seventhe: (Quistis: Bad Day)

[personal profile] alatefeline left me some prompts and i’ve Already told y’all the story of the fucking faucet so that will count a s my rant for plumbing. Let’s get this

And today instead of RANTING i’m Going to tell you a hilarious story about my brother and food coloring so buckle up chucklefucks

SOOOOOoooo backstory: my brother and I grew up reading a lot of Calvin & Hobbes cause my gramma and grandpa had a bunch of the (books? Collections?) things, and we’d read and re read them the way you do when you get bored at your grandparents’ house. Right

So one day we’re eating dinner and mum has made like, meatloaf and mashed potatoes i think? And shes serving everybody and out of nowhere my brother says, “Can you make my mashed potatoes green?”

Cue mum: “Wha” ????

My brother: “You know how in Calvin & Hobbes their dinner is always green mush on a plate. I want mine to look like green mush on a plate like Calvin & Hobbes.”

And so my mum says, “Well, we can add some food coloring if you want, but it’s going to look very gross. You have to promise you’re going to eat it.”

Bro: “Well duh, it’s still mashed potatoes, I just want them green”

So mum gets the food coloring and they proceed to dye my brother’s serving of mashed potatoes a terrible looking green and he’s loving it like the lil dork he is and dad and i are just kind of peanut gallery eating meatloaf in the background or something idk.

Dinner’s served. And after about two fucking bites, my brother says, “I don’t think I can eat this.”

Mum: “It’s still mashed potatoes. They’re just green. You literally asked for this”

Bro: “yeah but its gross”

Mum: “we literally just talked about this”

Bro: “yeah but its gross”

So yeah even after ACKNOWLEDGING THAT THEY WERE STILL FUCKING MASHED POTATOES, and ADDING THE FOOD COLORING HIMSELF, it turns out my bro couldn’t eat the green mush on a plate. We threw it out and he got new normal colored mashed potatoes and we laughed at him for, well, the rest of his life i guess

And the moral of this story is: green eggs and ham is a bad sell, but regular eggs and ham is delicious. NEXT

seventhe: (Burger King: In the butt!)

so mike and i are going to pittsburgh this weekend for my brother's birthday. i had a full list of things to get ready for today - get things settled for the catsitter, clean the kitchen, do some laundry so i have something to wear, pack, rig up my bike for the weekend, sort out my medications (this takes about a half hour every week to load them into my "morning" and "evening" weekly pill boxes, ugh) ... there was a lot.

the thing is, i have been tired as actual fuck this week. because i end up overcharging my energy credit card during the week, i usually try to save up and pay it off on weekends, meaning i need lots of sleep, relaxing, and a good amount of alone solo-time. because of the recent messes (previous posts), i haven't had a free weekend to myself since the middle of june. this means not only am i exhausted, and carrying around the static background-noise of someone who hasn't been able to ground herself and clear everything out*, but of course the house is a mess and i am behind on everything.

(*i am also suffering from not having my Vicodin at the moment; those four hours of reduced pain help me clear out the static noise and ground myself like fuck, but because i have to go back to formal pain management (which is a process) i don't even have that tool in the toolbox right now.)

so anyway, i am tired and pretty strung out at the moment, but it's jim's birthday and mary wants us to be a surprise, so we'll be a surprise :)

so last night, i come home tired from the pain-load on my circuits. i take two tramadol and a glass of wine, which i'm sure my liver is mad cool about but it helps shut the pain up when i don't have opiates. i crash on the couch for a bit, with cats, and then slowly start hitting my chores. i make a pact with myself because i'm watching Chopped on tv, so every commercial break i get up and do a thing. this continues on, laundry and litterboxes and drugs, via Chopped and Beat Bobby Flay commercials (look, i love BBF, it's all fancy cooking and trash talk, that's my jam), until the second wind wears off and i get tired. well, i say, i'll get up early in the morning to finish it.

the alarm goes off at 5:00.

