I decided that I’d try a little experiment this month, and just not go off the pill at all. And so far, it seems to be working. Not being a totally raging hormonal bitch, AND helping to save our environment by not littering landfills with feminine hygiene products? Pretty sweet. Getting cancer because I of taking birth control nonstop? Yeah, well, who needed a uterus anyway? To the garbage heap with that worthless POS!

Now, it makes me wonder. I reckon this little experiment is suggestive that I will be a wonderful, happy, bubbly Miss Optimistic sort of person should I ever find myself in a knocked-up state. The post-partum depression is going to fucking kill me, though. So no screaming hellspawn until I can afford a full-time, live-in nanny for the first two or three months. I hope she cooks and cleans. I’d like that.

Wednesday: Skip class cos of walking hurts like a bitch.

Thursday: Go to class.  Hobble around campus, slowly, because none of the fucking busses are stopping for Lil Miss Bum-Foot.  It only hurts if I step the wrong way (which I do often), but it could be worse.

Friday: Nursing a hangover most of the morning.  The rest of the day is uneventful.

Saturday: Now that my foot feels better, I decide to try out my new bike (bought for health reasons, cos of getting fat).  I hop on, and I don’t even make it past the house because a rather comical display of stupidity and shoddy workmanship.  I lose my balance, so I pedal to try and balance again, but the chain slipped off the gears and I lose control, crashing into an embankment and twisting my ankle with a loud POPPOPPOP on the way down.  Lucky for me, I didn’t make it far from the house so my screaming was easily heard.  Bike was thrown into the truck unceremoniously, and I hobbled over and slide in the front seat, and head over to the ER.  Again.  For the second time this week.  For the same goddamned foot.  ARRGH.

Good news, it isn’t broken, according to the ER doc.  Which surprises the hell out of me, with all the noise it made.  Just not allowed to put any weight on it for about five days.  Which is good, because I can’t.  Thank goodness Dad had some crutches hiding in the garage.  I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do about class next week, seeing as if I can’t use crutches well.  I can get around the house just fine, but trying to do all the walking I do campus on crutches is a good way to make yet another trip to the ER for a sprained wrist on top of everything else.  Arrgh.

We’ll see how tomorrow goes.  See if I can stay out of trouble… hah.

So it’s getting close to time where I should have my annual pipe-checking event.  Dial up the clinic, get an appointment in great time (less than a week, and not because they didn’t have earlier spots).  Sweet.  I’m set.

Go in today, and I find out my doctor is some T. Dale dude.  Didn’t think anything of it until the nurse mentioned that he used to work at the hospital down in Cynthiana.  “Oh,” I think.  “I wonder if that’s…”  and then he walks in.  And wouldn’t you know it?  I know the guy.  And this is a guy I vowed to punch in the face the next time I saw him (not expecting to really see him again).  See, the burning hatred stems from the time I put my hand through a window and nearly severed the tendon on my right index finger.  I go into the ER, and instead of doing what a SMRAT doctor would do (which would be sending me straight to some specialists in Lexington), Dr Dale decides he can stitch it up himself and all will be fine.  But all wasn’t fine! Oh no!  I have a horrible sunken-assed scar that, eleven years later, still hurts like a motherfucker if I even just think about it.  Seriously, you don’t even have to touch it to make it scream.  It hurts just to think about.  As a matter of fact, I feel like gnawing my knuckle off as we speak.

The good news is, I didn’t punch him in the face.  The bad news is… I didn’t punch him in the face.  But I guess I figured out why he did a shitty job on my hand.  Maybe he just wasn’t used to working on that end.  *ting!*

Haha, wow.  Hello, world.  Did you enjoy reading that??  *freak*

At least I can sound like a proper caveman.  Can you imagine if I said “I plate”?  Pah!

Anyway, I failed to mention last night that Dad is back home, because I was freakin’ tired.  I twittered it, though, so you can’t say you weren’t informed… you can only say “I didn’t look hard enough for the information.”  So take that.  But yes, Dad is home, and sore, but I’m happy to have him back to Diddly-Dadding around.

Now I guess I should actually start working on that homework I was talking about.  But not before “wow”ing over how amazing it is to feel so loved by such a wonderful manboy.  Sometimes I get so happy I could barf.  And I hope it’s not like, barf barf.  I would think love-barf should be made of glitter and roses.  But I don’t think glitter is something a body synthesises.  Maybe roses, if you’re a vessel for the Holy Virgin, but glitter?  Nah.  I digress!  No one has brought me such happiness, fulfillment, and contentment before.  It’d almost be like ‘peace’ were it not for us both being kind of childishly chaotic.  I think it’s as close to ‘peace’ as either of us will ever get.  And it’s pretty damned nice.

Wish I could say the same for my night.  I came home, sat in the car for a while, left again, came back, had a beer, and then had a mild panic attack.  Which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing had I not been on the phone at the time.  I needed the release, without worrying about reigning it in for the benefit of party-two.  He wanted to stay on the phone with me.  I got nagged about hanging up, he wanted to stay that much.  I guess that should be a comfort, but… I don’t know.  There’s a very, very delicate balance between “leave me the fuck alone” and “please don’t go”.  A sort of, please be there, allow me the comfort of knowing you’re there, but don’t be so present that I should worry about what you’re thinking when I need to worry about calming myself down.  I guess it’ll take some practice.

