Lame.
It's going to be a week for petty annoyances.
I spent yesterday at the doctor's office. While I had a good book to keep me entertained, the office was still a festering plague-pit. Truly, doctors' offices are no place for sane, healthy people.
I really wish they would establish a waiting room for people who are not sick, so that I don't have to worry about coming down with Ebola Zaire just by touching the clinic furniture.
Some of you may be shaking your heads at my hypochondriacal tendencies. Go on. Laugh. There is a reason I don't get sick very often, and that is because I know that the majority of people are nothing more than hatcheries for foul new strains of viruses, bacteria, and parasites, and I behave accordingly. I always wash my hands after handling shopping carts, menus, and anything that has been near a child.
At any rate, after the Harrowing of the Waiting Room, it was an easy visit - they didn't even draw blood, which I must confess I kind of perversely enjoyed last time. No, don't ask me to explain that, because I fucking can't.
I have to come back in six months so that they can re-test my TSH levels. I got a copy of my test results, and they were way, way out of line, so thankfully this is not a borderline case and I don't have to argue about whether treatment is an option. It's bad enough that even I can see I need to be medicated. Said medication is working quite well, by the way, and though I have seen no reduction in my weight, I'm feeling better on almost all other counts.
The doctor says this is probably something I'll be stuck with for life, though we won't truly know anything until we re-test. That sucks. I know many people live with far worse, but I hate the feeling that I am somehow fundamentally flawed. I should be used to it - I was never what you'd call physically perfect. It's just grating, to have a health problem you know is never going to go away.
At least it runs in families. More ammo for the sterilization file.
Anyway, I came home to a rejection letter from Zoetrope: All-Story, not even personalized, and then, at precisely midnight, I received another rejection letter from the erotica short story contest I entered two weeks ago. Ah, the wonders of the internet, that allow the kick to come not only when you are down, but right before you go to bed, as well.
Feel free to go and read the other stories here. I know I shouldn't be, but I'm still too annoyed to check them out.
True, this frees both stories to go out again, but I loathe the submission process with a truly Shakespeareian passion. I'd rather be writing.
And, to make things more colorfully annoying, my free day isn't until Saturday. I believe we're going out to dinner with my parents, which given their taste in food will probably be frozen pizza or something similarly loathesome, unless I step up to the plate and make plans and reservations behind their backs. Does it make me an evil person that even though my mother is still very sick, and I love her a lot, I don't enjoy their company very much at all, and would in all honesty rather just stay at home?
Oh, and since today was payday, and we were broke yesterday: we couldn't get each other Valentine's presents. I had to make do with what was on hand . . . I changed all the rat cages and took out the trash.
The things we do for love, eh?
The one bright spot in all of this has been the slew of responses to my rather odd query yesterday. I knew you lot would come through in a pinch, and you did. I now have many evil ideas for torments to inflict upon busty fictional teenagers, though I regret to say that I doubt I'll be putting any of it to practice in real life. I just have too much of a temper and too little patience, I think. I can't be truly submissive with Sargon, no matter how Terrible he is, because he doesn't rub me that way, and I'm currently without anyone to abuse (no, I'm not taking applications, thanks).
My favorite suggestions have to be the sjambok, the pixy stick, the Venetian-blind rod, the electrical cord, and the rubber tube full of mercury. Unfortunately, all but the first are too technically advanced for a pre-industrial society. I'll just go with the old standards - a riding crop and a leather strap. I even know what those feel like. The other ideas appeal to me too strongly to ignore, though, so I will have to write some modern bondage porn (which will also allow me the use of latex toys and PVC).
You guys are a veritable font of information, you are.
I'm not feeling witty today. Just annoyed. So I'm just going to duck out, write for a while, and then play with my weights while I rock out to Kamelot. (I'm telling you people, The Black Halo kicks so much ass my kidneys hurt. Power/prog metal fans should check it out as soon as it's available to the public.)