  1. i am having a dream where a group of people (no one i know, which is surprising for my dreams) and i are hosting some kind of event luncheon thing with food and wine for fucking Donald Trump and some Republicans, I guess trying to talk some sense into them or come to an accord or argue with them or spy on them or, i don't know, it seems reasonable in the dream. and i'm some kind of power hostess but i'm focusing mainly on the cooking (thanks, fucking Chopped and Beat Bobby Flay), and trying to make points and break up fights while making sure everyone has food?, i mean at one point i fucking leave an argument to go make more fried cornmeal balls (hushpuppies i guess)???? so like: i'm already pretty discombobulated.
  2. i finally manage to get out of bed, after some snooze buttons, at about 6:00
  3. i head downstairs, turn on the keurig, head to the basement. pull the dry laundry out of the dryer and put the wet laundry in the dryer. yes, i went to bed with laundry in the washing machine. it was literally only there for like 5 hours, it didn't smell or anything
  4. i get my coffee and sit down on the floor to fold the laundry but i'm tired as fuck and end up playing out my stamina in FFBE
  5. i fold the laundry, while finishing FFBE/FFRK stamina, with Iggy and Potato helping. this literally hakes maybe an hour? i'm so tired i feel heavy, like i'm moving slowly because everything weighs 500lb, including my thoughts
  6. i finish the laundry and go to get the cats ready. write a note, set out food, fill their dishes, give them wet food breakfast, get everything set
  7. my brain finally processes that i had a dream about catering donald fucking trump, where i made him bruschetta and fucking hushpuppies rather than punching him in the face, maybe with a knife. i spend a good 15 minutes severely disappointed in my subconscious
  8. it's starting to get close to when i should be leaving for work, and i'm starting to unravel a bit here. i go upstairs to pack. weirdly i fucking gained back 9lb in the month of july, i do not know how, so i'm also trying on everything i want to pack to make sure it fits. a lot of random shit just goes in the bag
  9. i spend a half hour sorting out my pills. i have 20 empty pill bottles and at least 2-3 refills of each type, which makes everything more confusing than it should be. i do not know how it happened and my brain really wants to know rather than focus on getting each med in its appropriate pill box. eventually the boxes are full
  10. i scramble to get ready for work, throw some shit on, the jeans are actually still damp but honestly i ignore it bc they stretch out better that way after a wash. hair goes up in a braid, fucks not given
  11. head down to start loading the car. checking my important list on my phone. get jim's gift in the back seat, bike pump in the trunk because once it had a spider on it. look around the garage, and i don't have my bike rack
  12. it must be in fucking mike's garage
  13. i legit spend 20 minutes attempting to cram my goddamn bicycle into the back seat of my fucking honda civic
  14. i mean, maybe if i take the front wheel off
  15. the front wheel isn't coming off, the brakes are in the way
  16. how do i undo brakes
  17. maybe if i wedge it this way
  18. fuck it we're gonna have to stop by on the way out and get my bike
  19. head back in to wash the oil and smudge off of my hands. i am sweaty, and extremely cranky at this point
  20. hands clean, everything else in the car, head out to get in and go to work
  21. the bike rack is hanging from one of my ceiling hooks
  22. someone was helpful and "put it away"
  23. at this point i am decidedly sweaty, cranky, and obscenely late for work. there's a constant stream of "fuck you, fuck this, fucking fuck, fuck this shit, fuck everything" coming out of my mouth like i'm reciting the world's worst rosary
  24. while taking the rack down the straps get caught in my hair and pull half of it out. everything is terrible
  25. the rack is on the fucking car. the bike is on the fucking rack. go wash my hands again.
  26. get into the car. what's on my seat? oh, it's the post it note of my to-do list. let's check it. i forgot to leave the key for the fucking catsitter
  27. fuck you, fuck this, fucking fuck, fuck this shit, fuck everything
  28. the key is safely in a plastic bag in its place
  29. i am stopping at starbucks if it fucking kills me
  30. literally i do not care if i am fired for being late i'm getting a goddamn starbucks

...

