Monday, December 28, 2009
Killed by its own hype. It was okay. Not epic. The whole electron-sharing ecology was cool. The badguys were ridiculous. I called every plot "twist" an hour before they happened. It was predictable and not worth the money of a movie ticket. Course, nothing is with today's prices, 'cept maybe a houseboat.
Oh, and if you're wondering how a ten-foot tall alien can be with a human with legs that don't work--it's because they put him and his avatar under their special tree and transfer his life to the avatar body at the end. Right after she shoots the badguy with arrows and then saves him from suffocating when he falls out of his chamber. And right before they drive the humans off the planet.
Oh, yeah, there are going to be spoilers in this review. =)
Speaking of my wife, her (better) review is on our writing blog HERE.
Mechs do not have knives. Period. Period.
Oh, and I heard a reporter going on and on about this: the political...shhh, it's a secret...undertones of the movie.
Reporters don't count, because they are all flakes, flaky, irritating, ignorant, intellectually void flakes flaky flakes flake-ty flakes. But if you are a real person, and you think you see socio-political "undertones" in the movie, please go stick your head in the toilet and breathe deeply until your well deserved drowning cleans up the gene pool. Undertones are subtle somethings under the surface. Blatantly pointing to a message is not an undertone. It's making a statement. Loudly.
And Sigourney Weaver's avatar was just F'ing creepy.
My avatar for blogspot is Richard Simmons.
Monday, December 21, 2009
First off, I hate luxury cars. Remember that, it'll be important later. Hate them. If you drive a Mercedes, Jag, Lexus, Beamer, Rolls, higher end Audi, etc., please stop making stupid faces when no one lets you over. Check your manual. No one letting you yield is in there--especially a black/silver two-tone 89 Suburban. I will beat you every time, and you will be much smaller and crinklier from the exchange. Trust me. I have good insurance, and your company can get a new, unsmashed-by-Suburbanis-Prime CEO.
The lone exception to this is the lower end Audi with the Quattro (don't know if that's how it's spelled, don't care), and the Lexus LS400. The LS400 is about as solid and reliable a car as you can purchase in this current age where EVERY car maker is putting out junk, with the exception of a few models here and there.
Okay, so we'll come back to that.
All of the people at work and the store and everywhere else are so fakey-nice it's not cool. Even the nastiest customers I have are being all nice and chipper. And this anomaly of optimism is driving me nuts. Why? Because I am already miserable from the Sunday night depression of January 3rd. Sunday night depression, for those who don't know, is that depression you get Sunday evening because you have to go back to work. Blech.
Now, most of us have time off over the next few weeks. Some of our customers have shut their plants down from tomorrow until January 4th. So they have weeks off. I have Thursday and Friday of the next two weeks off. Two 4-day weekends in a row. Then nothing-NOTHING!-until May. MAY!!!
Some optimist may try to point out that we should enjoy those two weekends, but they can bite me. We all know how fast vacation time goes. Phht. Gone. Like our paychecks.
So stop pretending you're not getting it already. It's only realistic to form that Sunday night depression now. Here, try this. Go get a cough drop. Suck on it. By the time it's gone, those two weekends will be gone, and it will be 6 pm Sunday, Jan. 3rd. You wonder why the end of the year has the highest suicide rate? That's why. Thinking about 7 am Monday morning.
I absolutely infuriated a coworker that was pulling that "I'm going to pretend to annoy you so it will cheer you up and get you to smile" bullcrap. And he wouldn't leave my office. Guess what? After I gave him the above enlightenment, he left my office.
Dude sucked at it, too. I do that annoy-til-you-smile thing. Ask my wife. But it works for me, because I do it WELL.
Moving on. At the grocery store tonight, there was a Lexus. I parked really close to it. Cause I could care less if he scrapes up my Suburban. Were I driving Lydia's new Ford, I would have cared. I wasn't, so I didn't.
As I'm walking out with my two gallons of milk and loaf of bread, there is this guy ahead of me with two of the most adorable little girls. As they're crossing the lane, some idiot zips around the corner and starts speeding down the center aisle. He almost hit them, then has the audacity to yell and honk at them!
Honked and had words with a dad and his little girls. Nope. That one drew my ire.
