VIVA HATE!

Today I write you from the second story of my parents' house, as was my original intent. Heretofore I had been sneaking in my posts -- guarding them from everyone's eyes by switching to different Web sites whenever I was interrupted in the office/computer room. Today I'm using AbiWord on my Mac -- the computer downstairs is a PC (yuck!) -- because I can't get NeoOffice to work out. Abi isn't showing my apostrophes, and I would be incredibly worried about this except:

IT'S FINALLY REAL, NASTY, WANNA DRINK A BOTTLE OF GRAIN ALCOHOL TO (maybe possibly) DULL THE PAIN WITHDRAWAL TIME!

I'm out of Percocet. Well, not completely out -- I'm saving some for when I have to or want to be around other people, which I can't do unless I take high doses of strong painkillers... No, the SSRIs SNRIs NSRIs antispasmodics psychotherapy et cetera et cetera et cetera in any combination simply aren't enough for this little black duck. I'm special that way.

Which brings us to why I'm writing upstairs, finally, in what used to be my older brother's bedroom but is now mine for some reason (the change happened when I moved south): It's Time To Talk Shit About the Parents! Plus, I'd rather they think I'm jerking off or... well, pretty much anything but writing. Why? Because I'm writing, but haven't sold anything... So I'm a non-writer who is writing.

...I don't like the term blogger, but I couldn't say why. Probably because most blogs give opinions or useful information or infotainment or when twins are going to be of legal age, and I'm pretty sure this blog (or whatever it is) does none of those.

Anyway, wanted to write that I am in the full-on hell of full-on withdrawal. It was a lot easier the first two times. I should look up a real blog to figure out why. So it's too bad there is no InterWeb connection in this room.

Oh well... At least people feel like they should knock on a bedroom door. Even if someone is typing like mad, they still may be rubbing one out. Guys can jerk off standing on their heads. We're special that way.

Do women use euphemisms for masterbating, too? Do they have about 100 different ways to describe it? What do you (women) call it? America wants to know...

Now to end transmission... I can't take any more of this because my skin is crawling and I have to keep up with it. Also, I may vomit. Or just dry heave for a while.

Sorry I haven't talked shit about the parents. I'll do a lot of that in the future. In fact, I'll do a lot of talking shit about everyone I know because I'm a jackass who hates everyone. Or maybe I just can't understand them...

Let me end with this warning: If you grew up in a small town, don't move to a city then leave and go back, for whatever reason. Even for your own funeral. My migraines are made worse by the light shimmering off the foot of snow that covers everything, and my overall person is made worse by the attitudes of my parents and hick-ass doctors. Why didn't they go to X of X (and I write that as an XXX alum) and come out knowing something about fibro? About anything?

And why are my parents treating me worse as I feel worse for your god's sake? I know I'm acting like an asshole... How am I supposed to act when I have to stay in unlighted rooms (read: the basement) because of my migraines? And how am I supposed to act when I feel like I'm in Arizona for 15 minutes and the Yukon the next? And why why why and how how how...
Goddam it, it took me ten minutes to get up two flights of fucking stairs! Should I be happy-go-lucky about that one?

OK, there's the talking shit part after all. I know, far too little.

Anyway, now to put this in my jump drive and put it where you're reading it.

PS: If you can find me, and if you can afford it, maybe you can give me... OXYCONTIN! (Bullet holes spell "OxyContin" as the shots ring...)

PPS: Wrote this yesterday, but didn't get to upload it until today. I'm lazy. Or my every living moment is torture due to opiate withdrawal and fibro. If this that doesn't tug at your every heart string, remember that even the Devil deserves sympathy...

Mixx it!

WITHDRAWAL!

I'm detoxing for the holidays. Stepping down off Percocet 10/325s by increments of one pill every five days. Right now I'm taking four per day instead of the normal five... Well, normal was six, which barely masked my pain enough for me to walk three blocks in a day... A day that would ensure that I would be on bed rest for the following two days.

So five wasn't enough, but was all I could get from the GP I had. He dropped me because he didn't want to deal with a fibromyalgian. And he didn't want to deal with a fibromyalgian who is seeing a pain clinic that is horribly averse to writing scripts themselves. If they had their way, a GP would write all their prescriptions.

Have I made the point that the pain (no "management") clinic I'm seeing is totally fucked up?
And I know it isn't fair -- I haven't described my dealings with my GP in enough detail yet. I assure you such will follow... Perhaps when I don't want to tear my teeth out...

Anyway, the posts may have more time between them. Or maybe not. Writing -- getting things out -- can be therapeutic. In fact, I'm surprised the good people at QPC didn't prescribe it.
OH -- and sorry this is going to be an aside, basically -- I also am in the process of getting off Mirapex and Effexor and dear sweet Klonopin because all QPC will prescribe me is Lyrica. Lyrica Lyrica Lyrica by the mouthful. So how does 900mg of Lyrica stand up to Percocet 10/325s times five? It's a knockout in the first 10 seconds of round one... The winner? You're aware.

No segue -- I'm thinking about taking five Percocets a day until they run out. Why stretch out the misery? I know I'm experiencing less of it because of the (all too brief) step-down I'm doing, but am becoming convinced it would be better to go cold turkey (or turkee, if you prefer) from five. I've always preferred ripping off the Band-aid instead of trying to be gentle and taking five minutes and experiencing each individual hair being ripped out as separate events.

Will keep you, dear reader, up to date on any such decision. Until next time, I write you from Purgatory.

(My own, since the Holy Catholic Church decided there isn't one any longer...)

[Pain: from 10/10.

Anxiety: 10/10.

Self-righteousness: set to 10/10 and stuck there.]

Mixx it!