e·vis·cer·ate v., e·vis·cer·at·ed, e·vis·cer·at·ing, e·vis·cer·ates
v., tr.
1. To remove the entrails of; disembowel.
2. To take away a vital or essential part of:
a compromise that eviscerated the proposed bill.
3. Medicine:
a. To remove the contents of (an organ).
b. To remove an organ, such as an eye, from (a patient).
v. intr. Medicine:
To protrude through a wound or surgical incision.
(from Dictionary.com)
Over on DJ I get into some pretty terrifying areas, what with the ranting and the poetry about death and the screaming about the personal life and all. This is a random collection, good stuph trimmed, of various writings I originally posted over there.
9 August 2002
3:14:59 AM
and all that's best of dark and bright
There are things that help me get through my days, things that help me understand that I am loved and I am not alone and
I am needed to this world. Unfortunately, one of the big motivators to my existence keeps leaving to go to work. And whenever I'm left alone these days, I think too much. I think about everything. And it's not good for me.
Part of why I started this is that I know myself, at least a little. 35 years together with me has taught me a few things about where I live, and what I do there. And one of the things I do is obsess.
It's interesting being an obsessive-compulsive. People toss around the term, but really, when they break it down into why we do the things we do, why we think the things we do, they don't understand. They can't. Most people literally do not have spaces in their brain that can even approximate what goes through a chronic hand-washer's head, or someone who, every single day, six times every hour, considers the thought of seriously mutilating children.
(What outsiders need to understand more than anything else: the compulsions--hand-washing, ordering, counting and the like--come from deeper issues and chemical dysfunctions that are not being addressed. The obsessions--the thoughts of self-damage, the thoughts of homicide, the thoughts of mutilation of self or others--are things that the obsessive would never, and I do mean never seriously do. But it's not something you can openly discuss, is it? Pull aside one of your mates and tell them you were considering stabbing your hand over and over again, for about four hours today before you managed to shake the thought, and if they really love you, they'll try to get you committed somewhere. If they don't, they'll stop being your friend. Is it any wonder we don't discuss these things openly?)
So. OCD. Obsessive-compulsive disorder. I actually felt a great sense of relief when the film As Good as It Gets came out, even though most of my friends were laughing at how unbelieveable it was. Sure, he's more progressed along the compulsion path than I am...but the funny thing about OCD is that it gets worse. I was mild ten years ago. I'm approaching moderate now. Gods alone know what I'll be ten years from now.
Possibly by then I'll be in Monk territory, that new series from USA starring Tony Shalhoub. I've heard this series described as 'quirky'. I love the series--I love Tony Shalhoub's intimate, open-hearted acting style in anything he does--but I, being someone with OCD, wouldn't see it as 'quirky', per se. Most of the small behaviors you see on that show I've possessed at one time or another, or have now. For me it's not adding up the jellybeans in the carnival jar, though, or remembering how the Clue cards were shuffled together. For me it's remembering the oddest trivia notes, generally about musicians and actors. I am a walking fount of useless trivia. I can tell you on whom James Marsters really based his interpretation of the Spike character from. I can tell you John Wayne's real first name. I can define a hemidemiquaver. None of this is really useful, it's just information locked in my head. It's all in where your passions lie, I suppose.
Which, oddly enough, brings me back to this. This drives nails into the tender flesh of my psyche. This journal, this semi-public forum. Knowing anyone, at any time, could happen across this--knowing that three people now have asked for this address (and knowing I've freely given it to them, because that's part of the process)--it drives me up the wall. It itches under my skin, deep where I can't seem to scratch, makes me want to rip up the metaphoric layers, until I get down to the raw and bleeding meat of me, laying me open and easing the itch.
You see? Or do you not yet understand? Having this, having these thoughts of mine, public and not private, it's forcing me to consider myself from other angles. Because I know me. I know I won't let me take this down until it doesn't hurt anymore.
