railenthe: (Default)
My wisdom tooth came in curved sideways.

IT DID A BARREL ROLL.

Long story short, I need surgery.

Also I got to see my TMJ on an X-RAY

It made the dentist say "holy crap"

Dizzy.

The tooth has an infected by abscess. Every once in a while I hear a fizzle and a pop in that side of my head, shooting that weird nerve sensation through my face. We're waiting it out, but it's pretty far gone—even my sinuses and one ear are in on it, and I'm spinning where I lay. The fact that we evolutionarily outran wisdom teeth is a sour fact right now considering one of them is kicking my ass.
railenthe: (Default)
 

For the past few days—probably because it's been close to the anniversary of the dumpage—my ex has been on my mind.


Don't worry, I'm OK, nothing drastic is about to happen nor is it in any way shape or form risky. What's been on my mind are the things about me that probably would have gotten me out of the “relationship” even without the circumstances that there were.


For one: the sexual incompatibility


We weren't exactly sexually compatible, and he just assumed we would be based off of things that he heard about me—and let's face it, that's kind of shitty. He'd heard about my writing and assumed off the bat that I would be some kind of hyper-sexed animal when, in reality, I could take it or leave it for...oh, most of the month. And he was a greedy little punk. So greedy that it the relationship started with—well, you know by now.


STOP MEANS STOP. NO MEANS NO.


After it was all said and done and I found out how he used to complain about my lack of desire (in a tone of “oh poor me,” of course) to mutual friends, I REALLY got disgusted with him. Well, more than usual.


I'm probably somewhere around grey-sexual, if I were to put a name to it. I don't COMPLETELY not experience it, but it is so rare that I'll sometimes


Then there's my gender


And his issue with my attempts to explore it. There were many attempts, and there were attempts at talking, but he would shut me down at every attempt about it. And then there was this attempt at policing what I wore by stopping me from buying argyle socks. Seriously. Argyle socks. He bitched at me for wanting argyle socks. Said they would make me look like Ellen. At the same time he would try and manipulate my wardrobe to make me look more to-his-standards-femme—which wasn't me. I just wasn't allowed to figure things out for myself—which should have been my first warning, but I got into that relationship when I was getting out of another one and that one was coming from a deficit of touch…there's something to be said for bad decisions.


After I got out of that thing I had time to figure out what was going on with myself, especially since there was no one telling me what was isn't or is 'proper' for me to do and be.


He would have had suuuuuuch a problem with me being queer. He pretended to be so progressive but it was obvious there was a problem. I wasn't allowed to explore in any way.


I'm free now, though. Free to be queer me.


That's the other thing, the freedom

I never thought I'd enjoy it as much as I do. I find that I don't care about what people think of me (well, as long as they don't misgender me) as much as I used to. Now that I have the chance and space to be who and what I am, it's a lot easier to just be than it used to be. It's just so much easier, not having to worry whether I'm “enough” to one person.


I just have to be me. Me enough for me. And that's freeing.

railenthe: (Default)
The news came at an unexpected time—the date of my rent re-examination last notice.

Last notice? When the miso-glazed fuck were the first ones? I thought, taking the notice out of my door and calling my boss about the unexpected day I'd need off. The date came and went, with a lot of hangups on organization—theirs, not mine. It took an hour of work to do what should have taken maybe twenty minutes.

The verdict: starting in March, I will have a lower rent than I paid all of last year.

But this month I still pay that teeth-itchingly high $200 for this tiny thing, meaning I still have to stretch and scrape and and unashamedly shake the bucket to get by in this economy.

THANKS, TRUMP. I HATE YOU.


Yes that was out of nowhere but it had to be said. It'll probably be said a lot. I'm doing a lot of self-care between my activism to make sure I don't go starkers in this new world of lies, propaganda, and gaslighting. I have an idle game on my phone where I feed and pet adorable hamsters that get into shenanigans. Two of them are lesbians. (Lesbihams?) Two of them seem to be starting a polyamorous thing. (Polyhamorous?)

Some are dignified. Some are...not.

Leslie is usually kinda mellow....and then I put the strawberry daifuku out. #HamsterCollection

A photo posted by Railenthe Zeal (@cyggiestardust) on

(Follow me on Instagram for more hamham shenanigans and my dumb face, btw)

I'm playing a browser game where you raise dragons and humanity is APPARENTLY NO MORE #misandry

When I get meager little tips I splurge on customizations for them and make them pretty. You can have as big or as small a collection of dragons as you want. At the same time this one is inspiring my writing. (there are dragons, but humans also exist but the dragons don't trust the humans, and a dragon falls for a human man because OF COURSE HE DOES and it's totally fluffy romance.)