So I had words with the guy. When you've been the object of my angry baritone's barrage, words have indeed been had. Dude shut his mouth and sped away.
Where does dad walk his girls after thanking me? GAH! NO! The freaking Lexus!!!
I made sure he had enough room to get in, even helping the little one open the door and slide in. As he's leaving, I apologized, and he said, "Don't worry about it. I don't care if it's got a few dings. I did the same thing to a Mercedes the other day."
Then he drove off in his LS400. Not cool. I didn't know it was an LS400 at first! And, and he cannot--cannot, I say!--find a report with me! I drive a Suburban--Suburbanis Prime, in fact! I hope only the worst--er, less than best--for him. And his adorable little girls.
Like, the next time they try to make a snowman this winter, the snow is too brittle cause it's that snow that falls when it's really cold and doesn't stick well. Yeah. Some evil mild disappointment like that.
GAH! A FREAKING LEXUS!!!
I need to rupture my tympanic membrane with an awl and pour some Lysol straight into my brain, 'cause something in there needs cleaned.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
My dearest wife Lydia (I'm using her blogger name for the sake of the blog) posted on this very same topic on our writer blog. Apparently, watching Spiderman 3 on FX while doing laundry at your mom's house after the customary Sunday night dinner (rest of the family comes--even Caleb, when he and Jackie are up from Nashville. Every Sunday. No kidding. Your mom is so jealous), okay, um. Okay, forgot the original point halfway through that grammatically incorrect paranthetical statement.
Anyway, we both came away with the same thing: Spiderman is stupid. Mary Jane? The chick that keeps running after the rich Goblin kid Harry, and then the spacestranaut guy in the first movie? The Broadway singer, who is struggling to find her "dream" on Broadway. You will always be second to her "dream", dummy. Broadway wannabe's are like that.
Oh, and she keeps stealing the black girls' moves. Stupid cheerleader.
So, she played Marie Antoinette in that other movie. About Marie Antoinette. That nobody saw. So that doesn't count.
And you had that upside-down kiss where she had that pink shirt on in the rain. Yeah, your "Spidey" sense must have been going a mile a minute. But a few things, there, young man. She's not really as busty as you think. Her body is just kind of...freakish. She has small endowments that look large because there is a temporal vortex where her ribcage should be. Young Spidermen may dig that, but to us married guys who have wives that ARE nicely endowed, she's gross.
Secondly, that was two freaking movies ago! You're still hanging on! Two movies ago. Still not together permanently. You do the math.This girl is not the MJ from the comics.
You know who you SHOULD go after? Ursula. The cute little landlord's daughter across the hall. Okay, yeah, cute is a subjective term. I mean, you'd probably never be able to have kids with her, not because she's so skinny her 2-inch pelvic bone would crush your baby's heads to death, but because those pointy daggers she calls hipbones would emasculate you. (Look real close. Just above the pants. See them? Yep. Daggers.)
But in any event, she was so sweet. She brought you cake, every time you were sad. Cake. She didn't run to Harry. She made you cake. And brought you milk. And she had no idea you were Spiderman (MJ knew--and she still ran to Harry!!!). Imagine what she'd bake you if she knew. Like, baklavas and crap. Tirimisu, maybe. And her bony fingers would give you shoulder massages.
And she wore pigtails, which is cute. And you know what they say about quiet girls... (hehe. Lydia was quiet).
And her eyes were striking. Mesmerizing, even. See:
Thursday, December 10, 2009
This will be one of my less "ranty" posts, but it will be my most important one. I generally don't write anything boring, anyway. But this will be more along the lines of the original intention of this blog: explaining the disease in terms people can more easily relate to. So let's quickly take a look at the physiology of Bipolar Disorder.
I'll be getting into the types of bipolar soon, so this won't compare the differences. Just the nature. Many people know bipolar is depression, but you get hyper. Yes.
But also no.
You do get periods of clinical depression. This is more than just being sad. You get a wide range of physical problems as well, that are real. Not just some figment of a depressed person's imagination. And it's certainly not something used just to get attention. The last thing someone sucked into the whirlpool of depression wants is to be the center of attention.
These physical problems include appetite swings (eat too much, then too little or nothing), inability to sleep, inability to wake up, inability to get out of bed because your body won't produce energy, aches and pains--most people know about these. But many do not know that things like IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) accompany depression. And then there is the lovely emotional aspect that is common knowledge.