The last time I did this, it took a year. It took a year of stress and tension and pain, and working, digging, revealing constantly, finding where I was hiding and jabbing at myself until I ran out screaming, into the light. It's a brutal process. There is nothing of care and gentility in it.
But nothing else seems to work with me.
So here we stand. The maybe 2.5 readers I have, off and on, and me. And now I get to try to fix myself, so that I can pull back into my shell and go hide in the shadows again, safe from public view.
It's a hell of a thing.
music: Alanis Morrisette, "That Particular Moment"
mood: pensive
10 August 2002
3:25:00 AM
hmm. interesting.
Deadjournal was down for most of today. When I finally log in, I find two things:
First, they've done an update, and made several things much more easier to accomplish. Yay, them.
Second, they've managed to erase three of my entries somehow and truncate certain others. Fuckers.
So, here we are again, posting that friend's rant to another list here, simply because I think it needs to be preserved, in some form, as a basis for future dialogue, if nothing else.
===
From: [g]
Date: Tue Apr 16, 2002 2:18 am
Subject: In which I rage
Okay. That's it. That's it, that's it, I'm quitting. I can't do this anymore. I'm fucking snowed under
with homework like you wouldn't believe, I work now, I'm living in two houses at once so I've
completely lost my centre of balance, the Rocky cast is fighting, the student magazine is on the brink
of being shut down, and my friend just called me and said he looked up [my name] and found some
pornographic fanfic...
"You have a doppelganger," he said. "Your doppelganger is weird," he said. He sounded weirded out.
I feel nearly dead. I'm nearly crying. He had to find that bloody NC-17 one, the most suggestive [fic
I've written]. I feel sick to my stomach. And there's no way I'm comfortable with this. There is no way,
even without casual judgement from friends, that I can justify doing this regularly, as a hobby, more
than an hour a day on the pornographic. It's not fucking healthy. Even if it is, I don't like myself for
doing it. I never have. Other people made me like myself by complimenting me on my fic - but even
then, all it was doing was encouraging me to write more fanfic and not write stuff that might get me
published. Stuff I can actually show to people.
Where will slash get me? A bit of writing practice, sure, develop my skills. But only some skills. It'll never
teach me character development. And this constant to-ing and fro-ing of "yes it's okay" and "no it's not
okay" is wearing me out. I can't *do* this. I'm taking a step back. I'm going cold turkey for awhile. I'm
unsubscribing. I won't be getting emails from the list anymore, so there's not much point continuing this
discussion there. If you want, you can drop me a line though, you all still have my email address. And
doubtless I will soon regret this email typed in anger and resubscribe and go through the cycle many,
many times more. Hopefully, though, I won't. I just can't do this anymore. I CAN'T. I really am crying
now. I never talk to you guys about my issues with slash, which is weird because you know the most
about it. But in another way it makes perfect sense because you're in the same boat as me. You're slash
people. I'm a slash person. But that doesn't mean I have to get so fucking absorbed in this fucking
world when I have a *life* to be living. And I'm not fucking living it. And it's not slash's fault, I know
that. But now I work. That's over 10 hours less I have a week. And so this is something that's got to go.
No more. This Is It.
Oh, god...
Why do I have to be such a fucking melodrama queen?
FUCK I'm angry.
This is an email typed at high speed. This is not an email I have read over. This is not an email I've
thought about beforehand. I've got to do this now. I've got to act on impulse, or I'll never do it. I'll let
myself take part in a world I take part in mostly to hold myself back. Yes - keep on reading slash!
Hate yourself more! Keep on feedbacking - use up time you don't have!
Being on lists made me feel better about myself for liking slash because I found out there were other
people out there like me. But I know that now. I don't have to be reminded. I don't need to hang around
having gorgeous, brilliant conversations with like-minded people throughout the world - 'cos I don't ring
my RL friends hardly ever. I don't write the stories that used to be in my head, before all this.
