So I sent out an email yesterday to just about everyone with “insider knowledge” about my illness. The nice people who sent me emails offering comfort and virtual hugs. The nice people who were rewarded for their kindness with hysterical ramblings from me that usually contained entirely Too Much Damn Information, Crazy Girl. And to the other nice people who sent me nice things or offered to clean my house or gave me their home phone numbers with permission to yell PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE BITCH! into their answering machines.
I told them all that I was doing better! Better! Happy! Medicated! Bzzz! BZZZ!
And of course, this angered the Pharmacy Gods muchly and I was promptly a quivering mass of anxiety and weepiness once again. Yay!
I still maintain that I’m getting better. Fuck you, Pharmacy Gods. *shakes fist at nightstand piled high with seventeen bottles of pills* You call that a panic attack? Ha! I laugh at your panic attack! Or I will later, once I stop crying about it.
Anyway. Ceiba is getting spayed today. Ack. Ackackack. I woke up at four a.m. convinced that something awful was going to happen to her and she was going to die.
I was able to get back to sleep, only to have an extremely disturbing dream about being a scientist working on a top-secret government project which turned out to be Jason as some Terminator-type supersoldier whose evil powers I accidentally unleashed after falling in love with him and kissing him.
So after that? I was pretty much wide awake and vowing never to sleep again. Got up. Got dressed. Told Jason he had to come with me to drop off the puppy or else he would probably get a call from a payphone in West Virginia after Ceiba and I Thelma and Louised it away from the vets.
The good news is that her extra baby teeth fell out last night. No one is allowed to vacuum our house until I find them.
After tearing myself away from my precious little pumpkin pie angel girl and giving her an embarrassing number of kisses in front of the vet, I went to my bazillionth doctor’s appointment this month. You can all now refer to my doctor as “Dr. Doomsday” (tm Coleen), as she managed to rip my “I’m feeling better!” routine to shreds and sent me packing with not one, not two, but THREE new prescriptions. We’re adding tranquilizers now, people. TRANQUILIZERS. Like I’m an escaped monkey from the zoo or something. Also doubling dosages that were already doubled once before.
So now? I’m a little cranky and short-tempered and seriously ready to rip that guy’s head off if he doesn’t SHUT THE HELL UP OUT IN THE HALLWAY OUT THERE YES I CAN HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR.
Basically, this, again:
But! But! This weekend? Is my best friend’s wedding. I picked up my bridesmaid’s dress from the cleaners this morning; I bought shoes last weekend; I had my highlights touched up; and I have narrowed my toenail polish choices down to three.
I am ready. I think. Do I need to give a toast? Can I pawn that off on someone else? Where did I put her card? Where did I put the directions? Why didn’t I just take tomorrow off from work instead of being all stoic and agreeing to come for a half day before driving up to some town in Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of with a half hour to spare before the rehearsal? Could I write a longer run-on sentence than that one?
Also: New television arrived this morning. It’s big and pretty and will probably require a whole new entertainment center solution furniture thing. I have not bonded with it yet, however. I'm eyeing it suspiciously, like it will shock me every time I touch it or somehow mess up my TiVo. I'm sure this feeling will pass after we enjoy The Apprentice together tonight. In the meantime, I'm keeping my eye on you, New Television. Don't try anything funny.
The old n’ busted T.V. is now sitting on top of the old n’ busted couch. Seriously. I’m thinking of propping the couch up on some cinderblocks and bringing in an old rusty lawnmower just to complete the look.
Notified Readers Fuck Not With The Crazy.