Turn the music down, I'm tired of talking really loud
Hello, dear Internet! No, I am not dead, although it did seem pretty hairy there for a few days.
Okay, we can all tell that I have failed horribly at the whole 1,500 words per day thing. I think I’m going to start with smaller numbers. So, for now, we’re going to have a 500 word per day minimum. I think that’s a lot more do-able anyway. If I hit about that, well kudos to me. Probably, every month or so, I’ll up the total word count by 100 words or so. That way, I might be able to ease into the 1,500 words per day for a whole year. I really want to accomplish that, but starting small is for the best.
So, now onto the story of what I’ve been doing for the past few days. Really, it can all be summed up with “avoiding death”, but that leaves so much to imagination, doesn’t it? Let’s be a bit more specific, lest you start to think my life is way more interesting then this blog is.
Strep throat, or Streptococci invasion, if we want to be specific about these things, is one of the worst diseases in the whole world. Not only does it strip you of any desire to do anything, just like a normal cold with its fatigue and body aches, but the pain radiating from your throat every time you try to breathe, let alone swallow or eat, makes you want to scream. Only you can’t, because that would hurt way too bloody much. So you sit there for an entire day, vainly trying to drink enough brandy to numb your throat so you can finally take some Tylenol to lower the fever you know is burning just under your skin, or make you pass out. Whichever comes first is more than fine, although the passing out is looking more tempting by the minute.
Once you go to the doctors, you have to wait for what feels like forever in a world of bright lights and way too friendly nurses. Who keep trying to make you talk, and worse - think! What was the date of your last period? Are you on any medications, prescription or otherwise? Are you allergic to anything? (Early January, the pill, Penicillin and mold.) After the doctor with a neatly trimmed white bread and matching full head of hair sees you for three seconds, after making you wait on the highly uncomfortable hospital cot, he gives you a script for what should be your salvation in the form of antibiotics. Should be. But it’s not.
After the next two days of pucking your guts out the four times a day you have to swallow one of the huge, pink horse pills, there has to be something better. And there should be, but this is a weekend. And a weekend with more snow than anything else. No one is going anywhere unless the words “imminent death” or “baby on the way” can be legitimacy bandied about. Your mother tells you there is no way in hell that you can continue to take the medication that the doctor prescribed, and for half a day you listen to her. It’s better than bowing to the toilet bowl, hacking and spitting up everything in your stomach until only the yellow- green bile it left.
But, while you sleep, tenth and twelfth grade biology come rushing back with frightening statistics about Russian prisons and the proliferation of “super bugs”. Strains of bacteria that have become resistant to antibiotic after antibiotic due to the fact that after people start to feel better, they stop taking the drugs. How could you be so selfish? Surely, vomiting every three hours isn’t pleasant, but it sure beats the hell out of being responsible for erythromycin resistant strep throat? The guilt is worse than Jewish/Catholic guilt that mothers for generations have been dolling out upon their poor children.
The next morning, your throat hurts like it did earlier in the week. A faint tickling that could be anything, really. How were you supposed to know it would blossom into the most horrible disease known to 21st century man? Praying that it’s not too late, you develop a plan of attack for these pills. First, they are never to be taken with big meals. Ever. Second, they can only be taken on a stomach that has been prepped with a shot of Mylanta, some cereal or toast with honey, and then followed up with milky tea with lots of honey. Something about the high amounts of dairy any honey just coat the stomach, and leave it feeling only a little bit grumbly. Thirdly, one must keep really chill. As in Death Cab For Cutie calm. Stoner calm. Just laid back and not moving too fast or getting too excited about anything.
So, here I am, waiting for the tea water to boil so I can have my after medication cup of tea. So far, so good - I’m two for two with the pills today, and I really hope to be able to finish the medication. I did miss one dose yesterday, so I’ll have an extra day with one dose left. Not really the biggest deal in the world. I am also planning on calling my regular doctor to see if she has any openings soon to fit me in. Switching my antibiotics would be the best, but now I have a way of coping with it. Yay for simple little wins. The keeping calm is the hardest part of the whole plan. I’ve never been the best with throwing up, so it’s not really a fear, just something that makes me nervous. I’m trying not to actively think about it in terms of myself and my body. Just sitting here, listening to the Owl City station on Pandora, which has a surprising amount of Death Cab for Cutie, and drinking tea.