The other thing that happened to spark this is I "came out" as a slash fan and writer to my closest and
dearest sister. She didn't think any less of me for it. But she doesn't think it's a very high form of
literature. And I have to say I agree with her. I mean, it can be amazing writing, as many of you
people have proven. And it's amazing that I can hang out and communicate with such writers on a
regular basis. But This Is Not Working for me. I can't do this. I know I keep typing that, but it's what
keeps coming back. I can't do this anymore.
And yes, I know I was contributing away like a happy [person] only yesterday, but I wasn't happy. I
was desperately trying to get back into the swing of things. I was in denial. I was in denial that I don't
want this anymore. Or at least, I can't want this anymore. Cos I can't do this anymore. And, fuck, I'm
getting repetitive, but I am ceasing to care.
And that's all. That's all I can think of. I love you all. Goodbye.
[g]
===
I'd add that, of the wide group of disparate reactions that this individual got, I found it interesting that, for the most part, there were only two of us that seemed--publically, at least--to support her decision to step back and get out of slash. And we were attacked for that, until the admin of the list stepped in and calmed things down. I find it interesting that certain communities cannot seem to take criticism.
Which, yes, all relates back to the local pagan weirdness, I suppose, but still. It seems a great fallacy to say we are these open-minded creatures for writing slash in the first place, using other peoples' creations to fuel our fantasy lives, and then get that irate when someone in our group stands up and says, "Hey! Get the fuck outside! Get lives! This is non-productive!"
Well, she said it was non-productive and eating her head, essentially, but still.
Is it possible to write slash, read it, search out new stories and new fandoms and not feel that sense of embarrassment? I haven't met a slash writer yet who can openly tell people what she or he does with their head held high. Doesn't that say something?
music: Monk series theme song
mood: disappointed
13 August 2002
21:39:00 PM
oh for a flamethrower...
...and a gallon of acid gel...
There's another list I'm on. Mostly it's about Loki. Of course we wander off on any distracting impulse, *because* it's the Loki List, but we're used to that. It feels very much like an actual salon, more than any list I've been on--really, like a group of interesting people all sitting around engaging each other in fascinating conversation.
Occasionally, some wandering yahoo wanders in and drones on for a bit, and we've been lighting them on fire and sending them on their way. Sometimes this is a good thing. Sometimes it's not. The latest cat toy was someone who came on the list mostly, I think, to advertise his hip-hop music site...which is profoundly tacky, let alone not what the list is for, you know?>br>
Besides, he can't spell, the ad guy. It's a pet peeve, but it's my pet peeve. If one cannot spell *and* one cannot remember how to properly code an URL address besides--because that was the other problem, he never coded the URL in right so that people who might WANT to go be bothered by local New York hip-hop could go do so...then what business can one possibly have in a written-word environment?
Sad, really.
This was a reply I made to something he sent to someone else:
aggghhh...
1. Obviously I'm not speaking for everyone. But I really resent the amount of spam on the internet already. You're approaching spambait level.
2. LEARN. TO. SPELL. Most people really only need to run around on 300 words. Anyone can learn that. Do it.
Ah, it's sad to be in a match of wits with an unarmed person. Still, he started it, didn't he? Another reply I sent his direction, back when he still thought debating me was a fine and fun idea:
[J]. One so small bit of advice. It is always best to try to learn a little of where your opponent lives, in the theoretical sense, in order to best know where to send your barbs. So far, you've hit me with the homosexual 'slur'--and, well, considering I actually own a full-size pride flag, that doesn't even begin to hit the mark--and of being male.
(Looks down. Nope, breasts still there. Hmm, the beard could be confusing him. Ah, well.)
And now this. Depending on interpretation, either that I'm very smart and a shut-in, or very smart and socially inverted. Well, I'll grant you--though it stings not in the least--the partial shut-in part. It's true, I don't socialize that much. I spend perhaps only ten, fifteen days out of each month with friends, either going to films or plays, or playing board or card games at one of several houses, or in general, just attending parties. So it's true, I'm not the social butterfly I once was, you have me there.