Until later, you perverted, crazy, eyepatch-wearing bastards! (I'm SO gonna get me one of those now.)
link
I spent yesterday at the doctor's office. While I had a good book to keep me entertained, the office was still a festering plague-pit. Truly, doctors' offices are no place for sane, healthy people.
I really wish they would establish a waiting room for people who are not sick, so that I don't have to worry about coming down with Ebola Zaire just by touching the clinic furniture.
Some of you may be shaking your heads at my hypochondriacal tendencies. Go on. Laugh. There is a reason I don't get sick very often, and that is because I know that the majority of people are nothing more than hatcheries for foul new strains of viruses, bacteria, and parasites, and I behave accordingly. I always wash my hands after handling shopping carts, menus, and anything that has been near a child.
At any rate, after the Harrowing of the Waiting Room, it was an easy visit - they didn't even draw blood, which I must confess I kind of perversely enjoyed last time. No, don't ask me to explain that, because I fucking can't.
I have to come back in six months so that they can re-test my TSH levels. I got a copy of my test results, and they were way, way out of line, so thankfully this is not a borderline case and I don't have to argue about whether treatment is an option. It's bad enough that even I can see I need to be medicated. Said medication is working quite well, by the way, and though I have seen no reduction in my weight, I'm feeling better on almost all other counts.
The doctor says this is probably something I'll be stuck with for life, though we won't truly know anything until we re-test. That sucks. I know many people live with far worse, but I hate the feeling that I am somehow fundamentally flawed. I should be used to it - I was never what you'd call physically perfect. It's just grating, to have a health problem you know is never going to go away.
At least it runs in families. More ammo for the sterilization file.
Anyway, I came home to a rejection letter from Zoetrope: All-Story, not even personalized, and then, at precisely midnight, I received another rejection letter from the erotica short story contest I entered two weeks ago. Ah, the wonders of the internet, that allow the kick to come not only when you are down, but right before you go to bed, as well.
Feel free to go and read the other stories here. I know I shouldn't be, but I'm still too annoyed to check them out.
True, this frees both stories to go out again, but I loathe the submission process with a truly Shakespeareian passion. I'd rather be writing.
And, to make things more colorfully annoying, my free day isn't until Saturday. I believe we're going out to dinner with my parents, which given their taste in food will probably be frozen pizza or something similarly loathesome, unless I step up to the plate and make plans and reservations behind their backs. Does it make me an evil person that even though my mother is still very sick, and I love her a lot, I don't enjoy their company very much at all, and would in all honesty rather just stay at home?
Oh, and since today was payday, and we were broke yesterday: we couldn't get each other Valentine's presents. I had to make do with what was on hand . . . I changed all the rat cages and took out the trash.
The things we do for love, eh?
The one bright spot in all of this has been the slew of responses to my rather odd query yesterday. I knew you lot would come through in a pinch, and you did. I now have many evil ideas for torments to inflict upon busty fictional teenagers, though I regret to say that I doubt I'll be putting any of it to practice in real life. I just have too much of a temper and too little patience, I think. I can't be truly submissive with Sargon, no matter how Terrible he is, because he doesn't rub me that way, and I'm currently without anyone to abuse (no, I'm not taking applications, thanks).
My favorite suggestions have to be the sjambok, the pixy stick, the Venetian-blind rod, the electrical cord, and the rubber tube full of mercury. Unfortunately, all but the first are too technically advanced for a pre-industrial society. I'll just go with the old standards - a riding crop and a leather strap. I even know what those feel like. The other ideas appeal to me too strongly to ignore, though, so I will have to write some modern bondage porn (which will also allow me the use of latex toys and PVC).
You guys are a veritable font of information, you are.
I'm not feeling witty today. Just annoyed. So I'm just going to duck out, write for a while, and then play with my weights while I rock out to Kamelot. (I'm telling you people, The Black Halo kicks so much ass my kidneys hurt. Power/prog metal fans should check it out as soon as it's available to the public.)
Until later, you perverted, crazy, eyepatch-wearing bastards! (I'm SO gonna get me one of those now.)
link