Okay, yeah, so why the lack of updates lately? Well, two reasons, one slightly more important than the other. The less important reason is mood. When one is feeling as if one might as well dive from a great height as was depicted in Sigh‘s awesome video for the opening song from their equally awesome (for the most part) album Scenes From Hell, abstract words become difficult to come by.
I have explained several times in numerous places that this house that I have been ensconced in for more than three years is making me sick. Thing is, you do not really appreciate how sick you are at one point until you start to get even more sick. The sick on top of sick makes one realise just how untenable their everyday living position really was in the first place.
Sometimes, when I hear Christers yap about how the complexity of the Human body proves that
- it was divinely designed and that
- this somehow proves that their ignorant asshole deity exists,
I have to laugh. Let us leave aside the second point of their argument for a moment. No, better still, let us pretend that the deity they speak of, I will call him Bob for the purposes of this lesson (apologies to all Bobs out there), exists and is a beginning student in Engineering. If the lifeforms that exist on Earth, or have existed on Earth at any point in its millions of years of history, were presented to a school, they would get failing marks. Not just bare passes, but the kinds of marks meant to indicate that the student in question is wasting both their own time and that of the school.
There are many defective sub-designs in the Human species. There is the use of the same pipe to ingest both food and air. There is the lack of redundant copies of vital pieces. The absence of a secondary layer around the stomach in order to lessen the discomfort when the main layer perforates… I could go on all day. I am not a medical professional. I will just say that if a perfect design in the eyes of a Christer includes these elements, then I for one do not want them building my office blocks, bridges, houses, or anything.
This really came to mind for a three-day period between August 12 and August 15 of this year. Late in the evening of August 11, I began to cough, retch, and fart. And upon leaving the room that I was playing World Of Warcraft in, and doing what I normally do in order to try to relieve the combination of cramping and nausea, I discovered that my faeces were coming out with less solidity than my vomit. At first, I thought this was just something I had eaten. After all, my diet is hardly… babify-er pleasing, and occasionally problems with running faecal matter were noted in the past. So I persisted with trying to live with it over an eighteen-hour period. Then I called emergency services, explaining that with diabetes and a propensity to throw up anyway, checking me out now rather than after I die and get in the papers might be in their interests.
Although no formal diagnosis was made, the ambulance officers who did turn up and check me out did agree that it was likely viral, and transported me to a local general practitioner. I have hung endless amounts of shit on Caboolture and its hospital, but I agree with their emergency services about one thing. It is not the people or the place. It is the infrastructure and allocation of services. And that means it is the government, or rather governments, that have put those things in place. And do not give me that crap, Liberal In Name Only voters who think this tit who thinks a hundred and ten million for horse racing is more important than fifty-five million to start alleviating the untenable position of the disabled is worthy to lead them. That means you. You are the problem.
Anyway, after conferring with one doctor, getting scripts, being injected with Maxolon, having a relapse, and getting some pills, my condition stablised some forty-eight hours later. But by the gods, it was hairy for a while. What we colloquially call shit is not meant to come out in solid lumps. In ages past, we put it on fields in order to promote the growth of crops. But when it comes out looking like sauce or blood, it really is not much use for anything. Usually, to use the stuff as fertiliser, one needs to process it in a certain manner, anyway. And when it is coming out like water, that process is not going to be effective.
Okay, I have to be honest here. I am having a lot of difficulty writing. Especially at a pace that I used to. Part of it has to do with me being being generally lost and miserable, as we have already covered. A big part of it, however, has to do with the fact that having such an extreme case of the shits throws anyone, be they author, social worker, police officer, or even virologist, off their game for a while.
It has also made me more acutely aware of just how destructive to my body and spirit my present living space has been and continues to be. Imagine for a second that when someone asks you how you are feeling, you cannot even finish the normie-standard lie because you are coughing so hard that getting three words out at a time poses a problem. How would you feel after a week of it? A month? A year? Multiple years? This is at least two and change years for me now. An argument with mother ended with her calling me selfish and such, but I think she is smart enough to understand that if I say this house is killing me, making me shit runnier than my vomit, and generally making me anxious enough that breathing is a problem, she will know that sooner, not later, is the way to go here.
Stress makes you sick. I understand that now. When I was younger, I was told this by at least once source that I forget the exact nature of. I dismissed it, of course. Largely because they expected me to bend over backwards for everyone else’s source of stress whilst no, zero, nada, zip, zilch attention was paid to mine. But I digress. The thing is, I believe that I have been screaming for the stress to stop so loudly and for so long that I believe I have nowhere to go but escalation. I have told one social worker person that I am going to issue an ultimatum to my current landlord. Issue me with a Notice To Leave, or I will do whatever it takes to make them do it. Sick and choking on my snot is not agreeing with me. Scream for help all day, then deal with people pissing and moaning when you decide to force them to help. That is the story of my life.
Oh, I am expending way too much money trying to alleviate some of the pain. For instance, this day alone I expended sixty-three dollars and ninety-two cents on six Blu-ray Discs. So far, I have watched two of them, the first two parts of the Back To The Future series. Although I have never understood the gushings of love some in the media give this series, I have understood very well how well the films are made, especially the first one. But you try enjoying watching a film other than RoboCop when you are constantly taking your focus off the screen and coughing hard enough that it hurts.
Oh yeah, an experiment in inducing vomiting found that the coughing lessens both in volume and pain after a good spew. But obviously, this is not a sustainable manner in which to deal with the problem. So we are basically back where we started. Needing to fix a bad living environment. I am on ibuprofen pills to lessen back pain. There is a nagging pain in my upper abdomen (if you say “tummy” to me, I will thump you, or shove a shovel up your arse in a creative way, depending on my mood). And whilst my shit is coming out in solid lumps, that has only been after serious drug-based intervention.
In my earlier post about why autistic adults become militant, I made much reference to something called the Monkeysphere and how it works. I would like to be able to include everyone that is not a curebie in my Monkeysphere. There goes your no empathy bullshit again, by the way, curebies. But you see, when I write things like the above, it makes it very clear to me that there is not a lot of distance between a curebie and someone who simply is not one of us. Unless you are willing to pick up a shovel or a rifle and come to the fight with us, you are basically a curebie in waiting. My male parental unit has been written off as such. I want my mother to not go in the same direction. I know that I am asking a lot of her. But I wish she would stop and think of the rewards objectively for a second. Would she not rather I have a different life? Would she rather not have to be ashamed of me and everything I am? Would she rather not have interaction between us seem compulsory? I hope her answers in some way coincide with mine.
Because I know my answer. I do not want to live like this anymore. And anyone who wants me to live like this (aka fukk you, male parent) is a piece of shit. No two ways anymore.