Charlie Babbitt Taught Me To Dance

Vroom vroom! Sparky (my car wasn’t named by me but it suits it so I kept the name) lives like a Frankenstein creation that had previously been dead for a longtime only to be reanimated by a crazy scientist. Sparky wasn’t reanimated by  crazy scientist, you idiot, he was reanimated by my pal Chris who is suitably crazy but not white-coat sciencey.

I’m very grateful indeed. Although all I’ve done today, the day after the great reanimating, is drive to a charity shop to donate a few things then into town to grab some groceries, it does feel great to have a moving vehicle again. I’m nowhere near my normal state of health after this long year of setbacks and problems so to have driven further first time out would have been a huge colour of nonsense. When have you ever known me be a nonsense?

It’s also smart to make sure my new pain medication doesn’t adversely affect my concentration at the wheel. So far so good. Well apart from that old gentleman I ran over on the sidewalk when I was trying to text myself to remind me not to text and drive.

How quickly mind memory kicks in – after eight months in which I’ve driven only once, it took me only ten minutes to encounter a twatbag driving like a dickwad (no, autocorrect, I don’t mean ‘duckweed’, you dickwad) and for me to mutter “Fuck sake, pal, what’s wrong with you?” to myself. About him. There was nothing wrong with me. Nothing four million volts to the penis wont cure anyway. He was the dickbag and the twatwad. (ha, fuck you autocorrect, you don’t know what to do with those words at all, do you?)

I’m an excellent driver.

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Cogito Ergo Bum

Brains, they’re pretty useful. They send all sorts of messages to pieces of the body telling those pieces of the body to do their jobs properly. And they hold information stuff which we can use to inform the stuff we do. Mostly I use my brain to hold information about utterly pointless shit but now and then I also use it to remind me to go to the lavatory.

You don’t know, because you went straight from the full stop at the end of that paragraph to the word ‘you’ at the beginning of this paragraph, but there was a pause while I went to the lavatory. Onesies, nothing more.

You do know, because you read the second paragraph, that you didn’t require the information about me going to the lavatory. And now you can’t unlearn it. I’ve practically wizzed in your mind. I’m awful.

Minds, they’re pretty useful. They’re sort of the same yet not the same as brains. They’re kind of kept inside the brain but they’re invisible. Like the soul. I mean, what’s the deal with that? We’re physical beings yet all the advances we’ve made after centuries of medical discovery still can’t tell us how minds form within brains and what happens to our consciousness when we go to Aldi. Or die.

Aldi, it’s pretty useful. It’s also Scandinavian for ‘shite’.

Sunvey Surday

A quick survey – who thinks moving about is overrated and terribly painful?

I do. So that’s 100% of those surveyed who think moving about is overrated and painful. Which conclusively proves that moving about is overrated and painful.

What to conclude from this groundbreaking survey?

I’ve concluded that moving about should be banned immediately. Your muscles will thank you once you’ve become melded with your bed. And your mind will be free to roam the endless pastures of imaginariumness which is healthier than thirty minutes of cardiovascular activity a day.

It bloody is. No, I don’t need to do another survey to prove that. You do a survey. On your mom.

It’s lucky it’s a Sunday as it is written in all scriptures that Sunday is a day for being an idiot. Or going to garden centres. Or both.

You’ve Got To Be Kitten Me

“Welcome to another edition of Let’s Spend The Day Being Ouchy. Our first contestant, all the way from right here, is me. Hi me, how am I?”

“You’re ouchy.”

“Thank you for playing. You win today’s star prize, nothing at all.”

Today’s star prize was actually going to the hospital at not quite nine of a morning to have a CT scan. Popularly known as a ‘Cat scan’ this determines whether your lungs are made of kittens or of illness. Please let it be kittens, please let it be kittens.

I didn’t sleep for worrying about it. My specialist booked it when I was discharged from hospital in June (quick work, NHS) but while he’s just checking my bronchiectasis hasn’t scarred or colonised more of my breathing places I find my mind incapable of not assuming CT scans mean they think a patent has cancer. So I’m a lot of fun to be around.

Please let it be kittens.

Yesterday’s physio is also beating up on me. More lying down is required all weekend. Plus a smattering of cake and a pinch of self-pity.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ooh Cake

As I’ve only been trialling my new pain medication for the last two weeks there was a three dose gap between completing the trial and seeing my GP this morning to see if we’re going to go forward with the drug. Just three doses, just 36 hours, should be a breeze, right? After all I’ve only been on the drug for a fortnight.

Wrong.

Perhaps it should be seen as a positive that my inability to cope very well without the stuff indicates that I’ve been benefiting from it. Perhaps we can take all suggestions of positivity, fold them up tightly until they are all corners and ram them up the arsehole of the next person to suggest I look for rainbows. Or, less aggressively, perhaps I’m lucky that it was only a brief gap and that the depressive low and contrary spike in anxiety as well as pain levels that gap caused only really hit me yesterday afternoon and evening. Perhaps I’m lucky, too, that I was in too much physical pain to go throw myself off a bridge.

I’m still in pain – the first proper, regular dose isn’t for another two hours unless I cheat, take it now and sleep off the added 2 hours of morning tomorrow to get back in sync with my others medications – but some of today’s pain is physio related. Yes, I done a physio again today. It hurt slightly less than last time. I’m hoping it doesn’t make my muscles hate me for five days straight like last time. I’m also hoping that fascism fucks off again so who knows how realistic my hopes about anything actually are?

Cake. I have cake. Lovely, lovely, home-made by Nick and his young paduan…er…daughter. Delivered right into my welcoming hands when I returned from physio. And it is not just lovely, lovely, it is very more-ish. Good job I ate a proper lunch as I can’t see me eating genuine evening food because the cake keeps a-calling.

I (Don’t) Wanna Be Like You

The humans are lumped together like a fatberg, like sedated monkeys trained to drink coffee and chat about nothing much instead of throwing their own crap around. Some look like they can barely resist the urge to pick lice from each other’s scalps.

Pity the growling misanthrope, cast adrift on a hellish sea of other people. Homo sapiens: can’t live with them; can’t decapitate even a single one of them without some authoritarian jobsworth deeming it an imprisonable offence.

The carefully constructed defence mechanisms I’ve spent decades perfecting to protect me against swarms of humans require too much energy, too much consistent effort for me to successfully deploy them now I am old and broken. That’s me in the corner, that’s me as far from the spotlight as I can bear to be, gaining more religion.

Fatberg. A splendid New York family name. Probably. How would I know? I would fall over and die on the sidewalk in New York. The apples are too big. The monkeys lumped together far too tightly.

And He Likes To Sing Along

I thought I’d experiment with being frightened and self-pitying today. It’s going extremely well. I’ve muttered ‘why me?’ to myself and then thought that I’m a terrible person so why not me and why not worse than what’s happening to me because I ought be punished. Which was pretty frightening.

You may gather from the above paragraph that I’m not very good at Wednesday. Unless you agree with me about my being a terrible person in which case you may think I’m awesome at Wednesday because I’ve finally worked it out for myself. News flash, I’ve had that kind of self-sabotage narrative rattling through my brain throughout my life. Poor me. (Ooh, further self-pity, I’m nailing that today)

Maybe I’m just normal at Wednesday. Maybe all Wednesdays from now on will be made of ouch and doubt and boo hoo. Maybe I’ll grow an extra nose and smell my other nose with it and decide I like the aroma of my initial nose and cut off the other one.

Maybe I’ll abandon the fourth paragr…