On the other side of mental illness: a stranger dropped into a foreign land

So nearly every blog post I’ve written involves my existence as someone with a diagnosed mental illness, bipolar depression (with a wee bit of anxiety at times).  I’m so used to being the patient, I was completely blindsided by the sudden flip to the other side: a person who knows someone with a mental illness, who is in crisis.

I may as well be an English-only speaking urban white person parachuted into outer Mongolia.

A person I love quite dearly has had clinical depression for a few years now.  They decline to accept the diagnosis, and therefore decline any intervention, esp. pharmaceutical.  They did have a few sessions with a counselor about a year ago after calling me in the midst of a literal fit of despair; I was fortunate to have the means to get them to talk with a counselor that day.  They did continue with the counselor for a few months until that counselor retired and they never established with another.  They have been to see their primary care provider who did discuss the possibility of medication, but this has been declined.

This person has had many struggles and stresses in their life, definitely within the past two years there has been more than even I realized.  I’ve seen the clinical depression quite evident, and not simply because I’m a nurse.  They don’t have any hobbies or anything they really enjoy doing, or more accurately they don’t make time for these activities anymore.  They have a tendency to sleep for long hours and not have much oomph.  Without a job, the Army National Guard is their job and this is also another source of stress.

I got a call at 12:15 a.m. this morning; they were at a cross roads, and contemplating doing serious harm, doing irreparable damage to themselves and subsequently the lives of those around them.  And, to my utter dismay, their response was “I don’t care”.

I think my heart stopped for a few seconds.

So I’m trying to work through Seroquel sleep and help with this person who I love more than anything, who I know is reaching out for help.  The short is I didn’t get a solid “I won’t do anything stupid” from them, but I did reach them this morning by phone.  Three days on nine hours’ sleep, shit work with shit superiors, no guidance with the new job responsibilities, yeah I can definitely understand why this is overwhelming.

They’re away on training right now, so 1st I tried to call the armory their unit is based out of.  I got a voice mail and left a message.  After a few hours of nothing, I asked a co-worker whose husband is pretty high up in the air force for help.  She immediately called her husband who pointed me in the right direction and I made the call to the suicide prevention line of the particular facility they are at.

I’m glad to say that the military does seem to take mental health and well being of their soldiers seriously, and despite my utter lack of specifics, within an hour he was picked up by the MPs who brought him somewhere safe for evaluation.  We were on the phone at the time.  They asked “did you call someone?”  I answered “yes I did.  I don’t care if you’re mad at me”.  To my utter relief their response was “I’m not mad.  At least now I’ll have someone I can talk to”.

Don’t lose sight that although you may have your own health issues to deal with, there are others out there who need help dealing with their own issues.  The phrase “you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink” is thoroughly frustrating because it’s true.  As a friend, a co-worker, a loved one, someone who cares, your job is to voice your concern to the one involved.  Whether or not they choose to act on your concerns is up to them.  That being said, if it gets to the danger zone, you should do anything you can to go over, above, and around the person to make sure they get the help they need in a crisis.  They may hate you, they may never speak to you again, they may spit on your grave.

Don’t lose sight that you may have had these feelings about someone else who has rallied troops around you when they were concerned with your survival, even if you thought it was a complete bunch of bullshit.

Ultimately, if all involved are alive to argue about the specifics later, I think that’s a win.

I didn’t look deeply enough to see just how much the stress has been affecting this person.  They are not one to talk about their feelings.  I also admittedly haven’t been doing anything to help alleviate the stresses which involve me and us.  That doesn’t mean I’m responsible for someone feeling like they have no recourse other than to not wake up, but it does mean I need to look closely at myself and make sure that although I have my own issues to work through, I need to make DAMN sure those around me whom I can’t live without know that without me saying it.  Words aren’t the only way to let people know how important they are to you.  If someone you love is struggling, whether or not they don’t choose to admit it or seek treatment, take that as an opportunity to let your deeds and actions remind them that they are loved, that they are irreplaceable.  They may still choose to do something unchangeable, but then again, maybe they won’t.

