I Have Scaled These City Walls
God: You're a good girl, Chloe. All you had to do was ask.
Chloe: Well, it's about fucking time.
I was so surprised and thrilled by how my name was scribbled in Dr. Wolfe's date book and scheduled for as soon as this Tuesday. That's less than a week's wait! I wasn't prepared for the bomb of good news at last Wednesday's visit, at all. I thought we were just wasting another $100 tank of gas driving to Miami to go over my scans and shit, all to once again be told I had to wait another month because of this and that and Jamie Lynn Spears got knocked up again and blah blah blah.
I was such a bruised and scabby worry wart. The week before the appointment, I kept having mini-anxiety attacks that would wake me up every night, as I tried my best to dream of elephants in tutus and grilled cheese sandwiches. Earlier that week, I had even thought up a lie to be armed and ready with for when I saw him, because I was certain October was going to waste away and pass me by -like all the 30 days in September- without getting the next operation scheduled. But as it amazingly turned out, I didn't even need to use it -yet will do so in the future if necessary, because it's smart to-
The last couple of visits I would always walk in driven with the purpose to get 'er done, only to 20 minutes later walk out a huge mess, with a pocket full of soggy tissues. Ew. This time around, I had no expectations and didn't even have to cry or say or do anything.
When I sat down in Nora's office to get my file ready to set everything up, my excitement was shining bright, and she reached across her desk to give me a high five. I have been so held up on impatience and determination that I had forgotten that they've always been on my side --or maybe all my hard work harassing and pleading has paid off.
Needless to say, it's been made rather apparent to everyone the total wreck I've become and even Dr. Wolfe is insisting I see a therapist, and I say "No, no, no." When I try to explain to people how stubborn I can be, I don't think they fully understand JUST HOW STUBBORN I CAN BE. Moo, motherfuckers.
Regardless, as of now I am in very good spirits. I don't want to get too hopeful though, because there's still a pretty big gap that I can -and maybe will- trip and fall into.
The only thing that upsets me is that there is a 99.9% likelihood that I will miss Project Runway Finale. And I'm one of those weird people who don’t like to be told the winner. I know Bravo will rerun it like crazy, but still. Team Leanne@
Slowly making my way from the parking garage and through the automatic doors, I realized I can walk an -only moderately askew- straight line if I reenact the waddle of Charlie Chaplin. Usually, when I walk I am all over the place and it's gotten very bad over time. I have a balance check with each step. "Whoa, okay. I'm good." I'm totally neurologically screwy, y'all! So after my discovery, I need to practice my Charlie more to help keep me from running into walls and accidentally stumbling into incoming traffic. All I need is the hat; the mustache is filling in quite nicely, thanks for asking.
I have been clearing out all my old notebooks, journals, folders, and papers that take up useless space in my desk and closet. As often as I'm under the knife, there is the haunting possibility of me, you know, dying. I've always been indifferent when it comes to my own death, though. Even when I was little. The only thing that bothers me with the thought, (because I'm so possessive and cryptic) is people going through my stuff after I'm gone, and not being physically capable to stop them. So, I'm beating them to the punch.
I found a lot of embarrassing writing, along with many teenage attempts at coming across as a deep thinker, when I've always been a Silly McGoof. It wasn't until 11th grade, when I met Iris and Aaran -2 people who fully accepted me for who I am- that i finally began doing the same thing. Seventeen was a good year, and everything beforehand doesn't really count, therefore has been blocked out and thrown out.
Whenever I'm in the process of writing my essays for Talk About Pop! I always take little breaks and cover my eyes with my hands and shake my head. At least 5 times throughout, I'm telling myself, "I can't believe I just wrote that!" I don't exactly talk this way. It's almost as if "Chloe Dinnerrolly" has developed into my alter ego. So without further ado, new Talk About Pop! update this week:
The Girl Kicked Out The Door
Chloe: Well, it's about fucking time.
I was so surprised and thrilled by how my name was scribbled in Dr. Wolfe's date book and scheduled for as soon as this Tuesday. That's less than a week's wait! I wasn't prepared for the bomb of good news at last Wednesday's visit, at all. I thought we were just wasting another $100 tank of gas driving to Miami to go over my scans and shit, all to once again be told I had to wait another month because of this and that and Jamie Lynn Spears got knocked up again and blah blah blah.
I was such a bruised and scabby worry wart. The week before the appointment, I kept having mini-anxiety attacks that would wake me up every night, as I tried my best to dream of elephants in tutus and grilled cheese sandwiches. Earlier that week, I had even thought up a lie to be armed and ready with for when I saw him, because I was certain October was going to waste away and pass me by -like all the 30 days in September- without getting the next operation scheduled. But as it amazingly turned out, I didn't even need to use it -yet will do so in the future if necessary, because it's smart to-
Click to viewThe last couple of visits I would always walk in driven with the purpose to get 'er done, only to 20 minutes later walk out a huge mess, with a pocket full of soggy tissues. Ew. This time around, I had no expectations and didn't even have to cry or say or do anything.
When I sat down in Nora's office to get my file ready to set everything up, my excitement was shining bright, and she reached across her desk to give me a high five. I have been so held up on impatience and determination that I had forgotten that they've always been on my side --or maybe all my hard work harassing and pleading has paid off.
Needless to say, it's been made rather apparent to everyone the total wreck I've become and even Dr. Wolfe is insisting I see a therapist, and I say "No, no, no." When I try to explain to people how stubborn I can be, I don't think they fully understand JUST HOW STUBBORN I CAN BE. Moo, motherfuckers.
Regardless, as of now I am in very good spirits. I don't want to get too hopeful though, because there's still a pretty big gap that I can -and maybe will- trip and fall into.
The only thing that upsets me is that there is a 99.9% likelihood that I will miss Project Runway Finale. And I'm one of those weird people who don’t like to be told the winner. I know Bravo will rerun it like crazy, but still. Team Leanne@
Slowly making my way from the parking garage and through the automatic doors, I realized I can walk an -only moderately askew- straight line if I reenact the waddle of Charlie Chaplin. Usually, when I walk I am all over the place and it's gotten very bad over time. I have a balance check with each step. "Whoa, okay. I'm good." I'm totally neurologically screwy, y'all! So after my discovery, I need to practice my Charlie more to help keep me from running into walls and accidentally stumbling into incoming traffic. All I need is the hat; the mustache is filling in quite nicely, thanks for asking.
I have been clearing out all my old notebooks, journals, folders, and papers that take up useless space in my desk and closet. As often as I'm under the knife, there is the haunting possibility of me, you know, dying. I've always been indifferent when it comes to my own death, though. Even when I was little. The only thing that bothers me with the thought, (because I'm so possessive and cryptic) is people going through my stuff after I'm gone, and not being physically capable to stop them. So, I'm beating them to the punch.
I found a lot of embarrassing writing, along with many teenage attempts at coming across as a deep thinker, when I've always been a Silly McGoof. It wasn't until 11th grade, when I met Iris and Aaran -2 people who fully accepted me for who I am- that i finally began doing the same thing. Seventeen was a good year, and everything beforehand doesn't really count, therefore has been blocked out and thrown out.
Whenever I'm in the process of writing my essays for Talk About Pop! I always take little breaks and cover my eyes with my hands and shake my head. At least 5 times throughout, I'm telling myself, "I can't believe I just wrote that!" I don't exactly talk this way. It's almost as if "Chloe Dinnerrolly" has developed into my alter ego. So without further ado, new Talk About Pop! update this week:
The Girl Kicked Out The Door