Nothing is beautiful and everything hurts, round 38379794011 etc
It's Trans Day of Remembrance but I have also spent most of last night drowning in lung goo, coughing, and having horrible dreams so I don't want to compound that particular misery with more sadness. I am so tired now - and Jess too, from her job - that we had no energy to fight and therefore managed Sunday lunch and clothes shopping without any ructions. Apparently, much like HIGNFY being funny when everything is bad, all it takes is disaster to make the small things less horrible again.
Back for another hospital appointment on the 16th to see that I haven't fucked myself up. Conventional wisdom on top surgery says no "heavier" workouts (viz, weight training) until A MINIMUM of "6 to 8 weeks", which means "the second it hits the 30th of November I am going in with the handweights". I can have a proper bath then, too. It's going to be great. My nipples are fine, which sure is a sentence. There they are, being fine.
Sometimes I think about The Stuff and am terrified. Mostly I have, as Amy Lamé said at Duckie, used up all my adrenaline. I'm kind of hovering in a post-terror state of nothingness, or "tra la la, nothing is real and nothing has consequences" land, which I remember from other Times. Oh yes. Well.
Will the boiling frogs please deign
To remain calm in their evaporating pond;
We have always been at war with our own better nature,
And later we will find a cure for their despond.
Would the rats with lifejackets please accept
We just haven't had fair hearings yet
And while being sucked down with the ship may cause regret
Either way, mice, you're going to drown.
And if the geese heading south would close their mouths
and the leaves taking flight from their branches
Could just ignore the season for whatever reason
And give this 'winter' thing more chances--
You'll soon all see this was meant to be,
that the night follows day like clockwork;
if one misbehaves and winds up digging one's grave
one find it is a lark, in fact, and not work.
Back for another hospital appointment on the 16th to see that I haven't fucked myself up. Conventional wisdom on top surgery says no "heavier" workouts (viz, weight training) until A MINIMUM of "6 to 8 weeks", which means "the second it hits the 30th of November I am going in with the handweights". I can have a proper bath then, too. It's going to be great. My nipples are fine, which sure is a sentence. There they are, being fine.
Sometimes I think about The Stuff and am terrified. Mostly I have, as Amy Lamé said at Duckie, used up all my adrenaline. I'm kind of hovering in a post-terror state of nothingness, or "tra la la, nothing is real and nothing has consequences" land, which I remember from other Times. Oh yes. Well.
Will the boiling frogs please deign
To remain calm in their evaporating pond;
We have always been at war with our own better nature,
And later we will find a cure for their despond.
Would the rats with lifejackets please accept
We just haven't had fair hearings yet
And while being sucked down with the ship may cause regret
Either way, mice, you're going to drown.
And if the geese heading south would close their mouths
and the leaves taking flight from their branches
Could just ignore the season for whatever reason
And give this 'winter' thing more chances--
You'll soon all see this was meant to be,
that the night follows day like clockwork;
if one misbehaves and winds up digging one's grave
one find it is a lark, in fact, and not work.