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I am so much of a perfectionist I’m a perfectionist about my perfectionism.
This thought stems from today’s events. I don’t really feel like going into all of it again; the only thing I’m going to divulge is that there are perks to being very hard on yourself, namely that when you fuck up spectacularly, they might go easier on you because you tend to punish yourself enough. Finally all this self-hatred has paid off!
I know it’s the acme of asininity, but I feel almost like I don’t have the right to be anal-retentive. That uniformity must exist, and that I don’t have permission to be a perfectionist because if I truly were one, I’d have finished school and would be living the dream with a split-level ranch and 2.7 children. I wouldn’t ever get angry or moody or messy. I wouldn’t be driving around with a gaping hole in my car where the back glass used to be.
(Okay, you could counter these with the assertions that pragmatism wins out over perfectionism, since it’s not at all feasible for me to have new glass put in, and FEMA wasn’t any help in that regard; that as a human being with emotional variances I am permitted to have, well, emotions; and that I never wanted the prepackaged plastic life anyway. But still, I should have at least finished school.)
What the fuck ever. I maintain (and will until I die, because among my other wonderful and lovable qualities, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch, inasmuch that I might say what needs to be said for the sake of pacifying the other party but keep on just thinking what I was thinking anyway) that not only am I not too hard on myself, I am not at all hard on myself. I am honest. I am pragmatic.* I don’t think I’m the shit, I don’t have an ego, and I am perfectly willing to humble myself to others because in my mind, I’m pretty great.
But in my mind is exactly where it should stay.
* This is one reason it’s useless to try and compliment me when I’m pissed off at myself. It makes me mad, it’s useless, and it undermines my ability to take you seriously. So when someone starts asking me why I’m so hard on myself and then lists all these supposedly great qualities, such as “you’ve got the brains, you’ve got the looks, you’ve got the figure,” all I can think is “Of course you think I have a great figure, you’re built like Barney the Dinosaur.”
I was terrified the other day.
It was after day 2 of the Fort Smith Police drive. Penny and the rest of the crew decided to do a lunch-after at Furr’s. I happen to hold a Kightlingerian view of buffets (if people could be slaughtered for food, that’s where they’d go to bulk up), so I was on the bus, internetting* on my phone.
About 40 minutes after they left, the bus door opened up, and someone came in and told me, “You have a visitor.” My mind raced with possibilities. Who out there would want to see me, only me? Who the hell do I even know in this city?
My first instinct was that it was Jeramy. It was about the time of day he’d be off work, and I figured maybe he saw the bus parked in back and stopped by to say hello. But that kind of initiative isn’t really his thing; if it were, maybe we’d still be together.
And then, another thought, this one far more frightening: maybe it was his mother.
I haven’t been avoiding her, specifically. Just not returning her calls and not going to the mall and feeling a slight twinge of fear every time I walk down AR 59. It’s not that I think she’d be mad, because she supported my decision to leave him. After all, who better than me to know what an obnoxious bastard her son had the propensity to be?
I dunno. I guess it’s just one less tie I have to worry about. Something else to sever, because I am not a maintainer. Just the opposite, which is why it’s so easy for me to leave.
Anyway, my “visitor” wasn’t her, either. It was Brandy’s daughter, whose name I cannot even begin to spell.
Get this: this kid, who can’t be any older than maybe eight, thinks I am unconditionally awesome. For no reason I can discern - I met her a couple days ago while Brandy and I were talking after work, and now she asks about me all the time. The closest I could figure, using that logic thing we grown-ups do, is it’s an unusual-name kinship. I’m not one of those people who relates well to kids.
I dunno, I guess I just think it’s completely awesome to have someone in my life who unabashedly thinks I’m great. I think everyone should have someone like that.
Music: Bruce Springsteen - Paradise
*yes, it’s a word. One I made up just now.
I am, what’s the word… oh yeah. Bad.
Not the hot kind, not the naughty-schoolgirl kind. The rule-breaking kind. The my-own-rules-breaking kind.
Here’s the thing: they say, always wear clean underwear, because you never know when you’ll get in a car accident. My drawers are as clean as my kitchen floor. Which is, before you can think it, pretty freaking clean.
My mind, though. It’s my mind that is dirty.
I was never all that enamored of my job at the clinic, but now I sort of miss it. Forest-for-the-trees meets 20/20-hindsight, I suppose.
On my performance review, I was told that I was good with the patients. I was like that at the hospital, too - even when things were crazy, or I was ready to kill my coworkers, I always had my best face on for those in need. Now, though, I cannot make small talk with a donor to save my life. Every once in a while I’ll get one I can chitchat with, but they’re the exception, not the rule.