I think I might work on some more of “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant”, the next story in my wacked out Harry Potter alternate universe. I’m thinking of naming it “The True Verse”, but Truth!verse has a lovely ring to it as well. Honestly, I don’t really have to think about that until I have more than two stories posted. Probably once I get out three stories, a couple drabbles, and a few fan mixes. (Yes, I am making fan mixes for each of the stories. They are about ten songs each. Yes, I do realize what a huge geek I am.)
But, I think knitting may occupy the rest of my morning until the Super Bowl. I’m still working on Laminaria from Knitty, and I have swatched out the yarn I’m going to use for my Jared Flood style of lace done in cushy wool on huge needles version of the shawl. There is a bit more math involved with just how much yarn I’m going to use, but I’m toying with the idea of using the odds and ends of the black and olive/gold yarn I have with stripes of hot pink. Oh yeah, that’ll look hot. On second thought… I think I’m going to swatch that color combination and see if it’s horrible or not. It’ll cut down on the amount of yarn I’ll have to buy! Always a win.
In other, kind of scary news, Live Journal is turning ten, and I have had a journal with the site for six years. Yes, this journal has been my home on the internet ever since I was really bored at 9:08 on March 2nd. I posted three entries that day, each more insipid then the last. But hey! It was middle school. I’m sure if I found your journals from middle school, you’d sound pretty insipid and angsty as well.
I’ve now officially hit 1,310 words for this entry, so I think it’s time to call it quits. I’m way over my target of 500, but I think we’ll keep the bar low. At least until I’m out of the words on this whole strep thing. (1,363 words now, but whatever. You get the point, dear Internet.)
Entry title shamelessly ripped from Coastal Cities, The Secret Handshake.
Okay, we can all tell that I have failed horribly at the whole 1,500 words per day thing. I think I’m going to start with smaller numbers. So, for now, we’re going to have a 500 word per day minimum. I think that’s a lot more do-able anyway. If I hit about that, well kudos to me. Probably, every month or so, I’ll up the total word count by 100 words or so. That way, I might be able to ease into the 1,500 words per day for a whole year. I really want to accomplish that, but starting small is for the best.
So, now onto the story of what I’ve been doing for the past few days. Really, it can all be summed up with “avoiding death”, but that leaves so much to imagination, doesn’t it? Let’s be a bit more specific, lest you start to think my life is way more interesting then this blog is.
Strep throat, or Streptococci invasion, if we want to be specific about these things, is one of the worst diseases in the whole world. Not only does it strip you of any desire to do anything, just like a normal cold with its fatigue and body aches, but the pain radiating from your throat every time you try to breathe, let alone swallow or eat, makes you want to scream. Only you can’t, because that would hurt way too bloody much. So you sit there for an entire day, vainly trying to drink enough brandy to numb your throat so you can finally take some Tylenol to lower the fever you know is burning just under your skin, or make you pass out. Whichever comes first is more than fine, although the passing out is looking more tempting by the minute.
Once you go to the doctors, you have to wait for what feels like forever in a world of bright lights and way too friendly nurses. Who keep trying to make you talk, and worse - think! What was the date of your last period? Are you on any medications, prescription or otherwise? Are you allergic to anything? (Early January, the pill, Penicillin and mold.) After the doctor with a neatly trimmed white bread and matching full head of hair sees you for three seconds, after making you wait on the highly uncomfortable hospital cot, he gives you a script for what should be your salvation in the form of antibiotics. Should be. But it’s not.
