Quick Update

Today I had my first day of outpatient care.

I woke up bright and early, took part I of my medication, brushed my hair and teeth, and got dressed in some of my favorite clothes. Aside from a brief internal debate regarding when we'll run out of water as an ecosystem (never, I'll drink elephant-poop-water like Bear if I have to), the morning went down like any day of school ever ought to.

If you've never visited the mental wing of a hospital, I suggest it. Everyone imagines screaming, hair-pulling geriatrics and anorexic pyrophiliacs, but couldn't be further from the truth: Even under the veil of lithium and some warmed blankets, there was a sense of calm that radiated from the place like purr from a kitten.

It was the outpatient office that made me remember why I carry mace.

There were two men, one the patient and the other, I'm guessing by his age to be either younger brother or state-sponsored caretaker. Both were hunched over and glaring, regarding myself and the bell-like ass of the woman next to me like we were gnats.

Thunder and the force of heavily falling rain made everything abuzz, giving the building a nervous energy. The 3d puzzle of a boat on my doctor's wall trembled and for a while, we just discussed the weather and why staying in bed would have been the better option for the morning.

On my way out, a woman who looked atavistic walked straight towards me. I don't mean that in the way the people I attended high school looked atavistic, but in a true, slack-jawed, empty-eyed, soulless way. Another doctor, at the end of the hall, told me to scoot to the side, so I flattened myself to the wall as this woman shuffles past; turning left as he directs her to, in the beginning of what I assume to be a lap around the square shaped office.

It reminded me of two things. Firstly, never agree to any further medication, and secondly, I want to be either a zombie or a zombie hunter this Halloween.

Anyone know where one can procure a used, preferably brain-encrusted cricket bat?

Lucid Barely Awake Rambling!

As long as I can remember, I've nightmares when stressed out. They would be so bad sometimes that my doctor put me on medication, saying they were night terrors, and night terrors can cause apnea, which is true because having a panic attack while asleep usually results in trying to swallow the pillow. Not sure whether that qualifies as apnea or not, but I'd still rather not experience it.

I had one last night, sort of, but I really think it was this morning. It left me with a really small, futile feeling, and since my dreams are in a bastard Russian/German, left me very confused too, since some words don't match up and are just gibberish.

My dad stayed for the weekend, and I love him so much that it aches, but my parents make me so mad sometimes, and whenever he stays over it gets worse. I don't understand how a Southern Baptist and a Catholic could master Jewish guilt, but they have, and if they were ganging up on me rather than trying to form camps against each other in the household, it wouldn't be so mind-numbingly irritating.

We had a fight before he left, immediately before he left, so of course he had to die in my dream, and of course every past romantic companion (or futile current ones) had to be there and do something to make me end up killed.

It left me all wanky and stupid when I woke up, and due to impeccable Annie Logic, angry at the people who spited me in the dream, and really missing my dad.

As a rule in general, I have to check behind the shower curtain as I enter any bathroom that has one. I also don't like stairs or parking lots at night, because of that old urban legend about having one's Achilles Tendon slashed. It's just a part of me, that misplaced caution.

I don't think that counts though, when after waking up you kick a coat off the bed because its black and nebulous and foreboding, or scream at a shirt on a hanger because in the dark of just exiting a brightly lit bathroom, it looks like a zombie about to lurch out at you.

Dammit. Tonight I'm going to be sleeping with the door open and the hall night light on tonight.

Anyway, back to my interweb hiatus. Here's some LOLckey Horror to keep you company. http://www.ee0r.com/lolckyhorror/index.html

Oh, shit. A meme.

I'm going to randomly write up my favorite thing about three anonymous people. Lame, amirite? Too bad. I'm sentimental tonight, dammit.

My favorite thing about these three people are...

1) How our first kiss was during Zodiac, sitting next to already creeped out geriatrics, and you didn't even say a word afterward when I accidentally wandered into the men's room because I was so giddy.