Bipolar includes that, but also the hyper side--inability to sleep for days, little or no appetite, too many endorphins in your brain that make you feel aggressive, invincible, or that you can fly, or you're going to solve the world's problems, or invincible and aggressive, on and on.
There is also something I've seen referred to as "hyper-sexuality". Remember all those hormones you had as a teenager? You just wanted to get after anything and flirt and makeout and...more? Yeah. All those come back. For some, it leads to infidelity, promiscuity...basically, your body makes you a whore or gigolo. You have to fight constant arousal the same way you do aggression or depression. As the mania itself is treated, this aspect itself is also handled. I just want to iterate that I, fortunately, have not gotten it to the point it's been a problem. Helps my wife is a Deigo Vixen--and a stereotypical one at that. :)
(PAY ATTENTION, THIS IS THE IMPORTANT PART):
Anyway, people with bipolar get the better parts of anxiety, ADHD, schizophrenia, depression, etc. But also...epilepsy?
People say bipolar is a chemical imbalance. This is true. But it's also a neurological illness. People with bipolar can be sensitive to light or sound. They can also lose cognitive ability and simple problem-solving. When I was really manic, I could not solve 2+2. I'm not kidding.
There was a man interviewed on BBC that had an episode in a grocery store because he couldn't decide between tomato soup and chicken noodle soup. And it caused him crippling anxiety attacks. By crippling I mean, curled on the floor or in the corner, unable to move--I've had it. Not fun.
I also had instances where the words I said scrolled in front of my face. In yellow. Like I had an invisible newsticker relaying my thoughts back to me. And I couldn't process crowds. Literally could not process them--they looked like moving, 2-D glass pictures, like I was watching people through a glass museum case. When someone would talk to me and actually register, it would be like they had stepped through the glass curtain and were outlined in a gold light.
Hopefully I wrote that in a way people would understand.
THIS IS THE IMPORTANT, IMPORTANT PART:
I always try to compare bipolar to epilepsy so people can understand it. So they can understand that someone with bipolar doesn't want to fail their family or lash out or sit in the corner and cry or drink heavily or any of that anymore than someone with epilepsy wants to have seizures.
I now believe, after doing research, that bipolar is closer in a physiological sense to epilepsy than I knew. My main reasoning is medication. Most bipolar meds, if you look them up in a pharmaceutical textbook, will say the reason they work is unknown. They think it is an antagonist at this receptor or that part of the brain. But they're not sure.
A (relatively) new form of meds is the atypical antipsychotic. These are generally mood stabilizers that are taken directly from other forms of medicine. Many of these, most notably Depakote and Lamictil (lamotrigine), are anti-seizure or other medications used for treatment of epilepsy.
I'll get into medication later, as well as expounding on some of the subjects in here. The differences between clinical depression and bipolar, some of the mood swings, etc. I'll also describe actual feelings of panic attacks or manic episodes or depression, and post experiences others with depression or bipolar have submitted.
All in due time. But here's your intro. I think it will be one of, if not the most important post I will put up. I hope it is helpful in explaining bipolar in a nutshell.
Was any of it helpful?
Oh, and you can stop waiting for me to tie in the title with one of my awesome illustrations. I needed something catchy, and the electrical thing kind of fit. I actually will have an electrical illustration later. Maybe.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
What is really frustrating me is that this combination--an "atypical" antipsychotic, lithium, and a sedative/mood stabilizer--worked so well at times I was actually hopeful I could get better. I want it to work so well, I'm not ready to give up on it.
But it's not working anymore. And that's not cool, because lithium is the one drug that has the highest chance of making someone "normal", without hardly any symptoms of the disease. If it works for that person.
I will get into the medications more in subsequent posts, but for now, I have a very bad feeling about this appointment. I haven't been able to afford the sedative they prescribed for 6 months now. So I'm not sleeping very well (2-4 every 3 days, for some periods), and I'm cranky because of that. On top of my usual manic aggression.
The combination of the lithium and lamotrigine was working so well, I was sleeping normally, without need of something to knock me out. I felt good. Not giddy or hyper or manic. Things that should have made me happy did. Things that should have irritated me did. I felt...normal.