(this isn't the dragon in the story, it's one of my game dragons, isn't she pretty?)

These tiny little things keep me from ripping my own head off these days. That, and tea. I need more tea. Good tea.
railenthe: (Default)

Until now I have refrained from commenting on the state of American politics. It isn’t because I don’t have a position (I do).

It’s  because I’m completely terrified of where it’s going.

The nation managed to elect a wholly inexperienced, morally and multiply financially self-proclaimed billionaire to the highest office in the land, a man who bragged on national television about the enormity of his sexual member and bragged (on a hot mic) about how his fame and fortune lets him do anything that he wants to women, up to “grab[ing] them by the pussy” if the notion struck him. There have been incidents of this happening around the nation now, with the only excuse given that “this is Trump’s America now, we can do that.”

As someone who is equipped at present with the aforementioned anatomy, that’s terrifying.

Further, all of his picks for cabinet positions all are unqualified for the positions he’s put them in—it’s like he’s playing a matching game and the only matching he’s doing is to match the least qualified to the office position. But that’s not even the scariest thing about it. There’s a pattern and until recently, it went unnoticed.

Enter Jeff Sessions, a Dominionist Christian who doesn’t believe in the separation of church and state and wants to bring the church’s system into every decision that is brought down. Suddenly, everything is on the table. The governnent is in the bedrooms again, the operating room, the OB-GYN clinic…and this man is even worse than the usual of this sort because he’s been on the side of racists before, having been caught saying he was ok with the KKK until he found out they smoked weed. I don’t care if he said it as a joke…that isn’t a joke that you make in today’s America, when half of America is looking over its shoulder for someone wanting them dead for the color of their skin or the god they pray to.

The next four years will be truly terrifying for me and other People of Color, gender minorities, the disabled, the infirm—and those like me who lie on the border of all of these axes.

All we can do is raise our voices and march, give this new government the “hell no” it needs to hear while we still can.

ICE.

Jan. 12th, 2017 07:50 pm
railenthe: (Default)
 

An ice storm is barrelling down on the area. I've hunkered down with an absurd amount of bread and milk, as Midwesterners tend to do when these things happen. I'm prepared for the worst but hoping for the best. Any kind of help is appreciated; being in the dead of winter in a hotel? It's no way to make a living.


Hours...hours...well, those are a little less on the sunny side of life. It's the slow season, though, and that's to be expected. The slow season is always kind of ugly. It's going to especially be ugly on bills.


To top it off, the freeze is going to keep me from going to this place I've been told to go to by my therapist: it's out of the way and right in the way of the freeze area. I've also been told to start getting my legal in order: their disregard of my pronouns is officially illegal and I can now officially call them on it. Them being work. There's a lot of things to take care of. (Help. Lol.)

railenthe: (Default)

Makeup.


I'm for makeup. I'm for the otherworldly look. I'm for the natural look. I'm for the somehow-blending of the two (How does Bayonetta do it and is it obvious I've got the girl on my MIND). And I can read between the lines when someone expresses an appreciation of that otherworldly aesthetic, that it is NOT ripping the other looks down and tearing them down.


Of course I got to see that point wildly missed the other day.


I could see clearly just how it could misconstrued, though. I could see both sides. I could also see how far it had been blown out of proportion. My perspective as a womanshaped not woman gives me an interesting perspective on the topic. As a teenager I had to sneak in my make up and I had no interest in the natural look. I would put it on at school, and make it otherworldly as possible. Of course this meant carrying Noxzema with me or else wrath as well. So what if I got looks. It was my aesthetic.


It didn't require validation from anyone—man, woman, or other. It's intriguing that others sign my aesthetic, but that's all it is—intriguing. It does give me a little confidence booster to carry out the next resolution I've got. Last year's was getting more comfortable with my self image via selfies—and that got me more fans than haters.


I definitely don't require validation from anyone for my makeup choices, but it will be an adventure.

railenthe: (Default)
I have an official diagnosis of gender dysphoria!