2) How you remind me that being a girl can be fun, even if it means laughing at your bug-eyed sunglasses and questionable fashion choices.

3) How I can say anything without feeling like a crazy person, because you remind me that I'm just stressing over things that everyone does.

Nathan, Brandon, and Aaron, consider yourselves tagged. Because our sad little blogs need beefing up, 'nabbit.

Hey Kids, I'm still alive!

I try not to blog when under duress (un-amusing duress, anyway... ) so updates will be a little iffy lately.

There's no trouble going on in my life, if anything getting all this sleep is fantastic, but I don't deal with change very well. It's a Catch-22 situation: Stagnation makes me completely bonkers, but whenever something very drastically changes in my life, like say quitting my job, it takes forever to adapt.

When I move to a state with a different climate, I find myself dressing for the old one. When people die, I catch myself leaving them messages on their machine asking how they're doing, we should catch up. It's especially bad when pets die; if I don't put up all the bowls and all that immediately, I keep feeding them.

I'm looking for a part-time job in the Springfield area, and yes, I'm still looking for a pet-friendly roommate. Classes are in the immediate future, and if my brother hadn't sold literally every piece of scrap, I'd be welding again- but even that isn't a horrible thing, because I won't be working in copper, so it'll be easy to come by.

So. We have metal-working, looking for a part-time job, classes, and roommate hunting. In a nutshell.

(23:21:16) annie: not if you don't run on the panty platform, no
(23:21:34) annie: a vote for panties is a vote for peace!
(23:22:10) aaron: or pieces of panties
(23:22:29) annie: after bunches of punches?
(23:23:07) aaron: thats the opposing party
(23:23:39) annie: i'm thoroughly endorsing the spleen party, myself
(23:24:35) aaron: naw, they always seem to rupture under pressure
(23:24:59) annie: oh no, you're thinking of intestinal parliament
(23:25:34) aaron: oh man, i'm so tired of those guys...
(23:25:40) aaron: they're always full of shit

Lesson learned. For once.

Last night I took my "regular" dosage of Xanax, as in what I had been taking since my last post regarding it, before my "new" dose of it. I misinterpreted the paperwork on my new prescription, which is time-released, and split the pill, which in a nutshell, resulted in my usual wee miligram (two hours' worth) combined with an entire day and nights' worth at one time.

My throat is still really puffy and splotchy, still migrainey, but I'm totally fine other than being embarrassed and confused about work, which I didn't go to today because I fell asleep in the shower while getting ready, then hallucinated that I was driving. In the shower. Four hours too late.

I don't know why I'm posting this, other than again, being embarrassed. I didn't want to go to the thing tomorrow in the sense that I didn't want to go, but I did want to hang out with my friends who would be there and take pictures, especially.

I shouldn't go if I didn't go to work today, especially if it was due to my own stupidity and inability to read simple directions, but what will happen if I do go after not going today, and blargh?

It isn't the situation itself, because apparently I can get my stupid ass and a guest there any time, but Saturday I was going to a bridal shower before this said event, which I did promise a friend I would take, and have fun with, despite my sourpuss self. And I don't want to call it like a medical emergency or anything because I didn't go to the hospital, just stayed either in bed or thought (dreamt or hallucinated) that I'd been to work, and then didn't, because I thought I had.

Interweb, halp?

I almost killed myself today out of sheer stupidity (and failure to read instructions, all of which, including prescription, now being dictated by the alarm on my cell phone rather than self), and get to choose between being a flake to employers or friends.

Halp me chooose.

Most of you who know me know I'd rather eat my own hat than broadcast this kind of stupidness on my part, but so many of my friends are on this same drug, and there is so much jumblement between the nature of the pills, it would have been easy to have made my mistake and then rather than gone to bed, gone out on the road, or to work, or God forbid out drinking, and self-pwn.

Sooo. Do as I say and not as I do, seriously. I should have looked up on the drugs' website, or called my doctor or pharmacist, or something, because I looked at the tablet and knew something looked different about it, but took it they way I always take my regular ones.