And then it stopped working, and all of that optimism came out from underneath me, like a rug jerked by a gorilla trying to practice his tablecloth-pulling skills. Only I'm the china dishes. And he didn't leave me on the table. Sent me flying across the room, actually.
So do I get back on the table and hope the lithium gorilla eventually gets it right?
I just have a very bad feeling about this appointment. If I tell the doctors everything I've been thinking these past three months, I know red flags will go up. And I'm not going back into the hospital. Period. My wife won't be there to deter me from letting the 5 cops there to "escort" me out that I will not be going with them. Emphatically.
Just have a very bad feeling.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
This is a continuation (obviously), written the same night.
Then we go to Kohl's, see some kids I knew before they were born--er, knew their parents--feel old because one is buying a house, and go to say hi to my little girl (my wife) before carrying on our day.
Lydia was running a register, and since the registers are roped off , we had to yell across at her.
"Hey, hottie, how much are you on the Doorbuster sale?" I have a pretty loud baritone, so a lot of people looked.
Her big blue eyes were shining, but she pretended to ignore us and keep ringing out, so Caleb, who is nearly as big as me, starts doing this dance that looks like Woody in Toy Story flipping around like an organ grinder's monkey, yelling, "I'm going to keep doing this until she talks to us," then starts pointing and says, "I know her! She knows me! I know her!"
So she finally talked with us real quick.
Off to Home Depot. Got my wrench set. Got my flashlights. I don't need flashlights. I have probably 20. But I have a serious flashlight problem, and they had a really nice 8 pack of LED's for 9 bucks. So now I have 28 flashlights. Of those, five are the headlamps. I only have 1 head. Little Joe will play in the dark with me, all the lights shut off in the apartment except for the headlamps, so that's another head. I still have not found the remaining three heads that would warrant me having 5 headlamps.
Two things about Home Depot totally rung true about Black Friday. The first was that we saw an Amish horse and buggy turning left on a busy street, with an orange Home Depot Homer bucket hanging off of it. Secondly, they had 60 Rayovac Max AA batteries for $9.99. That is an awesome price.
What was not awesome was the fact that a woman had parked her cart in front of the display and was throwing trays containing dozens of these 60-pack batteries into the cart. She refused to move when people asked politely. She looked like she was trying to shovel coal into the train engine fast enough to get the flux capacitor to a high enough speed to get Marty home.
Let's do the math. Dozens of 60-pack batteries, and she was just pushing two trays at a time into her cart. The woman had to have left that store with 674,000,000 batteries. Does anyone need that many batteries? If Connor McCleod of the clan Mcleod put light ropes on his sword so it lit up, and had it on all day long, he would still never us up all of the batteries this woman bought. And he can't die.
For the sake of my promise to not use vulgarity on here, I will refrain from actually saying what personal appliance(s) I told her she must be using all of those batteries in. If you think of something offensive, that's on you. I didn't say anything like what you're thinking.
From there we went to Gamestop, where they had a buy-two-get-one-free sale on the used games. Through some absolute trickery and confusion of numbers that I am at a loss to explain, I ended up with 46 dollars worth of used games, and I paid 8 bucks. Caleb ended up with 42 dollars worth of used games, and paid 26 bucks.
Then we went back to my place and played an XBOX 360 game that I already had. So that worked out well.
As we're stumbling down the apartment steps, we were both being loud, not remembering that even though we had four stores, it was still only 7 am.
I don't remember picking Lydia up from work, or then going to my mom's to get Little Joe. I remember turning out all the lights and playing with the flashlights with Little Joe.
I do not remember shopping, but I do remember I had to leave for Wal-Mart--AGAIN!!!--at about 10pm because we were down to one roll of toilet paper. And apparently I had the energy to decide to do our weekly grocery shopping, as well.
While I was there, I had to get Ginger Snaps. And here's why: the little bonde farmgirl, her boyfriend, and their friends were all from the same High School I went to (before they kind of half-kicked me out following my freshmen year), since we used to live in that country town. They were asking me if I knew teachers, and I knew some, but there were some they didn't know because they had retired.