After that episode, and after I had fully recovered (took about an hour?), the night went alright.  Still feeling a bit overwhelmed by this whole mess of life, but the worst of it has been expelled.  Like having a zit on yer ass, I reckon.  The pressure is off but it’s still going to hurt for a bit.

In other news, thanks to Kev’s inquisitiveness, I found out that Peter Heppner has indeed released his solo effort, imaginatively titled “Solo”.  International release dates are, unfortunately, still being negotiated.  But with the glory of the Inter-tube, who needs international release dates?  Soulseek to the rescue!  It’s not as great as Wolfsheim — only a few songs pack a somewhat similar sort of punch — but it’s still pretty good.  ‘Alleinesein’ was probably his best choice for a debut single, and definitely my favourite.  ‘No Matter What It Takes’ is also pretty striking.  The rest?  Well, it’s going to take some time to bond with.

Dad went into surgery this afternoon as I was out gathering overnight-supplies and running other general errands.  Rushed to finish everything up as quickly as possible so I could meet back up with Mom.  So we sat.  And sat.  And munched the little bit of protein I brought up.  And sat.  TV. Sat.  Wait.  The surgery lasted nearly four hours, which is pretty freaking insane for a laproscopic procedure.  But well, the doc did say it was quite possibly the worst gallbladder he had ever seen.  Full of rocks, pus, infection, nasty, and all sorts of fun… which burst as they were pulling it through one of the incisions.  So they spent a good hour, hour and a half, flushing out the infected-explosion.

But he came out and went back to his regular room on second floor.  He’s looking good, in a lot of ways.  All should be clear, but there is still the chance that they didn’t get everything all flushed, so they’re probably going to keep him til Sunday so they can closely monitor him and drop the big-shit antibiotics.

And nowww… I think I’m going to get some solid food, a nice stiff drink to settle my nerves, and start looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

It begins with me finding my brother downstairs, who tells me that Dad is in the hospital. That would’ve been nice to know, oh, I don’t know, when he was being taken to the hospital? Sorry, sorry… that just bugs me that I don’t know this shit until way after it’s happened. I immediately start conjuring ideas up about how I could maybe, probably, possibly use this to get out of having to take my exam at noon, but nah, not if it isn’t serious. And I know, I know, that makes me sound like a horrible selfish bitch, but hear me out. It’s rarely serious, cos of Dad is a whiner… you know the ones that think they’re dying if they get a case of the sniffles? Not in a hypochondriac style, but a big ol’ pitiful baby style. That’s Dad. Not that I’m bad-mouthing it or anything… he’s cute as a button when he’s sick. At any rate, turns out it may actually be something, in the area of the gallbladder. Which again, isn’t serious, but hurts like a motherfucker anyway. So I’ve made sure to be extra nice and not poke fun of the sickie. He was released, and is scheduled for a test tomorrow. If it’s NOT the gallbladder though… well. Hmm.

Went on into class, banged out my exam. Didn’t go so well. I swear to god, I did actually write “Chuck E. Cheese’s” as a movement which led to the development of social work as a profession. Also, some other “prominent” figure in social welfare was listed by me as being “so not in Wikipedia”. I only choked terribly on about a fifth of the exam, which, if I get every other question right, isn’t bad. But I never count on getting everything else right…

Came back home to watch over Dad while Mom ran errands, happy for the excuse to skip out on Micro. He slept. I reorganized my papers and notebooks. Made a pizza run, and settled in for the debate. And, when I first started writing all this, I had quite a bit to say about McCain’s Healthcare Plan of Epic Fail, plus a sidetrack into just what’s wrong with the American education system (adding more strength to the idea of being a school counselor… srsly), but… now I’m just not much in the mood for that sort of talk.

Sadly, what I really DO want to talk about isn’t something I feel like talking about in a public setting… and not really even in LJ, either (though those on LJ know a bit more detail already). Just private, thankful thoughts on just how strange life is, and how lucky I am, and how amazed I am that everything I ever hoped for, but shrugged off as unrealistic, was actually very real — very attainable. As I said tonight… were it any other time, under any other circumstance, with any other person, I would be shitting my pants right now. But for once, for the first time… I’m not scared of the uncertainties and difficulties that surely lie ahead. I’m actually entirely comfortable with this. Excited about this. Hell, I even feel like I need this. This is the path set out before me, and not taking that path would defy all reason.

Knowing myself as I do… I know that being able to say that is pretty fucking monumental.

So yeah, in case you couldn’t gather from my Flickr feed, I have myself a car.  Nothing new.  In fact, it’s the same car I’ve been driving for years, but only because Mum was wonderful enough to share it with me for as long as I stayed under this roof, and all my activites were local.  With being a commuting student next semester, though, sharing would’ve been rather difficult.  So Mom bought herself a new 2008 Chevy Cobalt, and gave the ol’ Cavalier to me.
So that’s pretty damn nifty, if I may say so.  Now I just have to work on not wrecking it like the last hand-me-down Cavalier   Or, at least, wreck it with five gallons of something that smells better than milk.  *ribjab*  Then again, I’ve already wrecked this one once (Cockrell’s did a beautiful body job on it!), so maybe I’m safe.

Cleaning the damned thing was an all-day event.  Heh.

In other news, I think this might be year-two of being sick all summer.  At least I’m in brighter spirits this year… I just wish my guts would follow suit.