15 January, 2008


[Some of you may be fed up with my headers being all caps, all exclamation points, all the time. Which makes me wonder when you lost your lust for life.]

Today I took all my computer and personal effects to the basement and set up an office in what used to be our guest room. Now our guest rooms are the three unoccupied by my parents' three sons (three includes me).

I'd like to think of this place – the basement, with the TV, PS2, TiVO, pool table, countless weird pills, a workroom I will never again enter, storage room, treadmill I've used once and a day bed I use the edge of – as an English basement. The kind of apartment I never could afford, especially if I still lived in DC, and even if I had the job I had to leave.

I'd like to think of this place as an apartment... Of course, reality intrudes and is a bit of a downer.

Begin tangent: As has been taking Lyrica, I realized Sunday. I've been taking it for maybe a year and a half up to now, and am now tapering off it. I'll be done with it altogether in a month. I know taking these red and white capsules must have done something for me when they first kicked in, but I've forgotten what that is and simply can't stand being fat any more. My proper weight is XXX or so, and I passed XXX a while ago.

So as far as I know, at this point, all Lyrica has done is make me gain 70 pounds. And that can't be good for my joint pain.

Get back to the theme introduced in the first paragraph: A for instance would be that, after moving my computer, helping to move a desk and carrying all the electronic devices I've collected over the past five years (packrat) has rendered me almost unable to climb the stairs to the main level. I slouch on the railing while trying to use my cane at the same time, but it still takes me about two minutes to get to the floor above.

Which makes me think: When I wake tomorrow, even more sore than I am right now, I may not be able to make it to the bathroom. I could very well piss my pants, laid out on the top five stairs of a set of twelve.

And the really shitty thing is I would have to simply ooze back down the steps and then wallow in my own piss. Or get nude and stand to avoid getting my urine on any furniture until I could somehow be transferred upstairs. The standing would feel like it was going to kill me due to my legs being made of glued-together plastic Slinkys, and being found that way by my parents would off me for real if I have any luck.

Which I really don't lately.

[Pain: 9.5/10. The marcaine wore off and I would keep myself in a continuous sleep with Trazodones, Rozerems and Sonatas if my parents wouldn't have me committed for doing so.

Which reminds me that I should promise to write, hopefully tomorrow, about why marcaine is OK for me to have injected, while Percocet is not OK for me to posses. Spoiler: It has to do with one being totally controlled by a doctor, and one allowing the patient to have more leeway in the control of his own health care.

Anxiety: 10/10. Goddam I hate my shrink for cutting my Klonopin from 6mg to 4mg. Fucking hate him.]

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