Ebo Ebo Ebonettes

“Sharp scratch.” Doctors and nurses who are inserting needles into you are obliged by law to say this now as it is punishable by death to say “You’ll feel a bit of a prick.”

I’ve been needled today, in the sharp scratch sort of way, not the people annoying me on purpose sort of way. I didn’t feel a bit of a prick. Well, I readjusted my jeans when I sat down in the waiting room but I swear there was no pleasure in it for me. If anything I just felt like I was treating myself like an object.

My doctor wanted to take some more blood from me because mine is the greatest blood in the world and she is painting her kitchen with it. Oh and she wants to see whether my folic acid levels are any better than they were the other week and whether the confusing indicators of a Crohn’s flare-up which can also just be signifiers that I’ve been on antibiotics for a Bronchiectasis flare-up are any less confusing today.

Then I had my flu jab with one of the surgery’s nurses. This is a good thing because it means I have some protection against those strains of flu that are predicted to be the most bastardy over the coming winter but is sort of a bad thing for a day or two as you get some flu-like symptoms. And your arm hurts. From the small scratch. And in your prick.

Not that last. You’re obsessed.

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Where’s Your Head At?

My head has been to some dark places over the last couple of days. After a week of me predominantly feeling capable of human actions and interactions Friday slammed me into the ground like a cop who decided I looked at him strange. Furthermore, Friday shoved its nightstick up my ass, put its gun to my head and threatened to just motherfucking pull the trigger right then and there.

I swear I was just minding my own business, officer. Or, as we used to say under our breath before winding down the car window when we got pulled over back in my Sussex days “Good cuntsternoon Afsterble, what seems to be the problem?”

I’m not one who gets bad dreams too often and most of the time when I do I actually know I’m dreaming and thus do not get the anxiety or the wrecking ball of emotions that go along with the darker sides of the psyche playing themselves out during nighttime theatre. Not so for the past couple nights – I’ve been in hell both figuratively and literally in recent dreams and each version of that equation has terrified and disempowered me to such an extent that I’ve woken unable to shift the traumatised emotions created in sleepy bye bye land.

Sunday is a little gentler on the soul and the heart but my mind is still churning with negative self-image which has largely been invoked in those dreams. And hey, just to keep things fresh I’ve also been dealing with a whole batch of health-concerned fears and anxieties too. Mine is not really a body fit for purpose and in dark times I am forced to face the truth that deep down I’m always waiting for a fatalistic prognosis to confirm my most neurotic nightmares.

I’m real fun, you see.

I have not found myself behind the wheel of a large automobile nor any of that other psychodrama American Dream schtick peppered through David Byrne’s more speechified crescendoes in Talking Heads’ ‘Once In A Life Time’. Which is a way better song than ‘Where’s Your Head At’, as well we all know.

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They Paved Paradise

Yesterday I drove around to complete a few chores prior to seeing a couple of friends in different locations. On reflection I pushed myself too hard after a week of doing quite a lot (for me). As a consequence I am finding Friday to be a real struggle: I am in pain, I am close to tears all the time for no actual reason, and I am yet again reacquainted with the end of my own particular tether.

It’s fortunate for me that one of my chores did not take place today, then, as who knows quite how much abuse I might have hurled at someone who pissed me off when I undertook that chore yesterday if I’d been as emotionally compromised as I am today.

It’s a simple task to pop down to your doctor’s surgery and fill out a repeat prescription form, right? It is if some selfish arse doesn’t ignore the clear instructions that there is no customer parking at the surgery other than the two disabled spaces. It is if that same selfish arse doesn’t pull up across the two disabled spaces making it technically still possible to get into the spaces if only those they are designed for weren’t disabled people who may well find added tight manoeuvring only increases their problems because of the extra stress and physical manipulation required to pass a camel through the eye of a fucking needle.

My side window was down and the selfish arse heard me when I uttered somewhat acceptable and understated words when confronted with the added manoeuvres required to get into one of the spaces for which I have a relevant disabled badge. What they heard me say was “And the reason you’ve parked like a selfish arse, blocking off these disabled spaces is…?”

Oh gosh, the worst swear word in the world? I think not. She made the mistake of taking umbrage with me, never a grand idea when my gander is up and I’m already trying to maintain my calm rather than degenerate into a foul-mouthed tirade. I was still calm enough and responded to her insufficient defence of blocking off the small car park by saying that she’d ‘only be a couple of minutes’ by speaking her genuine reason out loud – “In other words it’s because you’re more important than anybody else and don’t have to pay any attention to the request the surgery itself puts out not to use this car park unless you have a relevant badge or are a member of staff.”

She didn’t like my revelation of the truth of her actions and resorted to the sort of finger pointing bullshit most selfish arses utilise when they get called out for their behaviour. “You don’t look very disabled to me.”

I was, by this stage, out of my vehicle and trying to forget this stupid twat’s obstructive actions and get on with doing what I was there to do. I had already ambled past her so threw a cursory “The reasons why and how my body is fucked are none of your fucking business.” Aware that this last might have been heard by the receptionist I immediately apologised to her for my language and got on with filling out my form. Well, nobody else was behaving like a cunt towards me so I wasn’t going to take it out on the whole world, was I?

