Black Doggerel

I remember it vividly from when I stopped using heroin: that slow surge back to life of passions dropped on the journey. ( Cut for verbosity )

second bloodtest required for dr to calculate dosage, which i had yesterday. he just called and says results confirm hypothyroid. there is thyroxine script waiting for me at surgery.

of course, it's 5pm on a friday and chances are I can't get my hands on the script before monday. even if Mum got in the car this minute she likely couldn't get there before they closed. she's calling for me to see if they can deliver it to the pharmacy.
halle-fuckin-lujah.

my mum just IM'd: pharmacy is going to deliver my drugs tomorrow. HALLELUJAH OMGFUCKINGYAY. WE CAN HAZ NORMAL SERVICE RESUMED SOON WE HOPE AND TRUST.

ETA: Have a couple of funny fanvids to amuse you while I take the time to come back to life and catch the fuck up:

Bigger On The Inside: Tenth Doctor

Nine To Five: Supernatural

Just lugged a metric fuckton of crap down to the bins. I feel more than a little guilty about this because most of it was recyclable and/or reusable crap - margarine tubs that could have been washed for dogtreat storage, glass bottles and jars that should have been washed for jam making or the recycle bin.

The trouble is, this ever-increasing pile of Things I Fully Intended To Get Around To Washing has been sitting there - and increasing - for years now. It's in my mental queue of shit that needs done, sure, but there's always something ahead of it (like washing up the things I need right now to eat off or cook with) and the bigger the pile gets, the less likely it is to ever be done, and... you know how it goes, right? Please say it's not just me.

Well, sometimes being a slob with a limited spoon supply (literally and figuratively) means having to make hard decisions. Today is the first day since Tuesday I've had enough energy to do anything more than take the dogs out to pee and walk myself to the bathroom and back as few times as I can get away with. So I got a big black binbag and filled it with every single sticky, mould-lined jam jar and greasy rancid plastic container I could find - and I do mean filled. And I dropped the entire lot into the wheelie bin with a resounding crash and a huge sense of liberation.

It's nearly nothing, on the scale of the crawling chaos that is my kitchen and my life, and this small symbolic act may have used up the whole of my day's energy ration. My list of things I wanted to get done today is still exponentially larger than the things I can actually manage. But I still feel a lot better for it, and I have no regrets.

Love you all.

I am too tired to write anything much. Spoon Event Horizon is ongoing. I just wanted my top entry to be something less angstridden, and also to quote and link you to slave2tehtink's particularly fine feminism rant.

I want a feminism in which women, cis and
trans, white women and women of color, poor women and wealthy women,
able-bodied women and disabled women, we can all stand shoulder to shoulder
and get each other's backs. I want to a movement that asks women "What do
you need? How can I help you get it?" and then listens to and trusts the
answer; trusts women to know how feminism could help them.

ME TOO, PETUNIA, ME TOO. WHAT SHE SAID. And a pony plz.
If you read anything today, click over and read the entire thing. While I'm here, I also want to quote and link her equally fine Social Justice 101: I'm Going to Disneyland.

So the doctor thinks I either have post-viral fatigue syndrome or possibly a thyroid issue. Today I went to have blood drawn so they can check thyroid functions. I don't have words for how much I was dreading this. I never had easy veins to start with, and I destroyed what little there was very thoroughly during the junkie years, so that getting blood out of me is normally only slightly easier than pulling hen's teeth. What normally happens is that the first nurse will stab me five or six times in each arm, fail to find a vein, call in a different nurse and sometimes a third, and eventually they'll send me home with both arms bruised and sore from wrist to shoulder with instructions to come in next week so they can try again. When I had my dental surgery they put the drip in my neck because no one in the entire hospital could hit my arm veins. That's how bad they are.

So I'd warned them about sucky vein access when I made the appointment, and they smiled serenely at me and said "Don't worry. We have Ying." I gave them a funny look and went "...Okay. Whatever."

Ying turned out to be a dry, quietly-competent nurse that made it hard even for me to be anxious in her presence. She felt over both my arms carefully before she so much as touched me with a needle and bugger me if she didn't hit the vein squarely on the first damn poke. That's never happened in my entire life with anyone, professional or otherwise, not in those veins.

I have typed more words today than I have in weeks. I seem to be having a good day. This has been driving me batshit because I haven't had the energy for IM conversations. I've been staying out of the Khimeros chat; I've tried, but one of the side-effects of feeling this shitty is that my brain-keyboard filter is holed and shaky and it's too hard not to get snotty with people. So I'm only talking to people who don't tend to piss me off and who understand if I say something tactless by accident. It's made me slightly stir crazy, but most of the time I've just been too fucking tired to care.

This is likely to continue for a while yet. Today's been a good day, but I've had a lot of days when the combined effort of hitting Post Comment, stringing an intelligible sentence together and then typing it has been more than I could deal with.

In other news, Spike is still licking his elbows. Also, I have liquorice allsorts and rhubarb-and-custard boiled sweets, neither of which I ordered - Tesco sent them as substitutes because they'd run out of the toffee I did order. I love the way internet grocery shopping occasionally produces these little serendipities; the rhubarb-and-custards are a bit harder than I really fancied but man, they taste good. And liquorice allsorts are complete love, especially the pink and blue sprinkle-covered liquorice jelly cushions. Though admittedly it's more usual for them to send me filthy camomile tea when I ordered blackcurrant or ginger or fennel, but still.

Today is my Dad's birthday and I feel vaguely guilty that I didn't remember till my sister posted something about it on Facebook. He was never very good at remembering birthdays either, mind you.

/end ramble