents--being the intelligent people that they are--have yet to fill it. So it's pretty much a moot point now, isn't it?
Yeah, I had an EEG, too, on Monday. I arrived in time for my 3:30 appointment, and after he watched my (conveniently) twitching hand, he packed me off for an electroencephalogram (or EEG, which is infinitely easier and quicker to type), hoping that the electrodes would pick up, I don't know, something. So I came out with my head covered in goo, sorry, gel. Have to use the scientificky terms, right? After the tech pulled off the eight million electrodes, he let me stick my head under a faucet, but by that point I was tired and headachy and feeling incredibly dumb. Not as in, "I'm in an awkward situation and therefore feel uncomfortable," but as in, "I don't know what day it is. Or what time it is. Or what I'm supposed to be doing." That kind of dumb. Now I know what people with bad memories feel like; I could barely remember my own name. I blame the flashing lights; apparently an important part of an EEG is testing responses while exposed to lights flashing on and off at various speeds.
Oh, and at the end of it, I couldn't feel the left side of my face. I think that might be bad, but it might be normal, too. I mean, normal for after an EEG.
In any case, the doc did get a glimpse of my MRI scans and said he doesn't think it's MS. Which means that it could have been, or might still be, and that's a really scary proposition. I'm siding with the doctor on this one; I don't want it to be MS. I'd rather it be some weird psychosomatic thing, although, to be perfectly honest, I really hope it isn't, because then I'd feel, I don't know, really stupid and foolish.
On a completely different note, my siblings' middle/high school (it's combined, since there aren't enough students to merit a separation) has an M-Term, also known as May Term. It's just like Taylor's J-Term, except it's not for college credit and it's in May. And I don't teach at Taylor.
Yeah, you read it right. Teach. Me. Me. The chick who despises children and has zero patience. I'm going to be teaching an elective, so I may actually not be teaching anything at all if no one signs up. I'm kind of hoping that'll be the case, because then I can say, "oh well, at least I offered;" but at the same time, it'd be really embarassing and rather depressing to not have anyone want to be taught by me--even though it's actually quite understandable. Especially given the subject:
Creative Writing.
Now, yeah, I know, I write semi-regularly in a blog and was in a bunch (meaning about 12 credits worth) of writing courses at Uni. But that's all the writing I do. I don't write stories much--I think about them, I plot them out in my head, I'll even tell someone about them if I'm in a really good mood about it, but I almost never write them down. Remember the Ritalin/Ambien incident? That happened because I hadn't written any stories--not one--in over a year.
I don't write for fun. I write for class. I write to keep in touch with people I care about. I write to keep the people I'm supposed to care about but don't up-to-date on my rather bizarre life (hence the blog). I write to vent. I don't write for me, I don't write for other people, I don't write fiction or poetry. I suppose you could call this creative nonfiction, since most of it's true and it's all creative.
I read things. I tell people about the things I read. I write essays and reports about what I read. I tell people what's wrong with their writing after I've read it. I'm a reader. And a critic, I suppose you could say. But I'm not a writer, certainly not a creative one.
So we'll see how this whole thing goes.
Oh, and to close, on a "writing" note, I received a very kind comment about this actual blog not long ago, and it really meant a lot, brought a smile to my face, and other assorted sappy stuff that really does prove I'm not well at all.
Yeah, I had an EEG, too, on Monday. I arrived in time for my 3:30 appointment, and after he watched my (conveniently) twitching hand, he packed me off for an electroencephalogram (or EEG, which is infinitely easier and quicker to type), hoping that the electrodes would pick up, I don't know, something. So I came out with my head covered in goo, sorry, gel. Have to use the scientificky terms, right? After the tech pulled off the eight million electrodes, he let me stick my head under a faucet, but by that point I was tired and headachy and feeling incredibly dumb. Not as in, "I'm in an awkward situation and therefore feel uncomfortable," but as in, "I don't know what day it is. Or what time it is. Or what I'm supposed to be doing." That kind of dumb. Now I know what people with bad memories feel like; I could barely remember my own name. I blame the flashing lights; apparently an important part of an EEG is testing responses while exposed to lights flashing on and off at various speeds.