One of those teachers, Mr. Borgis, would always slide Ginger Snaps across the table to me during home room. I hated them, but I'd eat one a day. I could stomach one, because he was funny and we used to rip on each other. He'd always say, "You ever eat these? They're great in milk."
I thought of that when I was buying milk.
So now here it is, 2:23 am. Hazy-Grayish Saturday (I never called it that before, but I'm starting now. Everything is hazy-gray), still not sleeping. Eating Ginger snaps.
They're still just as bad, even if you dunk them in milk.
Addendum: I'm returning the digital camcorder I bought at Target. It was just a front to buy Play-Doh anyway. And we still have more than 3/4 of the box of Ginger Snaps. Because they're still nasty.
Friday, November 27, 2009
I'm not trying to be funny in this one. It is actually what happened today, this craziest of all days. Black Friday, aka, kill your fellowman with the mace and kill your fellowwoman with the bow and kill those shorter than you with a great trampling--for 5 bucks off a TV.
Let me just preface it by saying it is 1 am, so any typos or anything are just going to have to be in there. I'm not fixing them.
There were no fights this time around. Well, I accidentally knocked a girl out cold, but that was just weird. And there were no Black Friday Gramma attacks.
Black Friday Grammas (yes it should be capitalized, as it's a title) are the worst, and the smaller the fiercer. They're like cranky little Cambodian commandos. I'm a 270 pound ogre, and I don't want anything to do with any of them. If they feel their grandkids need that $9 MP3 player bad enough that they're willing to shank the three people in line ahead of them for it, then more power to them. They can have it. Or all of them, as the case may usually be.
So here's the breakdown, chronologically:
As mentioned in the last post, I am manic again. This is a bad one, as it's pushing through both the anti-psychotic and the lithium with a vengeance. I can't afford the sedative, so I've been sleeping about 3 hours a night for the last few weeks. On top of that, I worked over 40 hours--not counting drive time--just in Mon, Tues, Wed. of this week. Then I was up most of Thursday, either playing with Little Joe (who was so happy I was home after basically not seeing me all week, he hung off me like a necklace all day), or making out with the hot wife (who was so happy I was home after basically not seeing me all week, she hung off me like a necklace all day). Dropped the bumpkin off at Grammy's house, fell asleep cuddling the hot wife, and got up at 2:30 am.
Lydia (we'll use her blogger surname for the sake of the blog) had to be at work at around 3:30, so I dropped her off and headed to Wal-Mart. Yes, I headed to Wal-Mart. I realize that's like the part in the Vincent Price movie where you're like, "DON'T OPEN THAT DOOR!!!", but I had to.
Our local Wal-Mart is a Super Wal-Mart. Each aisle has its own little LCD TV at the end, playing Wal-Mart commercials. I am not joking. Everything except for a few sections of the store. There are large LCD's in the meat department. Why, I don't know.
Anyway, they stayed open 24 hours. People were in line next to what they wanted. At midnight, they grabbed it and got in line. The lines took FOREVER because they were actually letting people check out with their Black Friday stuff. If you had the ad, they were price-adjusting. So you have a line with people rifling through an ad the size of those Sears catalogs we used as booster seats when we were kids, pointing to one item every five minutes, then moving on to the next of the 4 bazillion things that needed pointed to in the ad.
I waited for an hour to get Excedrin, a Milky Way, Halls cough drops (has to be Halls. Ricola is just nasty candy and Luden's is just castrated Halls. Halls turns into vaporized Drano for your nostrils when you suck on them), and a bottle of Aquafina.
This was all for the baby brother, Caleb, who had come up from Nashville since we all had time off. He was in line at Target. Since 12:30 am. Target had the stuff we were both looking for, so we were going there first. Neither of us was messing with Wal-Mart. That place is a zoo on Black Friday.
Yeah, I know, I was already in line there...look, just go with it, okay?
So I get to the front of the line, after an hour. An hour. And the only girl ahead of me puts her 3-pack of boy's size 6 Spongebob Squarepants briefs on the counter. Don't ask. I don't know why the girl stood in line for an hour for boys skivvies. She looked like they might fit her, but, I mean, would you question someone that stood line that long for Spongebob drawers? No.
So she puts them on the counter. And then passes out. Like, running backwards, trying to stay up but vertigo is pulling her down drops.