  1. get to work. no one is here. half the group is traveling or on vacation, and the other half is off for 9/80 fridays. all my brain can come up with is "9/11" and i sit staring into space for 20 mins trying to figure out what the 9/11 schedule is
  2. it is surreal
  3. i don't know what i'm doing

so now i really just want a nap. and another starbucks

Sigh.

Jun. 22nd, 2012 10:31 pm
seventhe: (Cecil: +100 for COCK)
Today the only talking-to-people I've had to do was over the phone, which has been nice. It was an alright sort of day. There's still too much to do, still too much hanging over my head, too many things on my mind - the weight of responsibility is still tying my neck and shoulders in awful painful knots - but it was a day more-or-less "off".

I took advantage by compromising productive things with fuck-off stuff. I'm still behind on lots of shit, so productivity-wise, I: washed my sheets and duvet, put away a crap ton of old collected laundry, washed dishes, vacuumed, ran errands and got groceries, did a summer/winter swap out of my closet and sorted out three garbage bags worth of things for goodwill, and rearranged the whole 'workout clothes' side of my closet floor. Oh, and cooked, and did a BodyRock workout. I was pretty busy, wow. It's funny how you don't mind the shitty state of your room when you're only in it and awake for like 5 min at a time.

Relaxing-wise, I did an hour or two of leveling in FFXIII, and watched some more Criminal Minds. I swear I did something else fun, but looking at my day, how did I have the time? Hahaha.

Tonight I made a very experimental curry. I really wanted red curry, and I already had a can of coconut milk, but Giant Eagle was out of red curry paste. Sadface! So I tried this "Thai Curry Spicy" sauce thing, because hey, I am too lazy to go to another store and I wanted my curry soon. it ended up pretty good, although it definitely was not red curry, and it was a little runny/saucy (the lack of paste did not help my coconut milk any). I threw in some yellow curry powder, some peanut butter, and a little brown sugar. Flavor was excellent; only problem was it needed to be thicker. Ingredients were awesome, though: chicken and tofu, zucchini, asparagus, peppers and onions and water chestnuts and bamboo shoots.

I like experimental cooking. I like it even better when it turns out awesome.

Now I shall probably go to bed soon, because it turns out that the "day off" I thought I had tomorrow actually isn't really off at all. Greeeeeeeat.
seventhe: (Rosa: pray)
I get really high on fevers. Not pleasant enjoyable drunk high: just that my body does really weird things. I can't walk straight. I eat six meals, or eat nothing. Words come out of my mouth backwards. I wander around the house. If they get bad enough, I hallucinate. My eyeballs get hot; the feeling of your eyes being hot, your eyelids actually hot against your eye when you blink? Yeah. it's inexplicably strange. Even on drugs, my body feels queer, like it isn't all there. I feel dumb. Like something isn't working right.

So when I'm sick - right now, still sporting a fever of 100F under the grand influence of Tylenol - I usually park myself down on the nearest couch or bed and try not to move. Even walking makes it worse. I read books because as long as I can still make out the words, I'm okay. A year or two ago I had a fever of 104F - which technically, view it as a fever of 105 since my normal/healthy body temperature is a full degree low - and I legitimately couldn't read. The words all became letters, and they were all out of order and in other languages and my hot eyes couldn't read them. I hallucinated my way to the doctor's office and I never want to do that again. So reading books is my test. Not only is it distracting, but it tells me when I am getting bad enough that I need to have someone take me to a clinic. I also take my temperature A lot, because I don't trust that 104. Thermometers and reading books.

Today has been a REALLY COOL DAY, if you want to know.

I'm not even sure I could write; my fingers feel like glue. My brain feels like bananas. I don't think I want to try. Even starting up FF8 is somehow daunting.

THIS IS THE BEST VACATION

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