Yeah... don't do that!

<3 /b/

Holy shit, guise. Three posts in one day.

I had a good TV night tonight. Was s'posed to go to a tattoo parlor to pester some old friends tonight, but I've been out every night this week, and while that's fine and all, I just wanted to stay in.

Ugly Betty was delicious, CSI gave me palpitations, and you can't complain about an hour of Family Guy.

Tomorrow will be a busy day. Returning the scanner, doing one of those dreaded bank runs, and getting ready for a photolicious weekend. I'll be posting pictures from the shitty emo concert, people pointing up at a big hole (you read that right), heavy machinery, and the National Cemetery.

Saturday will also be Acrofuckingbats of Red Menace. 10pt for lead paint in the theatreomigroffle!　

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Elephants can't decipher the squeals of adoring children. They're ignorant of letters, and have atrocious table manners. They roll in the dust, they belch, and unless peanuts are being tossed their way, are aloof to even the warmest of hugs.

Elephants can, however, kill you. With big feet and hides as tough as armor, they can crush your head like a melon and then go about their day without the slightest twinge of remorse.

There's a very popular belief that they use their big ears for keeping cool in their deadland homes, but anyone who truly knows elephants will tell you that this is a dangerous misconception, for the fan-like appendages were in actuality evolved for the purpose of hearing the footsteps of potential prey.

Hundreds of years ago elephants survived on lions and the rare and endangered Syrian Wombat, but now that their habitat has forced them into urban society, these enemies of humanity have adapted themselves to hiding behind corners and waiting for unsuspecting passerby, before using stealth to attack.

Once we were fortunate, for groups of saintly men vanquished elephants like St George and the dragon, making good of this evil by making charming crafts from the fangs of the common elephant. Alas, cruel, man-hating terrorists passed legislation protecting the beasts despite pleas from a terrified populace.

Now that zoos have put "breeding programs" into place (likely due to strong-arming from an unnamed Jumbo), we now have the misfortune of what one can only assume to be super enhanced pachyderms.

Beware, public! For behind that streetlight, that trash can, death may be lurking.

You picked a fine time to leave me Lucielle

Just a friendly reminder that I really can't afford to receive or send text messages right now.

The customer service thing didn't go over well, and if I'm forced into it I'm going to do what I always do when I'm forced into things I don't like, and that's get the fuck out of there.

My doctor's appointment did go well, however. I can has Xanax, dig? Groovy.

On another good note, Nathan from Work had his opinion posted in the lolnewspaper. The funny part about that is that his father-in-law wrote about the same event, was featured in the same issue, and neither knew about it until it was published.

It gave me teh funnees. Anyway, check it out here.

Phonophobe

I'm going to miss the horses and the scenery, dizzy and rolling hills, I'm going to miss bluegrass music and county rodeos, and I'm going to miss my friends and family.

I'm not going to miss outlandishly undeserved sense of self-importance, or the sense of oppression that comes from sprawling acres of pool supply outlets, of stretch pants, and constantly wondering if the water you're drinking is infected by e-coli from cow or human waste.

So bai! I'm saving my money now, working hard at getting a scholarship to either the Northwest College of Art, or the Cornish College of the Arts.

If neither work, I'm going to move regardless and pester State until they let me in. This will take a few months obviously, but I'm planning a visit (by plane- gulp!) within two months, if there's any justice at all in the world.

This isn't going to turn out the way New York or Chicago did, because the simple fact that I'm not going to let it. I want to go back to school, dagnabbit!
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At work, I'm going to be working customer service, along with the rest of the writing team. This is bullshit, and I'm hoping that it won't last. I left work after seven hours, directly after the meeting, because the news literally gave me a panic attack.

The phone terrifies me. Anyone who's ever been unlucky enough to travel with me knows my fear of planes, how I turn absolutely retarded and can't concentrate. My heart races and my palms sweat, and if there's anything in my stomach, I'll probably vomit.