Now I know that sounds like a HORRIBLE THING but it means two good things:

— I can take official action against the asshats and

— I can get things going on an official basis... Starting with what they call me at the doctor. :)

In fact while they were doing it my new counselor corrected someone in earshot and I thought she was calling me.

We got a lot done. Like, A LOT a lot. Like I didn't even realize how far back this started until we got started.

I feel lighter today.
railenthe: (Default)

More pills than I care to count.


More fluids than I am comfortable drinking.


Skin sloughing off where it most certainly should not be.


And enough fainting spells that that Ion—you know, the kitten?—has taken a spot near the recliner I'm sleeping in tonight.


Despite my best efforts, somehow pestilence has followed me here. My allergy went off and I did a check in paranoia. It either came in from the job or a bus.


It's a fuck of an occupational hazard. And not the only one.


My doctor's oh so brilliant idea to lower my pain management meds led to me having unmanageable pain. My side is worse than ever. The fainting spells are back—not “near” syncope, flat out syncope. I've hit more floors than the bodies in the song.


An exterminator will be called. …here, not the apartment. They still don't have this together.


And I'm fighting two opportunistic infections right now. It sucks.

railenthe: (Default)
I have chills from my pain, and the herb that I use in my personal medicine has been scheduled, and is now illegal to own, obtain, or use in its place when my physician is being an assistant and dragging his feet on a renewal of my refill.

The Pain is like a crosscut saw, below a rib as if looking for something to remove, then realizing that it's made a wrong turn and curving down and sawing on the dotted line that is my hernia scar.

I can't focus. I can barely function.

There are things I wanted to do today. I did none of them.

All because I have not been able to get my side fixed.
railenthe: (Default)

The Barnes Er.




The wait was short in registration, long in seeing a bed. My pain level went from annoying to “periodic knock out and frequently disorientation.” The wait went on so long that my father had to go start his shift at 1 that morning.


By the time I got to a room I was so disoriented from pain they had to throw something into my IV to render me coherent, and I described the pain, the bleeding cystic mass, the torn abdominal muscles, and the sickness I felt on sitting up. Somewhere in the middle of this an IV drip was started, freezing cold and stupefying. I managed to describe how the pain and nausea kept me from eating for two days and how despite that long of no intake my fasting glucose level was 103 as read in an ambulance.


I was told that everything that could be done had been done, and in my current state the recommended ultrasound was not possible (one needs to be awake for that in its entirety), and without the ultrasound nothing could be done about the bleeding mess—though I was told to avoid aspirin until further notice…


Which means the only thing that works on my back pain is out.


Anti-nausea drugs, stacked like mad. Acetaminophen, stacked on the tramodol.


Agreement with the doctor's judgement that my pain is undermedicated. Disagreement on what to do about it.


That was as far as I got. The room fuzzed out on me along with one pain spike, and I was out.




“We didn't put anything drowsy in there.”


“Here's the thing, sir—being in constant pain is exhausting.”


I don't know how much time passed, but when I woke up they were back to the back and forth on how to manage the situation. A bag was changed. A comment was made on my dehydration. I was asked… Something. I don't remember. I remember answering “Huh?”


“Get some rest, kid.”




I wake at morning in no knowledge of where I was, exhausted, and mildly delirious. I was also given my discharge papers. I had a sense—there were no windows—that it was dawn out and I knew my father wasn't present. They offered to help call him. I thanked them for letting me sleep the pain off and not tossing me out like Memorial does, and I was wheeled to the exit, along with the seven blankets that kept me from catching a chill.


For the record he was unamused with the results. I registered just long enough to explain the why before I was out again.


Then I slept until two.




Now what?


I have to survive this long enough to take all the appointments. I've also been advised to slowly, slowly increase my sitting up (heavily medicated for nausea and vomiting, of course) with back support. I'm not supposed to push it, and after such a stretch of no food I am to EASE into solid food again, no matter how much I feel like I can eat seven giant sandwiches, so that I don't hurt myself. Continue with the Gatorade because calories in.


Just writing this has worn me out. I'm going to rest until I'm due for the late pills.

railenthe: (Default)
Today I have eaten eight chips.

In two days.

This is actually progress, not old school backsliding.

I've been sick—mostly a mechanical injury, but it complicated eating and drinking—and at some point I got a nice little kidney issue that I'm going to be taking an alarmingly named antibiotic for shortly. I'm also downing electrolytes, which has helped the fog significantly. The ER suggested I actually go for the sugary sports drinks on account of not having eaten since Sunday, try to gas up the old heals system.

Sitting up still hurts like hell. And I've misplaced the Bentyl for the ab spasms. But I'm awake and hydrating again after that ER trip.

Also, potassium heavy drinks all taste terrible. No wonder all the sugar. (Then again it is literally a salt.)
railenthe: (Default)
It seems that my ability to physically sit upright is done with by around five in the evening.

Standing upright, I can do in fifteen minute bursts (if you can call them that).

But sitting up straight does something to that muscle that not only HURTS like hell through a prescription painkiller, it completely kills my ability to breathe. As in "ADJUST NOW TO TAKE IN AIR."

We're still trying to figure out how this happened. Tore my abdominal wall.

I fucking broke my abs, basically.

I have to get up and argue with my midsection and get food now. There's a "vvtvvt" sensation under my ribs, and I've got intermittent loss of visual focus from pain. I'm not a fan.

Maybe screw cooking...
railenthe: (Default)
 
These are two of the games my ex refuses to return.

The top now goes for almost six hundred dollars.

Fuck you, Ex.

GBA games are prone to bootlegging and false copies, just like GBC games when rare games came up (Pokemon Crystal Vietnam anyone?). New is damn near the only way to make sure you weren't getting ripped off.

Now the only way I'm probably going to be able to play again is if I get the nonphysical copies...or pirate.

Fuck you, Ex.
railenthe: (Default)
The trip to the neurologist was interesting. First thing that happened was I went the wrong damn way.

This is kind of normal. I don't know the layout of his complex yet. 

I got directions to where I was supposed to be and got to his office, my consternation with the freaking battery of tests that this month has been mildly lifted by the fact that today I look damn good.

That is, I look damn good for someone who's about to get told that ze has highly atypical migraine and a significant amount of nerve damage to both legs, and that the cause of the nerve damage is NOT something that we've found the cause of yet, it's just THERE.

And the CRPS that work's lawyers and insurance wanted to say wasn't a thing is probably a thing. The left side, which is where the pain started off at, is worse than the right—but the right is there, too. It's just that this burning, searing, stabbing entire left side STOP THIS SHIT PLEASE thing only affects the left side.

We have no solution. We're shooting in the dark and guessing that maybe dropping a couple pounds will at least do something in that there's less of me on my feet. There is literally no other reason behind it: all my other vital numbers are fine—this is literally "let's see if this shuts off the pain signal because there ARE NO SOLUTIONS for this that we haven't attempted."

…and best of all I have $243 of bills coming up and I haven't worked that many hours to pay for them. Fun shit.

Monday's a meeting with my regular doctor about what we think is an inguinal hernia. Can't work that day.

Tuesday's a mammogram. No work

Wednesday's the liver ultrasound. I'm spending a lot of it unconscious. Needless to say, not working that day.

I wonder if Pops will lend me some money.


railenthe: (Default)
 The phrase “that escalated quickly” achieved meme status so rapidly that one could use the phrase “That escalated quickly” to describe it. It’s quite literally its own tautology, and in this case, it has happened.
 

We are so fresh from having lost a global icon in David Bowie. Tributes all over the world—his star on the Walk of Fame currently littered with glowing glitter (Stardust for Ziggy Stardust), his flat in Berlin, concert venues, an unearthly mural flooded with flowers, plush aliens, people wearing the Aladdin Sane lightning bolt unabashedly. Actual respect for the family’s request for privacy during this time. Until…

Months ago, a story came out about a groupie. A number of them, actually,  but one in particular got a lot of attention, because 1) teenage groupie; 2) teenage groupie makes her sexual debut with David freakin’ Bowie (Blogger’s Note: I hate the term ‘losing one’s virginity for deeply personal reasons and will not be using it); and 3) the legend (because he is one and always will be) is no longer around to explain anything.

 


 

Is this problematic behaviour? Yes. It was also 40 years ago, participated in by almost all of the big names—you can see how many names were dropped in that article. It was all over the place. It was pervasive. There was an entire subculture around it.

And this ‘news’ has been out there for months, if not years.

But it gets dragged out now, at the time of the man’s death, when we’re all still reeling from the news.

And now it has become a reason to drag a dead man’s name through the mud. And I see people reveling about it

 


But only a few short days later, the stars began to look different. Literally.

 

 

Source: pitchfork.com

From a capture of the sky of the day he went home, a Belgian radio station—Studio Brussels—and MIRA Public Observatory (that place is a big deal, btw) got to work and set up what you see here: Starman.

A constellation in honor of David Bowie. An honor usually reserved for gods and legends. …looks like at least one of those has been deemed official. 

Square Enix, for a limited time, is offering free copies of Omikron: The Nomad Soul—a game that David  Bowie had extensive input on (his music, too).

In Spring, Carnegie Hall will host two tribute concerts.

Look up.

Everyone says hi.

railenthe: (Default)
Where I was: On the train, trying to get a busybody out of my ears. It changed to trying to prove this was a hoax pretty fast—but, the source? NPR. Pretty reliable. 
 
The plan was to entertain myself with the newsfeed during the commute. Instead I found out that we have lost Alan Rickman to—excuse me while I curse the sky—cancer.
 
I was introduced to his work through the irreverent Dogma, and seeing him in serious roles (“MR. Potter…”) was something of an adjustment. The man's range was incredible, from the almost despotic to serious that bordered on silly.
 
And now he's gone. 
 
I'll say it again:
 
Fuck cancer. 
railenthe: (Default)

Sitting at an improvised chair revising a chapter. It was 1:30 in the morning, prefaced with a text message of simplest nature: "Are you up?"



Nothing remains
We could run
when the rain slows
(--from Sunday)


On his birthday, David Bowie put out an absoultely smashingly excellent album, titled unpronounceably with a graphic but translateable as Blackstar. He celebrated his sixty-ninth birthday in festive fashion, we heard. I excitedly planned on getting that album in hard copy—struggle season be damned.

That was on Friday.
in which I am not particularly put together, fair warning )

railenthe: (Default)
 

So Yeah: You're not going to believe this.


Then again, you might.

Last chance to bail if you're super squeamish about a certain type of bug! )

You've heard the stories about my apartment building. It's mismanaged all to hell, the building is old enough that there is a fading Fallout Shelter placard on the exterior (as opposed to this positively pristine one mounted on the local Masonic Temple—and I do mean that in the original definition of the word: that thing looks like it came out of the original factory and somehow was protected from all the elemental nonsense that's been thrown at it since it went up). There is enough mold in the building that adding a HEPA system to the unit last year actually did increase my quality of life (I actually haven't had a sinus event since I got the thing). Pieces and bits of the bathroom wall regularly fall in and it takes weeks to get any attention to the problem. I've had to repair my own damn sink a few times because maintenance seems to not care about that issue, and the only reason a gas leak that I've been reporting since I moved in got fixed was because I was out for an extended period of time, there was a draft, and someone else just so happened to smell it.

I'm not saying that you have to have high expectations for a damn public housing complex but base livability would be nice, yannou?

This is the same place when, the BB infestation started a little over two years ago now, certain residents—yours truly included—were called unhygenic, had our morals called into question, told we had fleas and “why don't we try bathing a little more?”

What the miso-glazed fuck?

At the height of my own problem—thrifting was in, I'd had a rather gorgeous sofa sleeper thrifted in because I was getting rid of everything associated with a certain ex. Little did I know, this gorgeous sofa sleeper was going to soon be known as…


PESTILENCE COUCH

Yes, THAT Pestilence Couch. Turned out the store was POSITIVELY RIDDLED with the bastards. And reporting did nothing. So, took drastic measures. I captured one of the fuckers and brought it to the landlord.

“That's a flea.”

…y'all better get used to the phrase “What the miso-glazed fuck” because I actually asked her “What the miso-glazed fuck are you talkin' about? Does this look like a flea to you?”

“Look. I don't know what kind of life you live, what you have—”

“I know you didn't just call me flea-bitten.” A death stare. The landlord is oddly quiet.

“I've already confirmed outside what this is. I'd like a confirmation from the exterminators, and then an extermination.

“If we don't find anything, though?”

“Then y'all are full of it and I'm getting rid of the furniture that brought them in if you're JUST THAT SURE.

On my way back up, I found a neighbor who ALSO had them on hand to report. She lived four floors below me. On the one hand, it was good to see I hadn't tracked them in with that damned Pestilence Couch. On the other, it meant the building is completely fucking fucked.

Three weeks later, Orkin doesn't trip the tripline I set leading to the obvious signs and I have Pestilence Couch removed. You know what else gets removed? Orkin as the building extermination company.


But it ain't over

Fast forward, it's nigh a year of sleeping on the floor, and I replace the bed with something new. The building still has issues. My linens and bed are mostly clear. I'd like them completely clear. I report every one of the bitey bastards, since a winter with them has taught me that I am very allergic. A few times a month the place is sprayed. A few times a month the new exterminator tracks a new one or two in. A few times a month a few hitchhike from the bus and I have to take care of that. It's all very awkward and panic attack inducing. The bugs have invaded my C-PTSD. Apparently it's colloquially called 'bedbug psychosis.' I can kinda see it.


And now the Fuckery

The building manager and the exterminator are in disagreement about my bug status. You know why?

BECAUSE MY MATTRESS IS TOO CLEAN.

So, what am I supposed to do, let them bite me? Feed? Breed? Leave them be? Fucking fuck no bruh. I literally got orders to “capture one alive to prove it” from the manager

And this morning I got my chance. Yanked him right off the bed and an attempt to get at my ankle and slammed him into a glue trap. Then there was one on my back support pillows for gaming. ONTO THE GLUE TRAP WITH YOU TOO—YES, DEFINITELY SIR WITH THAT SHAPE.

And then I missed my bus for work.

…but, while I was trying to make the intercept walk to my bus, I got called off. Not a day of work this week so far.

I turn around, leave a giant fucking sign with an arrow on it reading BEDBUG by the glue trap, and make a grocery run—smoothie stuff because my stomach is back on the warpath.

By the time I get back (a prescription won't be ready until later, I have to make a second trip), the trap as been moved slightly and replaced with a fresh, empty one.

…got my point across this time.

railenthe: (Default)
I had two things: the fortune for my old man to be understanding, and the misfortune to come down with a stomach bug.

As we all know by now that is the worst thing for ME to be coming down with, with my history.

It's madness.

It's about a week before my neurologist's appointment. My paperwork is missing. It's been missing or a month. I have no fucking clue what I did with it. I've looked for about three hours every day, giving myself a pounding headache each time. About the only productive thing that I've done is I've cleaned underneath the stove.

Btw, moving a stove when you're ill? I don't recommend it.

They may be increasing my rent. I haven't heard a damn thing since the interview earlier this month. I had 15 hours on my last paycheck. (Does not compute.) But my food stamps got turned back on!

At some point, I'm going to break down the shiny things that have happened over the course of the year. For all the awful, there has been some nice.

But right now...I need to attempt another food and electrolytes.
railenthe: (Default)

In my head today: Vicarious Atonement




It's happened.


The rent adjustment meeting used the data from the busiest fall we've ever had, and had no data from what is becoming more and more the slowest winter I've ever seen. I've worked a single day this week—and would have had two if I hadn't had to take off for the damned adjustment meeting.


But I did.


As rent was late—I was ill the day I thought I paid it, and hallucinated the action—I had to take the money that would have been an emergency food budget for the week and spend it on the late fee.


There is enough for lights.


There is enough for the phone bill.


There is enough to stay connected and not have to face the isolation that paralyzes me every time I think about it.


There is enough for rent if it doesn't go up, at the least, if there are enough hours by payday next.


…there is not enough money to eat. I can't spend anything but what is there for the next rent. I have enough stashed to survive December thanks to the physical inability to actually eat much more than a sandwich a day, but I'm going to have to come up with something. That meeting confirmed that I have no EBT benefits—and I don't make enough money to bills and food at the same time.


There is not enough money for next month's bus pass—a $78 expense—unless I risk not having enough for rent, or attempt to pick up odd jobs on a flareup, risking a hospital trip. Hell, today my legs lit on fire from an attack and I had to walk a room on feet that burned and legs that were absent from hip to shin. I was given the option to work tomorrow or not—apparently I looked bad after the pain attack.


…not that I have a choice.


I fucking hate the winter grind.


But rest is a luxury I literally can't afford right now.




This is life at the bottom. This is what you live with when making more money means you keep less of it. When you pick between bills and food.


When you spend the first half of the year stocking the shelves because you know damn well what is going to happen.


When you see an upside in the disease they've been trying to nail down for—shit, officially a year next week—because it means you have more time to figure out what the hell you're going to do about the new problem of eating.


…I'll figure something out. Maybe.


Possibly.


Perhaps.


At least the medicine I need hasn't been cut off.

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