I wonder if it’s because I’m better at dealing with people who are sick, or if it’s a manifestation of the deeper unhappiness I feel at the loss of autonomy, my inability to fit into a scheme where fitting in seems tantamount to the actual job, and the overall Orwellian atmosphere.
It must also count for something that I never felt like my colleagues saw me as a retarded big (or little) sister, or that they were only nice to me because they felt sorry for me, or that they were merely putting up with me until which time I would kindly die in a fire. Sure, there were a couple people I knew didn’t like me, but there were specific reasons (neither of them were especially likable people). It never bothered me that much, and I never felt like the only time people saw me as an equal was when I was willing to purchase alcohol and/or debase myself.
If not for the commute, the pay, and the fact that I didn’t have as much personally invested in it (ie, really believing in what I do), I would truly consider going back.
Oh, and the drug reps. It’s a conflict of interest: I’m in the healthcare industry to help people get better; they’re there to profit off the misfortune of the public.
I told somebody yesterday, “No subterfuge on company property.”
I don’t know if it’s because there’s a policy against it, or if they’d prefer centerfuge.
Snicker.
In other news: sha-la-la-la, I’m going home. Not immediately, but hopefully before my next birthday.
I jotted that down on a sticky note a couple weeks ago. It’s one of those mental meteorites that I happened to have been lucky enough to spot. And now it all makes sense.
I’m so mad I could spit. Perhaps a poisonous substance.
All I can say is that in this case, abstention was the best course of action. It’s too bad, really, because it could have worked out well. I try my best to keep everything harmonious and lead by example. And 95% of the time, I work my ass off, even when it hurts, even when I’m in a wretched state of mind.
It must be absolute balls to have people above you breathing down your neck and people below you resenting you for stupid shit. In those cases, it’s good to have low totem-pole altitude.
How-some-ever, that’s why they make the big bucks. You don’t like the shit, get off the fan.
Nothing really caps off a hard day’s work like being told your “documentation sucks” because you forgot to NUC something.
(By the way - possibly because I have the kind of sense of humor where I find stupid shit funny - I’m eagerly anticipating the day when a donor replies “as a matter of fact, I guess I do have an underlining condition. It certainly explains why I feel the need to emphasize everything”.)
Nothing, that is, except three hours of driving through rainy BFE, Oklahoma, to retrieve your car/house keys.
This is, regrettably, the only thing I remember of a scathing Tolstoy of a message-board post from a guy known as “Artless”. He turned out to be an undersized fourteen-year-old boy, so I picked him up and carried him around upside-down a while, letting people belittle him. While his choice of words was a tidge immature, what I should have done was thank him for having the stones to say what no one else has. For telling me exactly how pathetic I am and have been for doing everything I’ve done that has led up to where I am now.
“It’s the hallmark of someone who was never loved as a teenager. It’s like a bad Canadian soap opera.” First of all, why denigrate Canadians like that? They’re hardworking, intelligent, resourceful people. They seem to have down this “treat the least among us” thing down much better than us “I got mine, go fuck yourself” Americans. I didn’t think they even had soap operas. I would think Canada would have better things to do than waste time on that kind of thing.
Secondly, I was loved as a teenager. I think. My mistake in that department was having failed to invite it in for tea and find it a comfortable chair. Even then, I had so little faith in myself that I’d rather have my eyelids sanded off than admit to a boy that I liked him. Hindsight: now I think not only “what’s the harm?” but “you could have used the practice.” It might have helped me become a little more discerning.
I wish I remembered more.
Of course, it being my dream, I realize that it’s merely a reflection of how I really see myself. That’s okay. I’ve always been more honest with myself than other people are willing to be. I’ve never been sure if it’s because they see me as particularly fragile or particularly volatile, but it’s how, for example, instead of a string of “good technique”s, I’ve wound up with the following assessments of my ability to do my job:
“donor said stick good but blew it to hell”
“adjust - huge vein, WTF?”
“blew to shit. leaked everywhere. huge vein”
“totally missed ’cause YOU SUCK”
“went next to. WTF”
“YOU. FREAKING. SUCK. QUIT THIS BS”
“adjust @ insert” forty or so times.
and my favorite, “good, huge vein though”. Like I should only get partial credit for a good stick because Helen Keller could have gotten it. But it’s true: where’s the skill? Isn’t that ostensibly what this is supposed to require?
Anyway, “Artless”, feel free to come back for a visit anytime. How do you take your tea?
I’m not entirely sure if things at The Saint had progressed when I went back for my visit last night.
What started it: bundles upon bundles of The Greenville News in Candice’s yard. What I was doing at Candice’s house is anyone’s guess. l took three; next thing I know, I was in the long hall at St. Francis.