And I am rather shy. Deeply. I usually do not introduce myself in social gatherings; in fact, friends of mine have gone so far as to slap name-tags on me so that someone I'm conversing with will actually know my name. I'm very bad at the 'Hi-how-are-you' motif.
And...robots? Perhaps, to the smallest extent, are you reaching? True, I do enjoy both "Monster Garage" and "Battlebots" as light entertainment, but still, they don't lead me to the conversations-with-robots point.
Unless you were trying to imply obliquely that I am a robot, in which case, you missed the mark again. All too human, [J]. Try again.
And something I said in passing to someone else on the topic of said nimrod:
Hmm. Much as I'm enjoying this--and truly, I am, this has been a marvelous diversion from my regular life--I don't think I can honestly commit to a full-out arena-wide Gallery session with someone who...well, doesn't seem to understand that one can debate principle, discuss argumentatively, and downright argue, for *miles* before one needs to resort to personal slurs. If ever, that is, personal slurs are required in a verbal battle.
It's rather like kicking a small dog.
Not that I'm not having fun distracting the puppy.
I'd have to say, for me to seriously consider opening this up as an actual Match, I'd want a few conditions met.
1. [J] would have to agree. He hasn't yet.
2. [J] would have to understand the rules of the game being presented. He doesn't seem to.
or, if 1 and 2 are unacceptable to [his] current mode of thought,
3. [J] would have to get a LOT more offensive. In a manner in which I might, actually, take offense. Which seems to be the difficult part for him. Aside from typing.
And spelling.
And big words.
Kel
I'll wait.
And then he wrote a big rant to the list, which sadly, I didn't save, and I. Went. Off.
Here we go again.
First group of points. Since you showed up on the scene so abruptly, with that misplaced ad that got my ire roused in the first place, perhaps it is that [PX] did not give you her standard intro for the list. This may well be the case. I won't attempt to steal her thunder, if that's something she still wishes to do, but I would point out that this is a list wherein cyberbouts occur. Sometimes friendly matches, sometimes all the way to flame-war behavior, but we as a group are not known for behaving ourselves, and this list might well reflect that.
However. One of these matches was not specifically offered to you. Nor will it occur around you, in the sense of sucking you into something in which you do not wish to be involved--that of a friendly debate where two individuals choose to represent opposite sides of an issue, and have fun parlaying verbal skills and rapier wits.
Second group of points. In general it is polite to answer to a new voice on the scene; it registers that one has noticed them, that one welcomes them in to conversations already in progress. On the other hand, you didn't bother to introduce yourself, either. You posted an ad inappropriately, without making sure it was a service we might even want, and then flipped us attitude about calling you on it. Which is why I 'bothered' to answer you in the first place.
After commenting (inappropriately) that if he wanted to 'break me down' he was sure he could get enough 'big words' out of the dictionary to do enough damage to get me to 'drool spit' onto my keyboard...(what the fuck??)...I sent this back in response:
[J],
I'm sure you could, if you ever managed to figure out enough about me to insult me appropriately. But that has never been the point of this little waltz. If I wanted to insult you, in such a way as to leave scars, I probably could as
well, given the time and further exposure to your personality. But I don't. I don't know you, either. Sadly, based on your initial behavior, I don't really care to. On the other hand, there was a potential waste of oxygen posting just before your arrival that I also thought bore no resemblance to anything that needed to walk upright, and he ended up apologizing and asking for a break from the flaying. We gave him that break. Depending on his behavior when he returns, we'll probably continue to slice him small portions of slack.
You haven't learned yet. Some points to ponder, since you haven't seemed to understand anything else on this list:
- several of us are gay, lesbian, bisexual, and, in at least one example of which I'm aware, transgendered. 'Normal', everyday straights are in the minority here. Though they are here. How'ver, even among those few individuals, calling someone 'gay' or a 'homo' does not exactly fly. 'Fucking homo' in particular is needlessly crude, and makes you look like some sub-level glue-sniffer. I'm sure that's not how you think of yourself, so consider where you are.