Today I regret that I didn’t deploy greater sarcasm. Today I would have torn into the selfish arse either, as I intimated earlier, with a sweary diatribe the likes of which she’s unlikely to have heard from a disabled before or, preferably, with the disdain her attitudes deserved, to whit:

“Oh thank you so much, ‘Doctor’. Not only are you the queen of the parking lot but obviously you are fully qualified to make an instant assessment of my medical needs. Can you clear your diary for early November so you can accompany me on my next appointment with one of the several specialists I have been wasting the time of so that you can explain they no longer need to keep expending time, effort and resources bothering to try keeping me alive? As if I’d want to continue living in a world populated by self-interested, never-done-a-damn-thing-wrong-in-their-lives cunts like you. If I might diagnose you in return, I believe you to be in need of a healthy dose of going and fucking yourself.”

Oh the list of things I shoulda said in this world just grows longer.

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Sorted, Sound, Sweet, Terry Christian’s A Dick

It would be inaccurate to say I’ve been flitting about like a normal human for the past few days as I still need to sleep and sleep and I rarely rise from such slumber in the a.m. But I have gone out a little more, had coffee with a pal or two, been grocery shopping, chatted to inspiring folks while waiting in line to buy stuff and even got out the old guitar and sung myself a number or three.

This is about the right level of activity. In seven weeks I need this body to be capable of sitting on an aeroplane for eleven hours to arrive in San Francisco at what will be two in the morning by my body clock even if California insists on being eight hours behind. So I don’t want to overdo things right now but I do want to know I can trust my frame to move about at airports and in a strange city.

So next week, as a more elongated test of my physical capabilities, I’m driving up to Manchester for a night to buy my son a belated birthday meal. That’s where he is studying for his Master’s degree. I’ve not actually told him this but it may also be a city he was in when he was a tiny, tiny foetus. I’m not sure exactly but do know that the Paul Weller gig his mother and I went to see at the old G-Mex arena in Manchester took place roughly nine months before his birth so it’s possible his conception had already taken place.

I’ve only been up there once since then and that was a rather truncated (for me) writer’s jaunt almost five years ago. What little I got to see of the centre that time around impressed me: it’s cleaner, busier and felt more modern than it had under the glow of nineties neon and a haze of marijuana mod-smoke. My boy isn’t in the centre but I may get time after checking out from the hotel the next day to at least take a little drive through the busier parts on my way out. Or not. Main thing is to spend time with my son in his new location and to find out how my body feels about mucho driving and being in unfamiliar surroundings. Luck me wish, as Yoda might say.

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To Boldly Go*

The last few days have been about pain, insomnia and the fear. They have also been about loving support and kindness so while I have struggled to cope with the difficult stuff I have been helped through and lifted by the fact that such love and compassion exists in my world.

And today I managed to make it outside to be a human for a while to see my friend Spanner, the one over from Michigan, who came down to Exeter for some lunch and a catch-up. The sun appeared with impeccable timing, food was consumed of dubious calorific value but which tasted great nonetheless and we both managed to have a bit of a walk around despite having our separate issues with, well with walking around at times.

I’m home again and my body is battered but it may also be fatigued enough from genuine effort and exercise to mean I sleep at a reasonable hour this evening. And if not I shall just rewatch the first two episodes of Stark Trek: Discovery which seems to have kicked off a new strand of the franchise in a similarly precarious way to the opening of Voyager which developed over seven seasons into possibly my all time favourite part of the Trek verse.

*As half a doctor of English I should loathe split infinitives. As a Trekkie I say grammar can go fuck itself and not prosper.

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Twinkle, Twinkle Little Bat

I’m not a hamster, what the heck are you even on about? I’m a dormouse.

Here I am, curled up inside my madly hatted teapot, snoozing, snoozing, snoozing. And nothing else.

Nope. Not a darned thing. Except cake. Cake has happened. And sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

Oh and going to the lavatory. That’s always a good idea unless you want to snooze in your own wee wee. Which I don’t and neither does anybody who isn’t fucking weird in the brainbox.

Sleep. Cake. Wee = dormouse. It does, it bloody does.

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Squeaky Squeaky

He’s not a real…you know where that’s going

I’m small. I’m not very furry. I do not have rodent-like teeth (or indeed many of my own actual teeth due to a life spent addicted to first amphetamines and then, when I grew up, sugar). And yet I am now practically nocturnal.

I’m a stupid twat and I’m ok. I’m awake all night and asleep most of the day.

(Sing that bit. Go on, SING IT!)

How I love to trundle about on my little wheel. Pause to ponder the complexities of sunflower seeds, take a little sip from my water bottle then back on the wheel. Or is that hamsters?

(Please note, illiterate dickheads, the word ‘hamster’ does not and never has had a fucking p in it. Jeez, how do you manage to be away for the whole of reading at school?)

No, there isn’t anything worthy I’d like to say today, actually. S’my blog, I’ll post what I cocking well like.

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