The phone does this to me too. The same, mortal fear I have of flying, which is really just a fear of death and survival instinct kicking in, I have towards hearing that voice on the other end of the line going What? or Can you repeat yourself? I can't understand you, stop mumbling. Oh, or my favorite, Well you're stupid!

I left the office, immediately, and just sat in my car for a few minutes. For the life of me I can't remember the drive home.

But hey, Frasier is on! It's that episode where there's a verbal misunderstanding!

I was born in West Virginia.

If anyone asks though, I just say Silent Hill or Shangri La.

I need a security blanket

I finally finished the last Harry Potter book. Considering that it was bought on the night it came out, I don't think it really could've taken longer, but I've been reading it a page or two at a time until the night before last, when I read from about page 200 to the end in one marathon session.

Page 665 was when I started enjoying it, and I know that because I remember looking down at the page number and thinking, Wow, page 666 and Snape is being nice.

I've always been a Snape fan, moreso now that Hermione seems to have been consistently ragging since book 3 on, and Sirius got whacked. So needless to say, the authoress gained at least a little respect from me by the way she peppered hints about my favorite Dark Arts Professor. When I realized who's patronus the white doe was, I about squealed. Although, it would have been better for me at least, if it wasn't lamed down by 'Oh, he was in love with Lily and that was why he had that patronus, not because he could have had further redeeming values or anything'.

My problem with the books has always been that Harry is a boy of very little flaw, and everyone does seem either unfairly against, or so very in love with him. I'm pretty sure that if I tested the boy who lived with the Mary Sue Litmus Test, the results would be in the top percentile. I also wasn't a fan of how out of the blue the Hallows was.

Wow, that has to be one of the nerdiest rants to ever leave my head. I'll go back to internally obsessing about the new Indiana Jones movie now.

... because it belongs in a museum!

Yesterday I hopefully cleared up my apartment stuff, but just didn't go back to work. I'm going to put in 40 hours next week and from therein, but to be honest, I was wee inches close to locking myself in the regrettably unisex bathroom and hiding, I was so upset. Knowing my track record of behavior when I'm upset, leaving really was the better option.

After getting to Brandon's pad, he, and a friend, and I watched this hilarious documentary about sex addiction and commitment phobias, the latter of which I really could've taken notes on. His friend was really cool too, and I wouldn't mind hanging out with her more (omig subtle hintery).

On the drive home though, it was weird. The weather had cleared up but it was very foggy out, it was about midnight or midnight thirty and I was going down the highway at about 50mph because it was deserted anyway, and I didn't want to hydroplane. Going that slow though, I still almost hit a car that was halfway on the shoulder. The emergency lights were on and a woman was walking not too far from it.

I called the highway patrol to report a possible accident, and it was in the middle of nowhere but near a landmark everyone knows (how can you miss a quarry?), gave them the car's color and as good a description of the woman that I could, but kind of hung around a little bit just in case. When I volunteered for the Red Cross, I noticed that a lot of the people we looked for in the woods were seen earlier by people who just drove by; I don't want to be one of those people, obviously.

Not too long afterward, maybe an half an hour, an officer called my cell and told me they found the car but no woman, and asked if I was sure about what I saw. I told him yes, she had bright blond hair and that's hard to miss even in the dark, then I told him to call again if they still don't find her and I'll lend a hand.

They never called back so I'm assuming they found her, but I can't help but remembering when I was younger and with the car that seemed to hate me. So many times that, without a cell phone, I was stranded on the side of the road. For miles I would walk, but I never really thought about how easy it would be for me to just slip into the woods and disappear forever.

Has anyone ever called the highway patrol for me, and have they ever gone looking, only to find I was already gone?

There's something upsetting about that.

There needs to be a hotline, a 1-800 number that you call, you leave your name and a message just to let them know you're okay. That way, if anyone ever calls, they can know. Even if by then you're not fine, you need to hear that from people sometimes, that they're safe and secure.