- it's not how well you compose sentences, how completely you comprehend proper grammar, nor how much or how little of a specific type of slang you choose to use. The point--in any online list, not just this one--is to make yourself easily understood. If you are questioned, you must be able to explain yourself. You have not made yourself easily understood, nor, when questioned, have you been able to adequately explain yourself. It might help you to remedy this.
- several of us here, if not all of us, worship Loki, who is not, as you might have been led to believe, a hip-hop star. If you have no passing acquaintance with Loki as a Norse god, then perhaps that's been the problem all along.
I'm sure you've read the definitions of the phrase 'cat toy' that have been sent prior to this, so I won't redefine it, save to say, it might be in your best interests to figure out why you're on this minimal list--that is, list of active cat toys; I think there's only one and a half individuals on the list currently--and decipher how best to extricate yourself from said position.
Again he tried to be sly, even though, in my radically tear-down, bitchy style, I was trying to help him, and compared me to one of those 'beeyotches' that listens to 'two songs on the cd' and skips through the rest. I think that was his way of telling me I was a fashion victim. Which was, yet again, simply mystifying as an insult.
[J], [J], [J]...yet another insult that is probably carefully chosen and carefully aimed, and then manages to completely miss the mark. Since you brought it up, I actually indulge in repetitive CD behavior, wherein I will play one or two songs on the CD over and over. However, that is always balanced by the playing of the full CD now and again. Music is a strange and charmed medium. There are artists I adore who release one or two albums, and I like one and dislike the other. Or like only partial songs on one. There are other artists who make entire albums that I consider perfect. Prince's 1999 is the first example that springs to mind. But it varies from artist to artist, from song to song. Rarely have I bought an album by an artist I like, and decided that the song I bought it for was the only one worth listening to, which I think is part of the point you're trying to make.
Then the listmod got involved, wondering what this yod had done that was so bad. This was my answer:
Well, I can answer why I've been handing him body parts on a platter--one was because he seemed to be (and said he was) new here, so I had assumed that 'new' meant 'in the last week or so', not 'in the last year or so'. Potential bad on my part (and with the musician reference, potential bad on another, for which I'll claim responsibility and apologize at that point to him, because it's already posted and gone).
It was the ad. It was the ad and the attitude behind the ad, and again, it's a so small simple thing--"Dunno if you guys are interested, but hey, check this out". Instead he comes on the list, all bluster and lack of coherency, and posts an ad.
This may just be a me thing, which is why I'm still responding to him, I think. I walk into one email account and have to clear at least 30 spam-mails every time I do. I walk into the other one and generally have to clear 50. That's *when* I'm checking every six hours--if I don't, if I let it go even so far as *two days*, I have over 100 or more to deal with! So far, I have two accounts mostly clear of spam, but I shouldn't have to have any. And it's all dreck. I don't want the penis I don't have to be enlarged, engorged, rendered infertile or shaved. I'm not really interested in the pre-teen thing, thanks ever so. I don't own a house, so leave the mortgage mails at home. I don't *want* a free trial offer of whatever it is they think is so keen. Just...garbage.
And that's just spam--imagine my luck when one of my friends gets infected with the latest round of Klez and starts spewing tainted emails my direction. That's ever so much fun...
So yeah. That was it. That was it and everything else was just a step in the wrong direction, having already irked me. I am willing to back up and start again, but he's not going to be free from suspicion for some while. Asking is one thing. Posting untargeted ads is spam. Maybe I'm the only one this hardline.
