Heyya. Not dead. Just a crazy, crappy month filled with the kind of moodiness that makes me generally unbearable to others--hence the avoidance of all things blog-related. Anyone who reads this blog and who I read regularly, it'll take me some time, but I'll get caught up on your stuff.
In my rl? Nothing much of note. Piercing possibly infected. Also had a weird lung infection thing that wasn't bronchitis, but the doc put me on the same fucking antibiotics they use to treat anthrax. I was thrilled.
"No, don't worry, it's not bronchitis or tb--but we'll treat it with anthrax meds!"
Ai, ai, ai.
Nice resurgence of asthma, which doing the tango with a resurgence of my panic attacks. One'll trigger the other, and it's all just peachy keen. No doctor's appointment till the twelfth of June and my inhaler is two months past expiration.
No longer on the cusp of being fired at work. Somehow, I've improved my whatever the fuck I was doing wrong and started pretending I care. It seems to do the trick. Still tired of dealing with dumbasses all day. If I have to explain to one more cust what a model number is, I'm whip out my swiss army knife and kill the person to my immediate left.
Got a book on hypnosis. I don't know why, but if it teaches me how to mindfuck people for fun and/ or profit, then bully for me.
The new Star Trek movie is total candy, but I like it anyway. They did a good job with Bones, and that's all I care about.
Reading "As We Are Now", by May Sarton. Going to Minneapolis for a few days at the end of July. I know, the land of ten bajillion lakes, and I'm going in the middle of summer. Am I insane, you may be asking yourself. And the answer, of course, is yes.
All religiousity grates on me now. I mean waaaaay worse than it used to. I notice more when people talk about respecting religion, like religion's a struggling single mother who puts food on the table yet still makes time for her four kids. But instead of pissing me off, or sending me into a self-righteous rant, it just makes me laugh and poke mildly cutting fun at such a silly opinion.
It's like listening to a ten year old talk about Santa. I just want to (and usually do, I don't really care enough to stop myself) say something along the lines of:
"You don't still believe in Santa, do you? Aren't you a little too old for that? I mean--you're not slow, are you? Are you slow? I mean special. You're very special. And Santa will bring you an extra special present this year for being so good. Now run along and try not to eat any more paint chips, no matter how shiny they are."
Finished the love story about the Antichrist and was well-pleased with it. Started writing a novel about six months ago, and the first chapter (which oddly enough probably isn't chapter one) is done. Starting the next chapter has been like water enchanced interrogation. The whole project doesn't know if it wants to be parody or paragon--but it has a lesbian superhero with borderline personality disorder, among other worthies, so I'll do my best to finish it.
Still haven't done my taxes.