I wish for all who read this they do a solid for someone they love, and they recognize when someone’s done a solid for them.  We are all unique.  We all have our own struggles.  We all struggle but ours is individual.  We are ALL irreplaceable.  Please remember that.  The void left if you leave is like a black hole on the heart of everyone who has ever loved you, a permanent stain for which there is no filler.  Even if you don’t love you, there is someone who does and more likely there is someone to which you are the world.


If you need it, use it.  Use it for yourself, use it for someone else.  Asking for help, whether for yourself or someone else, is such a sign of strength.  You are stronger than you know, I promise.


Seroquel hangover and a trip to the grocery store.

I’m back on the Seroquel XR and after the 1st day of taking the 150mg tablet and feeling half stoned the next day at work I’ve only taken anywhere between 1/2 and 3/4 of a tab in the evening.  Thursday night I decided to try the full pill again, and I spent most of the day yesterday feeling like I was walking around inside of a dream.

Sounds weren’t as loud as they should be.  Anything I looked at seemed dull, soft.  Like being seen through a smudged lens.  The ‘bring out your dead’ scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail is a great reference; they shot that scene with pantyhose over the camera lens.  Everything was sorta fuzzy around the edges.  I went to the grocery store and even walking around Wegmans I couldn’t help but feel like my feet hitting the concrete floor was muffled by thin invisible pillows attached to my feet.

In New York state, we pay a nickel per bottle of soda, beer, and water as a deposit.  To get your nickel back you take the empties back to the store and feed them into machines which give you a voucher to take inside the store to get your money back.  I had bottles, cans, and glass to return.  The bottles & cans room at Wegmans is just that, it’s own room.  The floor is often sticky, esp. after a holiday.  After July 4th I damn near lost my flip flops more than once marching around the sticky floors trying to get my nickels back.  There’s an exhaust fan going the whole time, and if you’re in a skirt be careful or else you may end up pulling a Marilyn Monroe move (I’ve seen it).  I spent a few minutes feeding my returnables into the machines and the entire time I felt as if I had Mickey Mouse gloves on my hands.  Could I really feel the bottles?  I think so, I didn’t drop any of them.

I walked around Wegmans with one of their small carts, things still sounding muffled and looking fuzzy.  There was such a large amount of oblivion on the part of the other shoppers that after the third time I had to stand still for half a minute waiting for someone to finish what they were doing so I could proceed on my way down the aisle I began to wonder if I were invisible.  There’s a vendor stocking drinks, so I go around the aisle.  He’s at the other end of the aisle faster than I am.  Am I still asleep?  I thought he was stocking at the opposite end; his cart blocked the aisle which is why I went to the other end to begin with.

I came home with 8 cans of cat food.  Pippin only gets 1/2 can a day.  Added to the six already in the pantry, he’s good for a month.  On a plus note, I did pick the correct color of new cat food I bought by accident last time which Pippin loves so much he ate through the bag to get to it.

I bought more face wash, Spaghettios products were 5 for $5 so I bought some mini raviolis and some spaghettios with franks and I think there may be a spaghetti & meatballs in my pantry…word to the wise:  do NOT crack open a can of Mini Raviolis when you sit down to watch Python Vs. Gator on TV.

So kids, the moral of this story is stay in close contact with your psychiatrist.  I didn’t take any Seroquel yesterday since I felt so fricking stoned the whole day.  I checked my eyes when I got in my car after being in the store thinking maybe my pupils were dilated and to my surprise they were VERY constricted, which could explain the fuzzy look with which I was seeing everything.  I’m back to taking a partial dose along with my other pills (lamictal 150mg twice a day being the only other psych med).  I’ll call her on Monday and request a lower dose.  Great med, but trippy if the dose is higher than your system can adjust to.