And so far, that's all he's done to date.
music: "Voices in My Head", Dennis Leary
mood: aggravated
13 August 2002
22:57:19 PM
can you die of longing
can't stand it cannot stand it do not know what to do
want to sleep want to go to sleep and not wake up and not feel like this
and the back of my head is screaming and I can't make out the words
and half of me wants to contact this man who walked away from me once before
and half of me wants to drown in sleep and never be conscious again
and the rest of me realizes there are no more halves and there are no more options and there's just too much stress
and I can't take it I can't I can't I can't take it
and I don't know what to do
and I'm drowning, not waving
and there's no one here.
...
no one. no one. no one here. no one but the head that's too full of stress and the cats who are arguing with each other and the dread of each new day. and what can I say to my love in life, my other half, that won't make her climb the walls with stress and worry? half the time I talk to her she freaks out and has me on suicide watch, the other half she laughs lightly and hugs me and says I'm goofy. what is it in what I'm saying, which hasn't changed, that garners the different reaction?
and I want to write him. I want to say hello. I want to say hello, remember me, and have him pour all this lovely understanding light-hearted affection my way because I am far too alone in my own head and my own head is scaring me.
and I don't sleep I don't want to sleep I do everything to avoid sleep.
would it be so bad if she were here more? she is scrambling this hard because she was unemployed again, because working is easier than sitting at home like I do, and she's off her meds again, though she is less emotionally striated this time than she has been in the past. because she's off her meds she's striving forward with all that is in her, because looking forward scares her less than standing still.
standing still scares me less than moving.
and what is it going to take, what's it going to take? I wait in dread for next week and the endo appointment, wherein I will be told I'm fine, or I have what we know I already have, an ailment for which there seems to be no simple cure, or, the nagging option deep in the backbrain, the tests will show something new, something I'm not prepared for, and will that be able to be medicated?
will any of my symptoms ever go away? is it possible to be healed while under state care? is it possible to recover, period?
and I'm so tired and I've been sleeping and I want to sleep again and I'm scared of sleeping.
I look up at the word collage over my head. "she's come undone" is the first phrase I see. how apropos.
I can't take this I can't take this I can't take this. I don't have the coping skills.
(but I know that I do. I will resent myself for days but I will force myself to go to bed eventually and set the alarm so that I may rise earlier and get myself together and walk out the door because it's All I Can Do. I don't have any other options. I can't go to the hospital and don't want to anyway. I can't go to the doctor's because she's not in town. I can't just not leave the house because then I lose the potential to get food and services from my grant.
(so I will go. I will sleep and I will dream and I will shudder and I will wake and not remember the dreaming. and I will prepare and I will walk upstairs and I will emerge into the overbright day and count down one more slice of my life gone. because there is Nothing Else to Do.
(and because it is All I Can Do.)
mourning the loss of vision
music: "Voodoo", Godsmack
mood: morose
13 August 2003
21:39:00 PM
random things signifying nothing
This from another list I'm on, this one dealing with MPD issues:
There's a problem. I've mentioned this in passing, but at present, there's something going wrong. For the past...hell, I'm moving into four weeks...I haven't been sleeping well. I tend to push myself until I literally pass out from fatigue, and still wake myself up several times at night, getting no real rest. I move in a surreal daze through my daily life, and occasionally just pass out at random, sleeping for many hours every few days. I'm getting nothing done. I can't figure out what's going on, other than there's something going on deep under the surface.
A week ago, I went to bed, and followed that with deep breathing, and something that has always worked for me--an intensive relaxation exercise, followed by a light trance. I hoped it would help me get down to whatever was going on,
underneath the surface.
For the first time in 25 years, I was unable to go into trance. I kept pulling myself out of it. And the longer I went on, the harder I tried, the worse it got, the more anxious I became, until I eventually ended up getting up again, tired as I was, and reading until nine that morning before I stumbled back to bed.
My partner keeps saying she's going to try to help me trance down, see if we both can figure out what's happening, what's keeping me up, but again there's a problem--between one thing and another, she's been working too hard of late--suddenly--to have any energy left to help me out. I'm trying not to see coincidence as conspiracy, but it's difficult.
