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Crush enemies, abandon hope, and unleash endless waves of unrepentant sarcasm. |
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There's nothing to see here that's really out of the ordinary. Nothing really terribly interesting either, unless you like griping, gossip, grudges, and possible mental illness. If anything it's some small way to keep myself writing (though you'll see by the dates on the entries that it's by no means an effective way), as well as a means through which I can vent about any number of things that are pissing me off. Occasionally there's pie. Look: I'm not a normal person. I'm suffering from untreated depression and plagued by increasingly frequent migraines that pretty much render me bedridden for days. I've suffered a lifetime of abuse and neglect, and still have to struggle with unfathomable depths of low self-worth, not to mention the eating disorders. I'm a weirdo, a freak, an aberration of nature and human experience . . . but it doesn't make me interesting. So, you can read this if you want. I've got some social commentary that might be a little fun, and occasionally throw in a poem or two, but for the most part it's the ramblings of a stricken mind. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain; she's just trying to change her dress. |
| Tonight I am making what is looking to be the Prettyman staple dish, vegetable spaghetti. This time I'm using broccoli, asparagus, and as a new twist, onion roasted among the greens. Usually if I add onion, it is caramelized but I decided this might be fun and tasty. The vegetables were oiled using my usual efficient Tupperware Toss method, and since this jar of sauce is tangy and lacks depth, seasoned with salt, pepper, and oregano. Even though it's all going into tomato sauce, I feel that if the vegetables themselves have their own flavor underneath that of the sauce, it's an extra bit of happiness. Last night I made my first-ever marinade, in which I soaked my chicken and vegetables for a mere 30 minutes or so, but it was late and Will was hungry. I completely forgot to add salt and pepper to the marinade, which cannot be forgiven, but it was still excellent. It will definitely be better next time. I do think I will have to whisk the oils and herbs together longer, as there was a lot of separation of oil and vinegar on the pan when I pulled the food. Or perhaps that is typical. Also I am getting much better at filleting chicken; those halves were very close to uniform size. |
| Will: Writing is an art, not a bowel movement. Me: Yes, and like a bowel movement, it requires work and practice to do it regularly and on demand. Also, not pregnant, but I'm going to look into at least the implant very soon, if not all-out tubal ligation. No babies for the Lyssah. |
| I mainly logged on to gripe about how my period is late and I'm displeased with my body trying to scare me into thinking we had a mishap with a condom. Yes, there was a bit of substance on the bed, but we're certain it was from me, and we examined that condom even more thoroughly than usual (I'm not grossing you out, am I? This isn't too much information, is it?)). But then I saw the date of the last entry, and felt shock and shame that it has been a full thirteen months since my last attempt at contributing to this website. I have no honor. But yeah, but to bitching about menstruation: the damn flow better start soon. As it is, I'm going to spend the entirety of my next cycle during my beach vacation, and extending the inevitable is annoying. Also I am cramping and sweating and very bloated. I finally got over my typical nausea/constipation/indigestion bout this morning, and lemme tell you: I was looking up heart attack symptoms, I was so damn ill and uncomfortable. I hate my menstrual cycle, and when it pulls shit like this, I'm ready for the whole system to just be yanked clean out. I am considering getting my tubes tied soon. I only hope I can find a doctor who will perform the procedure rather than try to convince me that I just haven't really, truly considered the benefits of owning a fine set of encyclopedias, oh, I'm sorry, I meant children. Of course I'm not comparing reproductive doctors to door-to-door salesmen intent on selling me something I can't afford and that I'm not actually very keen on to begin with. How ever could such a thing be confused? Look, I get it: babies are great and you'd hate for someone who may not have seriously thought about long-term ramifications to undergo irreversible surgery that they may come to regret. That's great for someone around 21, but I'm in my early thirties, and while I haven't exactly made leaps and bounds forward in my life, thanks to a wretched job market and repeated financial setbacks, my brain is nice and mature, and I've thought deeply about what I truly want in life, and what I can handle in life. I can't handle a child with my growing depression and anxiety, and neither can Will. Even if we were more mentally (and financially) secure, there are too many serious health issues in my genes that risk afflicting an innocent child with a life of misery similar to my own. No one deserves that, if it can be avoided, and I will make this curse end with me. Besides, if things improve in five to ten years, and Will and I feel comfortable with raising a human being, there are many adoption agencies that can fulfill our desire. I do like the idea of nursing, as it is much healthier for the child, but plenty of infants are raised without ever tasting breast milk, so neither of us will miss out too much. I don't know whether or not my mind will change about child-rearing, but I do know I hurt too much to pass on my conditions. My DNA is tainted, and this is one way to reduce the amount of suffering in the world. That got depressing. Soooooo, yeah! Come on, crimson tide! Let the floodgates be sundered, and may the scarlet wash of my body rain red hell upon the shores of the Earth! Or, just my panties, if I don't notice it in time to put on a shield. |
| So I never updated my blog again. Sounds like me. I just dropped in to say that yes, I'm still flooded with insistent thoughts that I end my life now before it's too late, but now Will is living with me, and we are having quite excellent sex more frequently than ever. I am enjoying the sex, and apparently I'm quite good at it. |
| I am incredibly depressed right now. Just wanted to say it. |
| You Have Better Hygiene Habits Than Literally Anyone Else Let me start off this segment with a personal disclosure: I loathe auto-flush. It wastes gallons of water per visit, it never seems to go off at the correct time, and in most cases it's fucking violent. How many of you dear readers have barely had a chance to sit down and begin your business when the toilet flushes itself and showers your backside with cold water that you must now mop up (as if toilet paper wasn't already in scarce supply in public restrooms)? If you're trying to change your pad or tampon, you can expect the deafening roar of frantically evacuating water at least three times before you actually exit the stall. And again, half the time the sensor doesn't register that part of the visit, so your waste is visible for the next lucky person paying homage to the sewer wizard. Now that I've gotten all of my readers to think uncharacteristically hard about their lavatorial preferences, allow me to bite the bullet and admit that automated flushing systems are one-hundred percent necessary in the workplace. |
| And this is why I don't like to drink heavily. Last night at Kevin's cookout I got pretty sloshed, to the point of knocking over a bedside table (which I did catch before anything fell or broke). Will was also drunk so we ended up staying the night in one of the guest rooms, and let me tell ya: I am hungover. I don't feel sick and I don't have a headache, but I've spent the whole day in a fuzzy fog of fatigue, maintaining my consciousness despite the increasing weight of my skull and appendages. Factor in my dog allergy, and a solidly-plugged sinus canal adds to an already unpleasant morning. Today was spent recovering. I am also very sore and tender about the midsection. Will and I got a little carried away with our fooling around, and we ended up having about a half-minute's worth of unprotected sex. Now, I just had my period, and Will was nowhere near ejaculating while inside me, so odds of pregnancy are pretty slim, but we are responsible (read: paranoid and neurotic) and opted to make extra-special-certain that no breeding will result from our drunken indiscretions. I got home (eventually, since Will was still spinning when we woke up), took a shower and a nap, and hopped out to the Rite Aid for some good ol' Plan B. Now I am baby-safe. Hooray! It's not the most comfortable I've ever been. I feel like I've been stuffed into a corset and battered with the blunt end of a lirpa until I'm soft and bruised all around my sides and belly, and down my arms and legs. Oddly enough, the part that is supposed to be sore (to wit, my breasts) actually don't hurt that much. Ah hormones. They fuck you every time, especially if you have been fucking, yourself. So now to rest off the soreness, secure in the knowledge that I have virtually no chance of pregnancy despite my foolishness. Maybe the pill wasn't necessary, but I'd rather not have to worry about the expense of pregnancy and childbirth (or of an abortion) just because I didn't feel like paying fifty bucks when it would have made a difference. |
| (Why do I always feel the need to do each entry in a different pretty color?) To celebrate maturity in the workplace, I have bet Roger that I can go sixteen hours, the equivalent of two days' work, without complaining about stupid mistakes made by Mike and Joann while recruiting for upcoming studies. We appear to have five studies coming up "sometime very soon" (allegedly) and I have open doubts about Joann's ability to comprehend what is on her computer screen and Mike's ability to give two fucks. As is well known to pretty much everyone of my acquaintance, I am rather vocal about my displeasure with petty fuck-ups, and tend to care way too much about correcting other people's mistakes. For this reason, I am challenging myself to calm the fuck down and let other people dig their own holes without giving myself an ulcer trying to fix everything. I have a bag of chips riding on this, and I am determined to see it through. Not that the extra sodium and carbohydrates will really add to the benefit of me calming down for half a week (if anything it's just going to negate any benefits from the lowered blood pressure), but hey: chips. And I'm going to check the expiration date on the bag, so if Roger tries to pass off some ill-gotten, half-expired admissions-counter shill, I shall throw it in his face and demand another package. Bought with American money this time, not communistic theft. |
| Few things are worse than having a job that you absolutely despise. One of those things is having to continue going to that despised job when there is no work to be done, and you are prohibited by way of Internet restrictions from visiting websites that might do something to relieve the soul-raping tedium of eight hours doing precisely nothing. This is around the second week of having absolutely dick to do. We're been waiting on one particular study for like three weeks now, and we've been told to our faces, our miens, yea, each separate and individual countenance, that the study will start any day now. We're just waiting on the signatures from Altria signifying their approval and condescension to allow us to attend to business. I'm beginning to wonder whether we will even live to start recruiting for this e-cig study. After three weeks of promises that we'll be busy this day or the next, you start to develop some doubts, you know? So yeah, here I am on Writing-Dot-Com (which is apparently about to become 15 Peas Writing-Dot-Com or some crazy thing like that [And yes, I know that's not the actual URL, I'm making fun of myself for being away so long and then not bothering to get informed about upcoming changes]), just typing away on this random-ass blog entry, listening to my coworkers talk about some comedy show (I think) and how Rochelle's man drives her mad, and what they're doing for Mother's Day and what they might do for Father's Day, and slowly losing my mind (by which I mean the normal rate of my oncoming insanity has been slightly increased). I'm perusing Cake Wrecks at the moment, but I'll probably be back to Writing-Dot-Com in a bit for some fun free association. Maybe working with my boredom rather than succumbing to it's vitality-quashing influence (as is my wont) will give me a creative boost and urge me to put some small thing to paper (Well not really paper but- ugh. You know what I mean). Wish me luck, Mother Russia |
| I'm sad and miserable and just want to sleep forever, with occasional breaks for food. That's about all I have to say about life right now, apart from pondering if it still counts as self-mutilation if you scratch yourself only to get relief from migraine. Mmmyep, that's all I have got. |
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