FYI: I was going to type this up yesterday but I couldn’t.  I felt too funky.

Billboard diary round two: kids, save a draft periodically so the PC crash doesn’t wipe out all your work

Well, since this piece of shit PC keeps crashing without warning, the entire blog post I just spent 30+ minutes typing has gone out the window, and with it my good humor.  it’s a damn shame too, because I was witty and charming as well as smart.  Brevity is not my strong suit; hell it’s not even in the deck of cards I generally play with.  So, instead of getting the funny me, this garners the Battlestar Gallictus Interruptus version, which is NOT pleasant.

I’m in the middle of a stay-cation.  I took last Friday and this week off work mostly to catch up on TV shows which I did in three days (Deadliest Catch, The Musketeer), so I’ve moved on to a new Netflix marathon of Battlestar Galactica (the new one, not the vintage version).  I finished Hemlock Grove season Two in a day.

It’s been almost three weeks since my last post.  My boyfriend flipped over the last few posts, especially the one about the Latuda side effects (mostly the suicidal thoughts) and since it was on Facebook he was especially upset, telling me “Your mother doesn’t need to see that”.  It’s a public blog, not a secret journal.  I unlinked Facebook for his sake, but in all honesty since I get some satisfaction out of publicly regurgitating my thoughts on the billboard of life, he’s going to have to find a way to get over his dislike of my methods.  He’s always played his cards close to the vest while I’ve always been an open public book.  He doesn’t understand.  I don’t, really.  All I know is when I get the urge to regurgitate and I finally give in to it, I feel like a bottle of soda that’s been shaken hard, and finally has the cap unscrewed enough to let off the excess gas so it doesn’t explode.

I made my way back to the psychiatrist’s office and insisted on being placed back on Seroquel.  I was on it years ago, before it had an extended release version.  I did well on it, but at the time we changed to different meds as I was contemplating a pregnancy.  I’ve had two failed pregnancies since then, and don’t intend on failing again, so I’m not going to try.  I had to insist on Seroquel this time; the doc (actually a nurse practitioner  but doc types easier) wanted to try newer meds, hence Cymbalta and Latuda.  My sleep, which has been largely absent the past several years, has rejoined me at night, and since restarting Seroquel I’ve slept at least 5 hours at a single stretch most nights, which is remarkable.  I find even the Seroquel XR to be overly sedating, but my mood is okay, I’m not having suicidal thoughts, and I missed my sleep, damnit!Before-After

I had an old tattoo covered up a few weeks ago.  The tattoo was the 1st I got, back in 1990.  In 1992 I had my 1st ex-husband’s name tattooed beneath it (we went together to get matching tattoos; I have a cute rose on the top of my right foot and he’s got one on his arm) and in 1997 I had the name covered up.  The hummingbird is in remembrance of my Gram, who has passed away.  I really don’t have a cankle that bad; the angle was awkward when I took the photo.

I started physical therapy this week for bilateral chronic overuse issues of my hands & wrists.  I’m sick and tired of having to choose between doing my job and doing what I like to do.  I’ve knitted three dishcloths and crocheted another three dishcloths the past few weeks, but it’s been at the expense of my hands & wrists.  Typing during the day for work aggravates my discomfort and so does knitting/crocheting.  Most days I have to choose between typing my typical 90+ words a minute with no crafting or henpecking 50+ words a minute and hoping to get a few rows done before my hands shit the bed for the night.  That sucks.

My parents had their annual barbecue last weekend.  I came close to getting into a fist fight with the assholes next door but didn’t because of the girl rule which says “never fight in flip flops”.  My parents have two mini schnauzers who bark at everything and the night of the cookout at one point the dogs started barking and I heard someone next door swearing up a storm over it.  These assholes make David Koresh look like a nice housekeeper.   Their garden is literally planted over their cesspool.  Remind me to never accept an invitation to eat at their house.  I’ve seen raw sewage floating on their yard before, and have smelled it more than I’ve seen it.

It may sound lame, but after 14 hours of Battlestar Galactica yesterday, I’m ready to get back at it.  I had physical therapy today and then met mom for lunch, and now it’s time to find my pattern for the crocheted bottlecap trivet so I can make something to go with the dishcloths I made while I watch Starbuck & Apollo make their way through the cylon apocalypse.  I’m quite sure I’ll have more interesting and hair raising stuff to bitch about later, but for now I’ve got more deep, DEEP relaxing to do.

Buckle up, it’s gonna be a long one.

So, why the picture with a picture? To acknowledge where I was, and where I am now.

First, let me thank the Foo Fighters for accompanying this purge; they are one of the few constants I have in my life. (YouTube videos; I can’t find the wireless speaker and my iPod is dead).

So again, why the picture within the picture?

Gather around my friends, and if you are interested and patient enough to read this, you will hear a tale about a girl and her demons.

I consider Dave Grohl a serious idol. He went from being the drummer for one of the groundbreaking grunge rock bands of the ’90s to the guitarist and front man for one of the best rock artists of the 21st century. I admire his flexibility, his capacity to move from one to the other. He may have just as many and even more demons to fight as he had with Nirvana, but he keeps evolving. I’m not a hard liquor drinker but I imagine he’s like aged scotch; even better with age. And when I say age I don’t mean the years in your life, I mean the life in your years.

Back to my tale.

By fifth grade I was obese. I feel like I was set up for it; at school ‘lunch’ was at 10:30 a.m. so by the time I got home from school at 3 I was hungry again, and dinner wasn’t until 5 or 6 so I ended up having four main meals a day. I was picked to be a flower girl for a cousin’s wedding during this time and the dress had to be sent back and ordered two sizes larger because I gained that much weight even my mom, who is an excellent seamstress, couldn’t fit me into the first one.

Having a father with M.S. was not pleasant. He wasn’t pleasant, which made the situation worse. When you’re a kid and feel helpless and feel like you have no control, the one thing you can do is to eat. And eat I did. Even after the school lunchtime issue resolved, I continued to eat when I wasn’t hungry. It was a compulsion. It was almost like a voice inside my head saying “go ahead, you know you’ll feel better”. It was WAY better than sneaking a sip of Tanqueray from the bottle on top of the fridge when my parents were not home. That shit is gross. It was far superior to sneaking a cigarette from dad’s pack during 7th grade, again when my parents weren’t home. Also gross, but later became a habit. Food became my most consistent comfort, and as time went on and dad got worse and mom got more unhappy I leaned more and more on food.

The caveat about using food for comfort is it also makes you dislike yourself for what it does to you. You want it, you’re sure it wants you, but like casual sex you wake up in bed with a stranger (who has ingested a thousand calories during last night’s binge) and regret what you’ve done.

Sticking to the weight issue, fast forward to two unhappy marriages later. The second was prompted by a pregnancy which miscarried about two weeks after the marriage happened. The whole relationship was dysfunctional from the start, but I could spend as many years as I wasted describing it all.

Once the miscarriage happened, things spiraled downwards fairly quickly. My eating habit escalated and my 5′ 6″ frame went from a baseline of 180 lbs (overweight) up to 240 lbs (morbidly obese). Of all the interventions I wanted, the weight was the primary one. Although I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder during this time and my drinking escalated, I REALLY wanted to feel better about myself and like most people, I felt improving my outside would improve my inside. The truth is that it actually worked. The REAL truth is that tying your insides to your outsides is precarious at best.

The awesome thing about gastric bypass surgery is that unless you’re a die hard pain freak you have no choice but to lose weight. I only know one person of about 70 who haven’t lost weight with surgery. The sucky thing about gastric bypass surgery is it doesn’t solve your emotional issues (if you have them) which may have contributed to your weight issue. Yes you have to have psychiatric clearance prior to surgery but unless you already have a working relationship with a counselor the consult isn’t sufficient.

How did I get to this point in my life? At my maximum I weighed 262 lbs. At my minimum I weighed 159 lbs. I went from a size 22 to a size 8. My current weight today is 216 lbs. I barely fit into a size 16. I doubled in size?!? W T F ????

Rich and I have tried for a pregnancy for a few years. It hasn’t worked and the pressure I feel is immense. I constantly feel like it’s my fault. Several months of fertility treatments added to my ultra low ovarian reserve plus one failed pregnancy weighs much on me.

I have a shitload of reasons why I’ve gained weight, why I’m unhealthy, why I don’t like myself, why I have excuses which I parade around as reasons. It’s time to stop with the excuses, the reasons, the crap.

This is the part where I commit to doing stuff by putting it out there for people to hold me accountable. My fat self disgusts me, and I think that’s a good thing.

1st: the drinking. This has to stop. Empty calories aside, it’s not helping ANYTHING. I’ve asked Rich to drive me to work in the morning so when I call him to bring me home I can’t stop to buy beer.

2nd: get a second job. I have more debt than I can handle, and with my new car McGee, I need the extra income.

3rd: medication. My meds still aren’t tweaked enough to suit me. I’m super compliant with appointments and medication but this combo isn’t working. If I’m not getting what I feel is good treatment I’m going to switch providers, despite five years with the same one.

4th: LOSE SOME WEIGHT!!!!!!!

5th: um, work on number four! Looking for a juicer. Not sure how that works with the gastric bypass, but I need to understand the difference between emotional hunger and actual hunger. I’m 42 in two weeks; it’s about damn time.


Medication side effects; NOT a suicide note.

I know, I KNOW, this will raise a shitload of eyebrows.  I have to get this off my brain, so bear with me.

My psych provider and myself have been working on adjusting my medication ever since I had the sleep study back in February which showed I have NO delta sleep whatsoever, and have significantly latent onset REM sleep.  This basically means my sleep has been entirely unrestful and unrestorative for the past several years.  I’d had enough, and insisted on stopping Lexapro, which although it helped keep me on a somewhat even keel, was completely fucking with my sleep.

The road has been rocky at best.  And yest, it’s OK to insert the ice cream picture here.

After some failures we landed on Latuda.  I thought it was a miracle drug; it eventually stopped most of the weepy, unproductive life halting depression and ultimately left me with a fairly manic state of mind which for me means awesome productivity.  As a brand name atypical anti-psychotic, my insurance company doesn’t want to pay for it, so for the past 2 months I’ve been taking samples.  The dose was increased from 20mg to 40mg about 3 or so weeks ago, and I’ve been feeling pretty productive.  I think it’s a great medicine, and the complete bullshit bureaucracy of medicine in the United States in 2014 is appalling to me.  Whoever came up with the legality of insurance medicine formularies should be shot by firing squad.  That’s a post for another day.

So I’ve still been irritable but still more tolerable lately, so I think all is well in the bi-polar camp.  And then last night happened.

I’ve been catching up on the 1st season of a Netflix original series, which is FINALLY coming out with season 2 on July 11th.  As it has NOTHING to do with this I’m not naming it although I may give it props on another night.  Rich isn’t here, and I’m watching a marathon and on my 4th or 5th episode, where there’s a scene with one of the young male characters having sex and for some reason slashes his chest open.  Not deep enough to kill, but enough to make a bloody statement.  Suddenly the thought of which of my veins are prominent enough to make a statement enter my mind.  I don’t always have man veins, but the veins on top of my ankles are generally pretty damn prominent.  Hm.

Really?  Where in the blessed Virgin Mary did this thought come from?

So I spend the next hour rationalizing why I wouldn’t actually do it; I’d feel guilty for Rich coming home to find me, even if I crawled into the bathtub so he’d get the security deposit back.  I couldn’t do it because my Mom would lose her fucking mind, and rightly so.  Suicide is the pussy way out, and I know it.  I’ve seen it too many times to count.  Someone can’t deal so they off themselves and leave the remaining world to pick up the pieces.  What a chickenshit way to go.  I wouldn’t DARE misuse my medication, for ANY reason.  That’s too risky; if it didn’t work you could be fucked up permanently and still have to leave your loved ones to deal with your crap.  Hell, I didn’t even think about my shotgun until just now; having known more than one person to take that cowardly way out just makes me want to puke thinking about it.  Guns are meant for hunting food and shooting clay pigeons, and that’s ALL.

So, I spent the night preoccupied with generic, clinical thoughts of suicide but absolutely no real action plan in place.  And because of the SAFE act, I must STRESS that at NO point have I had any idea (shit, I didn’t even think of my gun until five minutes ago) of doing anything seriously stupid.

Which brings me back to Latuda.  I have stopped the medication, and I have an emergency appointment with my provider tomorrow.  I don’t know what the answer is, but I’m DAMN sure this medication isn’t it.

I believe it’s a great medication.  I also believe it’s SO important for people to be aware and recognize abnormal thoughts or side effects while on any medicine, regardless of what type.  In my case, this medication, while being therapeutic, has simply hijacked my brain and taken it to a place I am SO NOT COOL with.

Again, I must stress that  I have no desire to die, I have no desire to harm myself.  But the thought being in my head is like a tapeworm and it has to go.  I’m not willing to wait on this.  Seeing my provider tomorrow.  Nothing cool about being bipolar and having negative side effects from medication, even if the med is helpful.  Sanity is not worth gambling your life.  I know there are other options out there, and with God’s help I’m able to stay strong.  I promise myself first, and I promise everyone else second.

Can we admit that when I simply can’t keep straight the news stories of random gun violence in the U.S., something needs to change?

I took a five day hiatus from my news source, NPR, so I could listen to Stephen King’s newest novel via audiobook.   Mr Mercedes, for anyone interested, and I give it an 8.5 out of 10.  This post is not about defending my review of Mr. Mercedes.  It’s about how I literally cannot keep up with the massive amounts of random public violence which has made headline news, and all of which concern a firearm.

My background:  I love to hunt.  I own a shotgun.  I have yet to kill a turkey but it’s not for lack of trying.  I’m looking to buy a new rifle for deer season because mine was too long for me and I couldn’t sight it in.

I have no felonies, no unpaid traffic tickets.  I do, however, have a mental illness of bipolar disorder.   Does this mean I’m ill equipped to own a firearm and use it responsibly?  No, by itself, it does not.

I have multiple family and friends who have multiple firearms, and use them exclusively for hunting or for plinking tin cans off a bench at 1,000 yards.  They don’t have a mental illness.  Does their possession of multiple high powered firearms mean they are ill equipped to own a firearm and use it responsibly?  No, by itself, it does not.

So what is the common denominator here with the most recent spate of random gun violence?  My best guess is at the very least a lack of ability to properly express anger issues and more likely an underlying and untreated mental illness.

Yes, I said it.  Mental illness may, in a non-therapeutic state in my opinion, means someone should not have their 2nd amendment right to possess and carry a firearm.  Which leaves me at an awkward crossroad.  How should the ‘mental illness’ clause of gun ownership be defined, and by what means should someone be given a pass?

Now that’s a great question.

I definitely think gun ownership should be restricted, but let’s be realistic: there’s not any sort of accurate system in place or even pending which will help weed out those who shouldn’t have access to firearms.  Also, anyone who is bent on mass chaos and destruction will find a way, regardless of their arsenal.  The firearm is a means to an end.  It’s not the cause of the event, it’s simply a tool utilized to produce the result anticipated by some twisted and ill individual.  Additionally, anyone can realistically purchase a weapon at any gun show in the country and not have to produce anything more than cash.

If screening for ownership will not quell the tide, than what will?  Removing the stigma, recognizing the signs, and making treatment for mental illness is the key.

I don’t use the term mental illness lightly.  I have one, and the classification sucks on a personal level.  it’s a stigma, which still to this day prevents people from seeking care and being compliant with treatment plans.

Should people need a doctor’s note to be able to buy a gun?  Again, this isn’t going to do anything other than bog down the system with more data, and send those searching for a means to their own end to branch out and be more creative in their own destructive ways.

Ted Bundy used his charm and good looks.  Black Widows hardly ever use guns.  Jack the Ripper never used a gun.  Jeffrey Dahmer didn’t shoot victims.  Dennis Rader, the ‘BTK strangler” didn’t shoot anyone.  Timothy McVeigh used a truck bomb to kill multiple people.  David Koresh used psychological warfare for his rampage.  The common denominator is mental illness, a condition which still isn’t covered very well by insurance, even good insurance.

I don’t have anything approaching a good closing paragraph.  Insurance and society need to keep up with the reality of the times and be able t0 recognize and treat those who need it.  Until this happens, this sort of shit will continue to happen.

Random bipolar (and somewhat ADD) musings from the past 72 hours.

I’m guesstimating the 3672 hours, because I’m too lazy to pin down a time.

Why am I still driving through the spring snow of the Carl Sagan tree seed pods?!?  My car needs a bath every morning.

The guy at the thrift shop loves to sing and whistle what’s on the loudspeaker, but does it completely out of tune.

Seriously?  The turtle tank is fricking disgusting and I almost released ShaNikki into the wild today when I was at the office.  ShaNikki is the turtle I rescued from a Wegmans grocery store parking lot last year when she was no bigger than a half dollar.  Now she’s a voracious carnivore whose tank stinks worse than old Ralph the diabetic’s feet.

I bought Stephen King’s new novel “Mr. Mercedes” on audio CD in lieu of print.  The amount of references to his other previous works is disconcerting, simply because they’re not very well veiled.

The females I’ve seen walking this week are mostly early 20-somethings with shorts which are too short to properly cover their pasty white cellulite pocked thighs.photo (2)

I’ve shaved my legs so infrequently over the past few years I can’t do a proper job, even if I intend to.

Stephen King’s audiobook is NSFW for the most part because of the vulgarity.  Thank goodness for ear buds.

If the ortho doc doesn’t say I have ligament damage to my sprained ankle per MRI, I will be thoroughly pissed because that means I’m fat and lazy and the excess weight has screwed up my recovery.

Now that my hair is juuuuuust long enough to lie flat against my head, the boyish cowlick on the back of my head rears it’s ugly head and if it continues I’ll resemble Alfalfa from the Little Rascals.

Most of the Facebook quizzes are bullshit.  Okay, ALL of the Facebook quizzes are random bullshit with no basis in reality.

Did you know you’re supposed to curl your eyelashes before you paint them with mascara?

Some days I am ready for a nap at noon.

Stephen King is now writing crime novels, and it’s fantastic.

Leftover pork chops (boneless) are pretty damn tasty.

I’m giving up beer for gin & tonic, mostly hold the gin.  I love limes and I’m going broke on tonic water.  I will NOT have leg cramps, however.

Never overestimate the sexiness nor underestimate the effectiveness of a Breathe Right nasal strip.

If you break your nose a few times the Breathe Right strip shows off the deviated septum quite nicely.

If you are possibly legally blind, a selfie showing just how much narrower your face appears when refracted by the Hubble telescope is sigh worthy.

I finished “Mr. Mercedes” tonight.  I give it a solid 8.5.

Whatever happened to Terence Trent D’arby?  I thought he’d go places but sadly, no.

My cat is a spider monkey.  He’s climbing all over the back & sides of the carpeted bookcase, like Spiderman.  But he looks like a monkey.