I tried to catch her. I've gotten slow in my old age, and couldn't get my arms under her in time. I had, however, gotten to her with a very first quick step. So as she tucked against me, and I didn't have my arms under her, my momentum proceeded to hip-check her into the pop cooler, where she smashed her head and promptly knocked herself out.
Oops. I still think it was better to glance off the pop cooler than smack full force on the ground.
She kind of thrashed a few seconds later, but her eyes were gone. I put my coat up under her head and tried to hold her down, gingerly, so that I wouldn't do anything that could be misconstrued as worthy of litigation.
Employees showed up, and even though I told them she needed to lie still and that her eyes were glazed, they lifted her to her feet and dragged her to the nearest bench. Whatever.
As the line re-opened, I looked at the couple behind me.
"We're all terrible people," I said. "Admit it. The first thought you had when she went down was,
'Oh, God, please don't let them shut the line over this'."
So over to Target now. I meet up with Caleb by hopping the barricade. We were surrounded by teenage kids. It's usually housewives and families, with the occasional gang of thuggish Black Friday Grammas (they tend to congregate before hand--concentrated fire). So me and Caleb are cracking jokes, as we usually do, and everyone is laughing, because we're funny, and I notice this little blonde girl behind us that is just staring. She smiled every time I looked at her, and I knew I knew her. Her boyfriend noticed it, and obviously wasn't too pleased.
She cuts me off and goes, "You go into (pizza joint in the country we frequent), all the time. You're Joe?"
And I recognized her. The pizza joint in question is one that we frequent. It's in the little country town we used to live in, and it's one of those small-town places on a beautiful stretch of road that you go to forget about stuff. Just has that vibe.
The thing with heris that she's adorable. Spare me the look. I want a daughter, and this girl is tiny. She's also very cheerful and pleasant. Like I want my daughter to be. Of course, Little Joe is quite enamored with her...
She knows she's adorable, though, and that little hint of arrogance is a little offsetting. And she had always been REALLY nice when we went in. Except when Lydia was there. Then she was only (lowercase) really nice.
Back to that later. The Target employees come out at 4:30, half-hour to open, and ask if anyone needs directions. And I asked them where the Play-Doh was. And everyone laughed, but I was there to get two things: a Polaroid digital camcorder for 30 bucks, and Play-Doh. 24 color superpack--with molds!--for 5 bucks? Heck yeah. The trail of broken souls--even Black Friday Grammas--would be long and piled to the sky on my way to the Play-Doh!
I then proceeded to ask if they were giving out tickets, and he said no. And I asked if it was not even for the Play-Doh. And he cocked his head and just blinked, and said there was plenty of Play-Doh.
"Okay. So I don't get a ticket. What the heck happens if I get back there and there's no Play-Doh? I swear to GAWD I will find you."
He shook it off like a joke and walked away.
Doors open, sprint for the back. I get my camcorder (which I'm going to return), Caleb got the GPS for Jackie (his beautiful wife), and then I stumbled up to the ring of employees by the toys, stood there, teetering from sleep, and just grunted, "Play-Doh?"
Caleb lost it behind me, but the women at the toy section all looked terrified. But they divulged the info I needed. As I'm looking at the various kinds, little blonde farmgirl from the pizza joint waltzes up, darts between me'n Caleb, and grabs a Play-Doh pack without even looking at what kind it was, then flashes a smile and runs away.
My brother agrees that she is curiously crossing our path quite a bit--as we walk out of the aisle and she happens to be there, uh-genn, smiling. We saw her a couple more times on the way to the register. I've told Lydia. I only hope my wife kills the poor child quickly.
Caleb's the first in line. He gets rung out. I'm the second in line. The camcorder rings out fine. Then the register freezes on the Play-Doh and we have to wait a few minutes for the computer to be reset.
Monday, November 23, 2009
I was watching Mel Gibson's The Patriot while doing laundry, and, like everyone else that studies the warfare of the time, I just remembered how stupid their battles were. Thank goodness for guerrilla tactics. Not many Americans can afford tea in this economy.
Anyway, I think the whole thing was laziness:
Redcoat chases Colonial. They both stop, stooped with palms on knees, trying to catch their breath.
Redcoat: "You can just go, man. I'm tired of running in this uniform."