She keeps saying things like, "maybe you need to deal with Janice (very poisoned small child, origin unknown), it could be important". Or she'll mention the names of some other alters, some names of which I've never heard from her until now. And I would, save for that I can't seem to sleep or to relax enough to 'hear' them...if I need to 'hear' them...if I can 'hear' them.
There's something pressing, something happening, and I can't figure out what it is, and it's getting worse.
If any of you have any ideas, I'm very open to suggestions.
Kel
if your foundation is unsteady you have taken the first step
(unknown)
So far, no one's written back.
music: machine noises
mood: stressed
14 August 2002
14:56:00 PM
can't sleep clowns will eat me
I'm so tired right now. Two hours ago I was falling asleep at the keyboard, literally nodding off, unable to keep my head up. I stumbled off to bed, not even able to sign off the computer and shut it down, and spent the next hour twitching.
My head ached. My knees ached brutally, the way they do before a storm blows in. My body wouldn't stay still. My mind wouldn't shut off.
But I was so tired. All I wanted to do was sleep. And all I ended up doing was sit there, eyes closed, trying to relax enough for unconsciousness.
My partner saw me after I got up, when I was stumbling down the hall to the bathroom (because after everything, suddenly my bladder woke up, and added to the problem by demanding to be emptied at once). I was dazed, sleepy, irate, confused, and incoherent. She decided to come in and help 'spell' me to sleep, something she's had to do more and more often these past two weeks.
She came in, placed a hand on my head, and does whatever she does when she does what she does. Only this time it didn't work. It made the headache worse, for one, and I protested, and she moved her hand. That didn't work, either, because after a few moments, my eyes started to vibrate, and I made some sound, pulling away.
"You're fighting me," she said, sounding sad.
"I don't mean to," I responded sleepily.
"Part of you doesn't want to come forward."
"I want to."
"Well, not all of you wants to."
"I wish I could make up my own mind, already."
And she curled up behind me, gently laughing, but it was still frustrating. And I still couldn't sleep. I was tired, and achy, and now a bit depressed and frustrated, and my bones hurt, and I was still awake.
About that time the kitten hopped up on the bed, and began attacking all the feet in sight, and I gave up.
I want to sleep. At least, I think I want to sleep. Why can't I sleep?
music: everything's too loud right now
mood: aggravated
17 August 2002
22:55:00 PM
every time I move my head my neck cracks
don't think it's a good thing.
I just caught myself. I just caught myself deciding, on the one hand, that I'd be going to bed at eleven, and then setting up the perimeters for a net-wide hunt for information which would have included creating at least one new page (which means coding by hand, as I don't use any software coding applications), having three other windows open, and lots of time for writing things out, plus uploading and downloading of graphic files.
I would have been up until my lady got home.
fuck, I would've still been up tomorrow.
what the hell is this? I'm still passing out inappropriately--at some point during nearly every day I just fold up. I stagger from the comp, or from the chair, or from the kitchen, and go curl up on the couch or the bed and...it's not even sleep, really, because I stagger in and lie down and then I'm gone, I'm erased, I'm the prototypical null set...and when I wake, I find I never moved, not once, and have no memory of dreaming.
so the fatigue toxins are building up in droves, I'm now to the point of making really obvious fucking mistakes, confusing times, events, appointments, people...and yet, I still set myself up like this. I really thought, until I paused long enough to think it through, that it was just a 'little surfing' and then off to bed with me.
so add lying to myself to the list of faults as well. fuck.
I'm at the four-week mark now, wavering between passing out, insomnia and staggering fatigue. I don't know how much more of this I can take. I don't know how much more of this I want to.
music: "Parcel of Rogues", Steeleye Span
mood: overtired
Write me.
Go onto the next one, if you like. Or you could go back to Blood & Coffee and forget the whole thing. Up to you.
Background provided by:
