There's all different type of persons, but one kind that stands out is the type that deliberately chooses to make themselves suffer. The reasons for this are numerous: you want to keep evolving, you want a story to tell, you want to feel...something, anything, you are a masochist and the always lovely, you hate yourself.

It is these people I find myself drawn to. It is them I admire, that are so courageously in the words of sage old Frost, "taking the road less traveled." Maybe this is because I am of that kind. Maybe it validates me to surround myself with such folk, to feel that I'm not alone. If there's one thing we self induced sufferers do take refuge in, it's not being alone in our misery. But yet in most cases we are alone, no matter how many people surround us. The void is there. Perhaps it's the void that craves pain.

where there's smoke

Being retardedly in love is a lot like being in a smokey bar. It may feel good at the time, but it can be very bad for you. You don't notice how detrimental it can be, until the next day when you wake up and smell the stench of cigarettes and aftermath in your clothes and hair. Being out and away from the bar helps you realize what a potent, noxious fog you were under; how you were willingly susceptible to it all, and loving it. Only then, after you are free from the bar's intoxicating, smokey clutches, do you realize how much it stinks.

One of the greatest things I've heard this week

"California is like a beautiful, wild girl on heroin. She's high as a kite, thinking she's on top of the world, not knowing she's dying, even when you show her the marks."

To breed, or not to breed? That is the question...

I come from a long line of breeders. My biological mother is a breeder, and her mother was quite the breeder (6 of them). My sister is too a breeder. It is said that when two people come together whose love is so great, a new life is formed from that very love. In my sister's case, and perhaps her predecessors cases (who knows, my family doesn't talk to me), her lust was so great that is caused her to be completely careless a documented total of three times. Thankfully, evolution did not cease on the isle of Galapagos. I, as a witness to poor choices in those breeding precipitously around me, have other ideas.

Living at home again with my post-stroke father goes a little like this: wake up in fear that I've slept in too long (as I normally liked to when I was free) and prevented him from doing his tasks (seeing that I'm his chauffeur and all), feed him, shuttle him around all day, feed him, then clean up after him.

So today, I start my routine and prepare my dad's meal of the day--no salt, not too much fat--and I set his plate and take it to him. He takes it from me and says nothing. Actually, he grunted. Yes. That was his response. Then he eats his food and I clean up. After I'm done with that, then I can eat. As I'm snorting down my food, he brings his plate to the kitchen and sets it on the counter for me to clean. Fortunately for my shattered soul's sake, he says the food was good. There is a trace of a smile on his face. I see it, faintly. I regard my mom's adult life with compassion and pity as I load the dish washer and wipe down the stove. Being in my dad's life currently is a lot like being a mother, or a maid for that matter, because both terms are momentarily interchangeable. Your day isn't necessarily yours, and it is made up of being responsible for another person, doing things for them, feeding them, cleaning up after them, taking them places, and all of this is taken as a given. There is no "thank you." It's your job. Being a parent has never been less appealing to me.

I suppose biological programming is clever that way, because when you create another human being, is comes out small, cute (hopefully) and fresh. The ploy lies in the fact that your offspring initially presents itself to you in a uncomplicated and desirable way. They just need to eat, sleep, be held and played with. You grow attached to this thing. Your like your creation. I love this thing, you say. I can do this. This is mine. This is my life. It sure is...

But then it grows and doesn't get any less needy. It may even become less cute. It needs more. And it begins to ask questions and beg and complain and monopolize your day and psychologically destroy you, without so much as a "thank you." Why? Because it's your job. This is what you signed up for. But no one ever told you that. It was merely alluded to. Perhaps you can recall a time when your parents spitefully told you at the height of their frustration, "Wait until you have kids," whilst they covetously rubbed their mitts together, awaiting their redemption. Well, I aim not to give them such satisfaction.

No, I have never been more apt to reject the idea of breeding. Ultimately, I wish for my life to be mine and not someone elses. I like waking up and being able to decide what to do with my day. I'm selfish like that. Giving up my time is a loathed, dreadful idea that I don't appreciate one bit.

Yet...I am fearful. I am fearful of the female biological bullshit that will come into play, scooting my present, clear headed reasoning by the wayside. Like a wrench thrown into the spoke of a moving bicycle, I sense love will eventually serve to ruin my life as a free woman. Maybe that's why it hasn't happened for me yet, and I'm alone as fuck...or at least it feels better when I think about it that way. Sharing my life, i.e., marriage--that's ok. I can do that. But giving it away...handing it off like a baton in a life long race I'll never win, well, not so much.

I suppose the "no kids" conclusion seems to make sense while I'm young and vibrant, but when my womb is a barren wasteland, and the coin flips and I'm the one who needs to be shuttled around and cooked for and cleaned up after, what will become of me? Who will wipe the drool from my bubbling lips? Meh, who am I kidding? Having children solely as a preventative measure to being debilitated by old age is pathetic and a pretty good indicator that I'm not fit for the job. Still, I won't say I'll never have kids. That's just a set up for appeasing my parent's eagerness to get their payback. But I will sure as hell put up a good fight.

I can't name it. It's just there. The thing is there, I have to go see it. The monster, the god, the rat, the snail. What ever is out there, I have to go see it and look at it. And endure it, or maybe not endure it. It's needed, that's all. I really can't explain it. And if I could, I wouldn't go.

-"Hinterland" by Aim

"Health Care" according to Kaiser Permanente

Get it taken care of, they said.  It's easy, they just freeze it and it's gone.  My instinctual tendency to want to avoid visiting the doctor is no coincidence, and today was a testament to that, disproving the above mentioned "it's no big deal, just get your ass to the doctor" mentality.  The skin tag on the right side of my mid back was beginning to cross over into the unpleasant and gross territory.  From continual snagging on my bra and clothing, it had been stretched and pulled into newer, more expansive proportions.  It felt like a displaced third nipple.  Being that I was soon to lose a hefty percentage of my health care coverage at the cause of being "laid off," I finally decided that I would get to a doctors office and get it taken care of. Upon making the appointment I was very specific about what I wanted out of the visit.  I told the woman on the phone, "I have a skin tag that is enlarged and bothersome because it is continually getting caught in my clothing, and I would like it removed."  I mean shit, that's pretty clear cut right?  Well cut is the operative word here, I suppose, because my practitioner cut the skin tag off me today with a pair of scissors.

I'm still horrified.  Let's start there.  My general practitioner Dr. Khan seemed to be new, because she didn't know where anything was and nervously over explained logistics and mundane details I didn't give a shit about.  The nurse had to show her where the drawer with the supplies was.  What she lacked in experience, she made up for in talking to you like you were a retarded ten year old.  By over accentuating words and sounding enthusiastic she managed to talk me into bypassing a dermatologist.  I ended up feeling a lot like a retarded ten year old, actually.  I also remember feeling sullen.  Maybe even a little disappointed in life.

 I suppose I was lucky I got anesthesia.  Sure I may get an infection, but hell, why go through the time and trouble of getting referred to a specialist who has the proper equipment to remove a growth on my back when I can just have it lopped off over the counter?  What a fucking primadona I am.  Goddamn.  

What's more, Dr. Khan also explained to me that many people come in with similar requests, but many have clusters of smaller skin tags all over their necks.  She mentioned that in those cases they just tell the patient to "go home and cut it off themselves."

WTF?  Isn't that what they tell you not to do?  So I could have saved myself a $15 co-payment and cut this thing off myself at home?  Balls.  

I also asked her about the mole on my face while she was examining me, and without so much as looking at me or asking any questions she blurted "If you've had it all your life it's fine."  Cool.  

After injecting the skin tag with an anesthetic, she had me lie down on her little table of horrors while she pulled out her scissors and other shit that was completely inappropriate for this procedure.  She told me she needed me not to talk to her for a while because she had to concentrate.  I was repulsed.  Then I stared sadly at the ground.  I began to wonder what people said when they were told by their doctor to go home and cut their skin tags off themselves.  

She started to come in on me with the scissors.  It honestly scared me.  I just couldn't get over how low budget and morose this was.  On so many levels.  Why was this happening?  Why was I letting it?  

Thankfully it didn't hurt much, but here I am ten hours later in a little pain.  Funny thing is, a friend told me his aunt used to remove skin tags by tightening a hair around them, then waiting until they died and fell off.  At first that story grossed me out, but it's sounding pretty palatable at this point.  It makes more sense then ripping off the thing while it's still fresh.  Especially since my back wouldn't stop bleeding.  It didn't help that I had taken about 1400 mg's of ibuprofin the previous day.  Real neat.

After my "procedure" was over I asked her about my back.  I told her my lumbar spine had been in pain for about 4 months due to over exertion in yoga class.  She poked around my spine and said it felt fine.  She also told me because I was petite I didn't have strong muscles in my back and that's why I was prone to hurt it.  It's weird because I do yoga about 3-5 times a week, so I feel like I have a pretty strong muscular frame, but whatever.  I was also advised to never to do backbends as well, one of the common types of poses in most yoga classes.  Sure, no more back bends ever again.  You got it.

Then she gave me some literature on back pain.  Actually, she couldn't find it.  She had to ask the nurse again.  It was hidden behind the pamphlet about "Gonorrhea."  I guess their pamphlet section was out of alphabetical order, that's why she couldn't find it.  It had nothing to do with the fact that she's a clueless tird.

All in all I really got boned dry today, but the unfortunate part of all this is, you see your doctor feeling like you're supposed to be able to trust them, thus you're automatically prone to being cajoled into these sorts of unsavory happenings.  Something inside you knows it's wrong, but you are confused and scared and so wearing that stupid little smock, so you feel extra vulnerable at the cause of your semi nakedness.  And even when I did ask questions, she blew me off and came up with some reason why her bunk reasoning was correct.  What is one to do?  It's a lose-lose.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I don't get tetanus or something.  If I do, you better believe I'm writing a complaint to the grievances department.  Yeah, really stick it to 'em.  Yah...

Help Obama!  Do something!  You promised...

Stepping closer

I have been restless.  I often stay up late into the night, thinking, dwelling, anxiety ridden.  I don't know why.  The ball is moving, the forces are taking me to the next destination, just as planned.  Why can I not take comfort in this?  Why do I remain unsatisfied?  I made a decision to change my life, I left my job, the most difficult hurdle thus far.  I put in my 30 days notice with my landlord...I am on my way, however though the ultimate destination is marked in my mind, it's still not a tangible reality.  There is no set date to work towards.  It's all still somewhat speculative.  It has been one week since I have stopped working and I can already feel the days slipping away from me.  It's comfortable, minus the reality.  I took a longer than necessary moment to bask in the glory of breaking the chains of servitude.  And I was enjoying it.

The tentative date to leave remained a big questions mark.  I began to prolong my departure, for this reason or the other.  People started to discourage me from leaving, told me it was a bad time to go--too expensive, too cold, too soon, too sad.  It's never a good time.  It swayed me.  I felt guilty.  I wondered when I really would go.  Never did I once doubt the idea of leaving, but the matter of when was a different story altogether.  Should I wait until Thanksgiving was over?  Early December?  But then the holidays would be just around the corner, and I may want to come back for the holidays, so why not wait until after that?  How long would I keep waiting?  But then it got hard to look at myself in the mirror, because I knew what I was doing.  I was getting scared again.

I had to choose between facing myself in the mirror and accepting the fact that I was going back on my own word and distancing myself from my goal, versus facing the backlash felt from abandoning the most important people in my life during a predetermined calendar period of togetherness.  When I can't decide I usually choose both, but this time I decided to choose the latter, because at least that one didn't lead to self deprecation.  So without thinking about it, without investing too much emotion or sentiment, I went online and bought a one way ticket to New York City.  On November 17th, I will fly into a city where I have little to no friends, family, job prospects, or a place to live.  I don't know what I will do, or where I will end up, but I take comfort in the fact that the ball is rolling now, and I know where it lands.  What happens after that is still in the air...