Colonial: "I'm tired of running, too."
Both stand, panting.
Redcoat: "There has to be an easier way. You wanna just stand still and shoot at each other?"
And so musket warfare was born.
Yes, I know it was fought like that for years before the Revolutionary War. Stop harshing my history buzz.
The main thing I don't understand is how they determined where the fight would take place. It wasn't always done with one army marching to the other's camp. They pre-arranged some. Did they call each other?
Cell phone rings.
Unnamed Colonial Officer: "Hello?"
Cornwallace: "Hey, it's Cornwallace."
UCO: "Oh. Hey." *voice is obviously miffed he answered the phone*
Cw: "So, uh, you doing anything Sunday?"
UCO: "Oh, gee, uh...I don't know. I'll have to check with my wife. I don't think so, but she may have made plans already--"
Cw: "Whatever, dude. You're lying cause you don't want to do anything. If you had plans, you'd know. Look, there's an empty field that would be perfect for a battle."
UCO: "I don't know, man. Last time we did that a whole bunch of people shot each other.
Cw: "Seriously? You're going to bail on me? We agreed it would happen. My men are going to look awful stupid standing out there in bright red coats and white pants with no one on the other end."
UCO: "Dude, you want us to line up across a field and shoot at each other. And die. We're both going to look silly if we do that."
Cw: "But you'll be there, right?"
Friday, November 20, 2009
First off, the links. I added some. For the il-link-erate (ow! pain from my brain to my loser fingers for typing that), you can click on them and black unicorns will bring the websites to your computer. Which is awesome.
Unicorns = lame. Black unicorns = awesome.
Manboobs. I posted a link and inquiry for this blog on the Writer's Digest forum. Another member who suffers from clinical depression, Fleurdelis, sent me an experience (which I will eventually get pared down to fit in a post and put up here). Below is an exchange we had. GrinningBear is my screen name:
"Fleurdelis My brain is broke, too. I'd love to contribute. I'll just use the email addy at the site.
GrinningBear: I got it, but life has been hectic. I just posted today about there is no time to post and left a comment about Ovaltine. Or something like that.
I'll get you in there, though.
Fleurdelis: Take your sweet ass time. I just spent 26 of the last 48 hours at Houston Methodist Hospital.
If my brother didn't have man-boobs, we never would have found out about my mother's two inch aneurysm.
That sounds like a bad writing prompt.
You win. Seriously, dude. A "normal" person wouldn't have come up with something like that. And the best part is you didn't explain. That is going up in the next post, I swear.
I actually (kind of) posted today. Something about going off gets compared to women PMS'ing. Only I used harsher language.
WTF? Manboobs? GAAH, LOL!!!
I called my boss in to read that and he goes, "Wait, you're congregating other people like you? I don't think that's a good idea."
I cut/pasted that exchange on another forum, and got responses about how people with mental illness are still people. Which then prompted the following response from one Miss Emily White:
"Yup. I couldn't agree more. You guys are like midgets--just people, but people that make everyone else laugh.
This may be the greatest single line about bipolar ever. I don't care how sensitive you are--I don't care if you're Mother-Freaking-Theresa--that crap's funny. Or Midget-Freaking-Theresa. Hehe.
Upcoming, I will get a little more serious. My dad's suicide, my own initial psychiatric appointment that led to the march to the ER surrounded by twitchy cops (I'm not exactly a small or unimposing guy), messing with the schizophrenic woman and giving the kid with some kind of palsy too many M&M's (Orangey was flyin--you'll see what that means) while in the psych ward, generally giving the staff a sarcastic hard time, etc.
But for now, manboobs and midgets.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
One quick thing that bugs me: when you are bipolar, you cannot express opinions or get upset without people telling you you're "being all bipolar".
This makes about as much sense as those chauvinists that constantly tell women that may have a moment of crankiness that "they must be on the rag again". Um, excuse me, you inbred hilljack sexist Skoal-sucking hog. There is a reason the only breasts you have seen were in magazines or on the computer screen. You keep telling a woman that disagrees with something that it's because it's that time of the month and tell us how that works out in terms of a love life. Oh, and keep scratching your armpit and smelling your fingers. That's okay, nobody wants you to actually procreate, anyway.