Oh, and at the end of it, I couldn't feel the left side of my face. I think that might be bad, but it might be normal, too. I mean, normal for after an EEG.
In any case, the doc did get a glimpse of my MRI scans and said he doesn't think it's MS. Which means that it could have been, or might still be, and that's a really scary proposition. I'm siding with the doctor on this one; I don't want it to be MS. I'd rather it be some weird psychosomatic thing, although, to be perfectly honest, I really hope it isn't, because then I'd feel, I don't know, really stupid and foolish.
On a completely different note, my siblings' middle/high school (it's combined, since there aren't enough students to merit a separation) has an M-Term, also known as May Term. It's just like Taylor's J-Term, except it's not for college credit and it's in May. And I don't teach at Taylor.
Yeah, you read it right. Teach. Me. Me. The chick who despises children and has zero patience. I'm going to be teaching an elective, so I may actually not be teaching anything at all if no one signs up. I'm kind of hoping that'll be the case, because then I can say, "oh well, at least I offered;" but at the same time, it'd be really embarassing and rather depressing to not have anyone want to be taught by me--even though it's actually quite understandable. Especially given the subject:
Creative Writing.
Now, yeah, I know, I write semi-regularly in a blog and was in a bunch (meaning about 12 credits worth) of writing courses at Uni. But that's all the writing I do. I don't write stories much--I think about them, I plot them out in my head, I'll even tell someone about them if I'm in a really good mood about it, but I almost never write them down. Remember the Ritalin/Ambien incident? That happened because I hadn't written any stories--not one--in over a year.
I don't write for fun. I write for class. I write to keep in touch with people I care about. I write to keep the people I'm supposed to care about but don't up-to-date on my rather bizarre life (hence the blog). I write to vent. I don't write for me, I don't write for other people, I don't write fiction or poetry. I suppose you could call this creative nonfiction, since most of it's true and it's all creative.
I read things. I tell people about the things I read. I write essays and reports about what I read. I tell people what's wrong with their writing after I've read it. I'm a reader. And a critic, I suppose you could say. But I'm not a writer, certainly not a creative one.
So we'll see how this whole thing goes.
Oh, and to close, on a "writing" note, I received a very kind comment about this actual blog not long ago, and it really meant a lot, brought a smile to my face, and other assorted sappy stuff that really does prove I'm not well at all.
21.4.07
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground/And swallows circling with their shimmering sound
Not in a mood for much, except that this week has been nothing but a waste of my time. Granted, I would argue that my life is nothing but a waste, both of time and everything else; so I'm not sure it's a valid argument. Anyway.
Doc changed his mind. No CAT scan. Just an emergency neuro consult on Monday, right after the MRI.
This sounds like lots of NOT FUN.
Doc changed his mind. No CAT scan. Just an emergency neuro consult on Monday, right after the MRI.
This sounds like lots of NOT FUN.
13.4.07
His answer trickled through my head/Like water through a sieve
So. I suppose it's been long enough between bitchy ravings, which means (insert fanfare of choice here) you get to read one now!
I went to the library today, because I had nothing else (well, just about--it was either that or watch both Princess Diaries movies) to do. The head librarian was glad to see me, which was nice, though it had more to do with "OMG someone who knows what she's doing and actually understands the concept of shelving books!" than with my existence. It wasn't bad, until I actually got to work, when a raving bitch from hell (read: someone I wouldn't mind seeing spontaneously combust, though that may be too cool of a way to go for me to be pleased with it being wasted on her) walked in with her class.
First thought? Fuck it, I was hoping she wouldn't be here.
The "person" in question is someone I know from high school. You know all those rants about how much I hated high school, and how it was so horrific? Well, she was one of the prime reasons for that. Ever see the movie "Mean Girls"? Think the leader of the nasty popular girls. Except this one has brown hair and a long nose.
In any case, I proceeded with the shelving and as I went back to the circulation desk (ha! It's really just a table with some appropriately-placed circulation notices), she noticed me. Damn.
The only thing I dislike more than bad memories, is the bearer of those bad memories trying to hug me. I'm not a fan of physical contact with people I don't like; in fact, I go through periods where I'm not a fan of physical contact at all. So the hugging thing didn't go over so well. Neither did the used-car salesman smile.