In which I'm a sloppy blogger

I feel really weird lately. It's a combination of my job and worry, I think, but on the upside I'm about halfway through this book and working on getting prescribed something mind-numbing so work is tolerable again. And did you know how hard it is to find an apartment during fall semester?

Or stealing back Xanax from relatives? When it should be really easy because they're in a full arm cast? And would probably go down like a ton of bricks?

Bah.

It's the first day of the projeckt!

Gmail is down, so my blog roll is in need of updating- if you don't see your link yet, my apologies.

Anyway, Aaron Kafton and I are starting a groovy photoblog soon, so be sure to keep an eye out for it. I'll be relaying a list of phrases or sentences to him, which he'll photograph, and then post daily. Of course I'm stoked, and you should be too.

Today's entries?

the kite-eating tree
emancipation
the fluff
take a bite out of _____
secret garden
smashed to atoms
tell a secret
spidersilk
cats are up to something
snake-oil salesman

Wish me luck for tomorrow, by the way. I'm turning in my apartment application and could really go for not being homeless.

IT'S FUCKING KITTY HEAVEN OKAY?!

There is a cat food commercial that features a cat prancing through a field of... well, cat things, I guess. The first time I saw it I said, "Holy shit, it's fucking kitty heaven!"

Yes, Virginia, there really is a cat heaven. Also, Liz and I have strong-armed Andy into including more cat memes into the newsletter because, as I told him about it, he gave a mouse a cookie and now he has to deal with it.
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There was another setback in my apartment hunt, but hopefully it will be settled by tomorrow. Hopefully.

It isn't bothering me too badly because today, someone gave me barnacles that Grandpop pried off of a ship in the Phillipines during WWII. While I never knew Grandpop because he died a few days before/after I was born (depending on who you ask), the shells of the barnacles are the objects of my affection right now.

When he pried them off the ship, his fingerprints were pressed into their surface, and all these years later, the things are like engraved porcelain. His fingerpads had the same whorls and peacocks eye that mine have, and a psychic once told me years ago that those are the sign of a freewheeler.

My Grandma told me that I have his mouth and his swagger, and an accidental time capsule tells me that I have his hands and gypsy ways.

Happy Jimmy Hoffa Day!

I went to work today, but after sleeping in and then only for two hours. I left so early because I felt like a scab, and if there's one thing my grandmother's taught me (she taught me a lot actually), it's that the best thing to do with a scab is punch them in the coinpurse, then kick their teeth down their throat while they're down.

Since I don't have a coinpurse, I'm just going to eat a big steak and play video games.

And because I love you, here's some Labor Day reading:
Sunshine Mine Disaster
It is appropriate, therefore, that the nation pay tribute on Labor Day to the creator of so much of the nation's strength, freedom, and leadership — the American worker.
How the mafia works

Chaneling WC Fields

W. C. Fields (January 29, 1880 – December 25, 1946) was an American juggler, comedian, and actor. Fields created one of the great American comic personas of the first half of the 20th century—a misanthrope who teetered on the edge of buffoonery but never quite fell in, an egotist blind to his own failings, a charming drunk; and a man who hated children, dogs, and women, unless they were the wrong sort of women. - Wiki

I have, arguably, an undesirable way of life. I'm perpetually homeless, stressed to the point of going grey, bounce between unbalanced men, and act like a dick to people who don't deserve it.

However.

When I feel like sleeping, I usually sleep. When I feel like trashing my liver, I do that too. Most of the time, if I feel like telling someone to suck it, it's gonna happen.

Someone had confronted me about that, and in my defense, a third party replied "she's just channeling WC Fields and fucking Alistair Crowley".

So. The next time I start to regret an audible office fart, I'm just going to remember that crazy old man who waits in the bushes with a BB gun, and remember that apparently I'm his second coming.

While I'm at it: Fuck you too, Sammy Hagar. We didn't want you here anyway.