The above doesn't hold true for married men. I don't care if anyone thinks it's insensitive, when my dearest wife is noticeably hormonal, I like to further poke the tiger and tell her she is PMS'ing early. You know why I can do that? Because I know her timeline. I can tell when she's PMS'ing early.
Also, I learned massotherapy when she was pregnant, and she got used to massages. She gets lower backrubs whenever she needs them, especially those times she needs them more. So I can further agitate her all I want. It's a trade-off in the contract.
Back to the topic. If I dislike something, or disagree with something, or paint the wall with someone I dislike's innards, I'm being all bipolar again.
Do I do things that are illness caused? Yes. Does that include irrational irritability towards certain topics? Absolutely. But it drives me nuts when I can't go on a "normal" rant like a "normal" person.
You know what, **** you, person (people, voices in my head, whatever) saying that to me. I'm allowed to be a dissenter.
(See, he just dropped an Asterisk Bomb. He's being all bipolar again)
Nice. Keep talking. I'm almost done sharpening this railroad spike. As soon as I'm finished, I'll wrap an athletic tape handle around it and bring it into the discussion, mmkay?
Monday, November 16, 2009
In lieu of actually putting something up, I will leave you with this thought: Ovaltine (both flavors) is a superior milk additive to both Hershey's chocolate syrup and the Nestle Carnation malted milk--especially the vanilla. Blech. The chocolate flavor is close, but Ovaltine wins out due to superior absorption and dispersal while stirring. The Nestle stuff leaves clumps.
Hope to return soon. I don't want this blog to die before it has a chance. If it hasn't already.
I did finally respond to the comments below.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
No degree of profanity can emphasize how much I hate the title of that post. So cliche'. Some idiot may even call it insensitive, which is the kind of idiocy an idiot would display. I'm crazy. I can call myself and my illness anything I danged well please, so go run into a wall until you pass out.
That assumes anyone actually reads this, of course. There are a small-to-moderate grouping of idiots in society: politicians, highway drivers when I'm late for work, protesters of anything (your stupid sign is not going to change the world, idiot), Yankees fans, those people who say Lebron James is going to New York, Ben Roethlisberger (if I cared about spelling his last name right, I would have looked it up. I don't, so I didn't), regular people who just happen to be idiots, etc. I doubt I get enough readers to actually warrant that cross-section of idiots.
As you have surmised by now, this blog will be my meanderings through Nutjobland. If you haven't surmised that, you are on the wrong floor. Behavioral health (read: too dumb to technically be crazy) is on the 6th floor of the Cleveland Clinic S building.
I'm telling you right now, the above is how I roll. Translation for our caucasian visitors: I sincerely hope I didn't offend you. I use politically incorrect humor or general crankiness from time to time. It doesn't mean I necessarily dislike that group or individual--except those mentioned in my idiots section--or don't feel their plight. I'm and equal opportunity annoyer. I hate and love just about everyone. Now back to regular speech. Whitey.
In all seriousness, about the only things you will not see me disparage are children, others' families, and victims of rape. My family is the only reason I wake up in the morning. I will not put anyone down anyone else's.
Some of my nonsense is going to spread awareness, blah blah, blah--I'll try to make you learn something. Some of it will be just rants. And I go to some very weird places when my mind is kicking the electrical jolt of thoughts to whatever random synaptic path it danged well chooses. I mean WEIRD.
I have family and friends--oh, okay, just family, as I have no friends--that read this site, so I will be tempering stuff to the best of my ability. I won't get vulgar, but I will get crass. I promise you that.
My wife will be a regular on here as we share nearly everything, including our writing blog, (shameless blog, er, plug, forthcoming) The Sharp Angle. Hopefully she'll add some insights of her own. Spouses of bipolar folk are actually referred to as caregivers, and are looked at the same from a medical perspective as those who are caregivers for other ailments. It is not an easy task, believe me. Of course, how can you believe me if I'm not the caregiver? Such conundrums keeps one up at night, do they not?
Welcome, check back often, and feel free to post. Don't worry about looking like a idiot. If you are, we can tell by your post. Or your Yankees hat.
(incidentally, if you caught I put "a" idiot, that does not necessarily make you not "an" idiot. Just grammatically aware. Though it's a good start...