After the next two days of pucking your guts out the four times a day you have to swallow one of the huge, pink horse pills, there has to be something better. And there should be, but this is a weekend. And a weekend with more snow than anything else. No one is going anywhere unless the words “imminent death” or “baby on the way” can be legitimacy bandied about. Your mother tells you there is no way in hell that you can continue to take the medication that the doctor prescribed, and for half a day you listen to her. It’s better than bowing to the toilet bowl, hacking and spitting up everything in your stomach until only the yellow- green bile it left.
But, while you sleep, tenth and twelfth grade biology come rushing back with frightening statistics about Russian prisons and the proliferation of “super bugs”. Strains of bacteria that have become resistant to antibiotic after antibiotic due to the fact that after people start to feel better, they stop taking the drugs. How could you be so selfish? Surely, vomiting every three hours isn’t pleasant, but it sure beats the hell out of being responsible for erythromycin resistant strep throat? The guilt is worse than Jewish/Catholic guilt that mothers for generations have been dolling out upon their poor children.
The next morning, your throat hurts like it did earlier in the week. A faint tickling that could be anything, really. How were you supposed to know it would blossom into the most horrible disease known to 21st century man? Praying that it’s not too late, you develop a plan of attack for these pills. First, they are never to be taken with big meals. Ever. Second, they can only be taken on a stomach that has been prepped with a shot of Mylanta, some cereal or toast with honey, and then followed up with milky tea with lots of honey. Something about the high amounts of dairy any honey just coat the stomach, and leave it feeling only a little bit grumbly. Thirdly, one must keep really chill. As in Death Cab For Cutie calm. Stoner calm. Just laid back and not moving too fast or getting too excited about anything.
So, here I am, waiting for the tea water to boil so I can have my after medication cup of tea. So far, so good - I’m two for two with the pills today, and I really hope to be able to finish the medication. I did miss one dose yesterday, so I’ll have an extra day with one dose left. Not really the biggest deal in the world. I am also planning on calling my regular doctor to see if she has any openings soon to fit me in. Switching my antibiotics would be the best, but now I have a way of coping with it. Yay for simple little wins. The keeping calm is the hardest part of the whole plan. I’ve never been the best with throwing up, so it’s not really a fear, just something that makes me nervous. I’m trying not to actively think about it in terms of myself and my body. Just sitting here, listening to the Owl City station on Pandora, which has a surprising amount of Death Cab for Cutie, and drinking tea.
I think I might work on some more of “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant”, the next story in my wacked out Harry Potter alternate universe. I’m thinking of naming it “The True Verse”, but Truth!verse has a lovely ring to it as well. Honestly, I don’t really have to think about that until I have more than two stories posted. Probably once I get out three stories, a couple drabbles, and a few fan mixes. (Yes, I am making fan mixes for each of the stories. They are about ten songs each. Yes, I do realize what a huge geek I am.)
But, I think knitting may occupy the rest of my morning until the Super Bowl. I’m still working on Laminaria from Knitty, and I have swatched out the yarn I’m going to use for my Jared Flood style of lace done in cushy wool on huge needles version of the shawl. There is a bit more math involved with just how much yarn I’m going to use, but I’m toying with the idea of using the odds and ends of the black and olive/gold yarn I have with stripes of hot pink. Oh yeah, that’ll look hot. On second thought… I think I’m going to swatch that color combination and see if it’s horrible or not. It’ll cut down on the amount of yarn I’ll have to buy! Always a win.
In other, kind of scary news, Live Journal is turning ten, and I have had a journal with the site for six years. Yes, this journal has been my home on the internet ever since I was really bored at 9:08 on March 2nd. I posted three entries that day, each more insipid then the last. But hey! It was middle school. I’m sure if I found your journals from middle school, you’d sound pretty insipid and angsty as well.
I’ve now officially hit 1,310 words for this entry, so I think it’s time to call it quits. I’m way over my target of 500, but I think we’ll keep the bar low. At least until I’m out of the words on this whole strep thing. (1,363 words now, but whatever. You get the point, dear Internet.)
Entry title shamelessly ripped from Coastal Cities, The Secret Handshake.