And I know you're all waiting with bated breath to discover what awful thing I said, did, or both said AND did in response. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but (much to my chagrin) I behaved almost nicely. That is to say, I didn't swear at, insult, or take physical action against, her. I wanted to, but I didn't. Mom would have been proud.
I just mumbled something about 'oh, hi,' and 'I hope I can get this done quickly' (the last phrase was accompanied by vague gestures that indicated the entire library as though it was part of some colossal undertaking that had a rapidly approaching deadline). It didn't really work. She kept trying to chat me up with the fake small talk we all know I loathe more than Olson Hall (ooh, bet you didn't see that one coming). How am I supposed to get rid of someone without telling them to just go away and/or leave me alone unless they want me to return to my previous state of being a scary, short-tempered fury? I tried to figure that out all day, and I'm still no closer to an even remotely satisfactory answer.
So now I'm in a bad mood. I haven't been sleeping much since the med change (read: CAN'T SLEEP! I woke up at 5 am, for crying out loud!), and I've had raging headaches for almost a week. I'm not okay with any of this.
And so I close with this, loyal (maybe) readers: I need a way to easily dispose of people I detest without being the bad guy (girl?), and, preferably, without too much effort on my part. This stupid country is pacifistic up the wazoo (they haven't had an army in almost 50 years. Even the Swiss have a fucking army!), so violence is really frowned upon--which means that that option isn't available, either. So a little help would be nice.
I went to the library today, because I had nothing else (well, just about--it was either that or watch both Princess Diaries movies) to do. The head librarian was glad to see me, which was nice, though it had more to do with "OMG someone who knows what she's doing and actually understands the concept of shelving books!" than with my existence. It wasn't bad, until I actually got to work, when a raving bitch from hell (read: someone I wouldn't mind seeing spontaneously combust, though that may be too cool of a way to go for me to be pleased with it being wasted on her) walked in with her class.
First thought? Fuck it, I was hoping she wouldn't be here.
The "person" in question is someone I know from high school. You know all those rants about how much I hated high school, and how it was so horrific? Well, she was one of the prime reasons for that. Ever see the movie "Mean Girls"? Think the leader of the nasty popular girls. Except this one has brown hair and a long nose.
In any case, I proceeded with the shelving and as I went back to the circulation desk (ha! It's really just a table with some appropriately-placed circulation notices), she noticed me. Damn.
The only thing I dislike more than bad memories, is the bearer of those bad memories trying to hug me. I'm not a fan of physical contact with people I don't like; in fact, I go through periods where I'm not a fan of physical contact at all. So the hugging thing didn't go over so well. Neither did the used-car salesman smile.
And I know you're all waiting with bated breath to discover what awful thing I said, did, or both said AND did in response. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but (much to my chagrin) I behaved almost nicely. That is to say, I didn't swear at, insult, or take physical action against, her. I wanted to, but I didn't. Mom would have been proud.
I just mumbled something about 'oh, hi,' and 'I hope I can get this done quickly' (the last phrase was accompanied by vague gestures that indicated the entire library as though it was part of some colossal undertaking that had a rapidly approaching deadline). It didn't really work. She kept trying to chat me up with the fake small talk we all know I loathe more than Olson Hall (ooh, bet you didn't see that one coming). How am I supposed to get rid of someone without telling them to just go away and/or leave me alone unless they want me to return to my previous state of being a scary, short-tempered fury? I tried to figure that out all day, and I'm still no closer to an even remotely satisfactory answer.
So now I'm in a bad mood. I haven't been sleeping much since the med change (read: CAN'T SLEEP! I woke up at 5 am, for crying out loud!), and I've had raging headaches for almost a week. I'm not okay with any of this.
And so I close with this, loyal (maybe) readers: I need a way to easily dispose of people I detest without being the bad guy (girl?), and, preferably, without too much effort on my part. This stupid country is pacifistic up the wazoo (they haven't had an army in almost 50 years. Even the Swiss have a fucking army!), so violence is really frowned upon--which means that that option isn't available, either. So a little help would be nice.
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