I should go see the Unit, I thought. I don’t know why - I never really had any particular desire to revisit that particular CF. I started down the OR hall, then remembered that I needed my ID badge to show to the RFID reader that safeguarded the lock. I don’t even remember what I did with that thing, whether I turned it in to HR or sent it fluttering gaily out my window at a high rate of speed.
I went around the other way. Past the Cath Lab, dripping as ever with drug reps, but rather than the envy I used to feel at the Cath Lab staff for the free swag and lunches, I felt pity. I’ve been through Drug Rep Land; it’s bitter and barren, littered with broken morals and haunted by the ghosts of those who died destitute. The outstanding feature is the plasticine reps themselves, as dead on the inside as the landscape.
When I opened the office door, I saw Steve, surprisingly. Doug, even more surprisingly. Doug about 100 pounds lighter, astonishingly. (My fingers keep wanting to add an “h” at the end of his name.) Both their faces absolutely lit up at the sight of me. This was the kind of reaction they’d never have wasted on me before; usually it was reserved for doctors’-wives-in-training NSes from Clemson. As I can remember, I don’t make anyone delight when I walk into a room. (Which is fine with me, as it keeps my rep intact.)
They thought I was looking for a job, bless their hearts. Although, with both of them working there (and maybe a severe dropoff in NSes), it may have been worth it. Things really started going down the toilet when Steve left. Same for Doug too, even though towards the end he started playing major favorites, and I heard tales of his philandering. (I swear, take an asshole and put green eyes on him, and he suddenly becomes irresistible.)
Of course, neither Steve nor Doug are there anymore. I have no idea where either of them are now, since I’ve been as terrible about keeping in touch as I always am. If I were a little less afraid of tramping and a little better educated, I’d be the female Chris McCandless.
If I had to make some guesses:
Carol: if she made it into CRNA school, she’s probably finished by now. In which case I wonder how many patients her dumb ass has killed trying to put to sleep.
Laura: probably back in school. There’s no way just a bachelor’s and doing patient care was enough for that Type A. Plus, if her husband’s still insisting upon suckling at the warm teat of academia, I’d imagine she’d have to be making far more money than she was if they want to stay in their McManse in this housing market.
Hovis: probably still twittering around. Or, Jesus help us, teaching.
Reid: probably terrorizing somebody. If she wound up going to CRNA school, she’s probably not a bad one. She may have been an incredible bitch, but she knew her shit.
Jane: I don’t remember if she was part of the “let’s go to anesthesia school!!” bandwagon that everyone else jumped on. I hope not - she was pretty good at what she was doing. Plus, she was pretty nice, so it’s not like you’d have to be knocked out cold to be able to tolerate having her as a nurse (as with Carol and Lisa).
Michelle: CRNA school too, I guess. While I only slightly regret having blown up her car with her in it, that doesn’t mean I really care tuppence about what she’s up to now.
Cynthia: for her sake, I pray that she transferred or went on disability. I doubt she’s still working there, because I would likely have heard about a mass-casualty shooting at a hospital in Upstate South Carolina.
Jenni: I really don’t know. I could, if I wanted, but it’s too late now.
Brian: wherever he is now, probably still working his ass off. And singing to them poor sedated patients. I wonder who his singing partner is now.
Music: Poe - Could’ve Gone Mad
I’ve been acting a lot more mean lately. My theory (and I’ve noticed that I have a theory or a hypothesis for everything, like I’m doing vitally important scientific research rather than self-absorbed pontification; I’ve decided that it doesn’t bother me that much at present) is that I’m just mean because my earliest childhood memory was having my teeth knocked out at a 7-Eleven in East Lansing, Michigan. My actual, semi-serious and likely-more-accurate theory is that being by myself has dulled my tact. It’s evolution, baby; the shit you don’t use just up and r-u-n-n’s o-f-t.
I thought I might go to bed early tonight, get some decent sleep. I’ve managed to draw an incredibly lucky schedule this week which has me waking up sometime around five every morning, so I’m weary and wacky. Last night, I tried to get some rest, but was thwarted by a 1 AM workout by my upstairs neighbor, who I will heretofore refer to as the Porn Princess*. Tonight, I made the mistake of drinking beer on an empty stomach. I’m sure tomorrow night I will foul up my plans in some other insipid fashion.
Anyway, I’ve become meaner. I’m still as regretful as ever and wish I’d keep my mouth shut 140,000% more of the time. I understand why I’m not well-liked and that if I want people to be friends with me, I should treat them with decency and kindness. Status quo’s fine there.
I usually forget about it by the time I drive home from work. It’s pushed out of the forefront of my mind by such other thoughts as “I wonder what that thing sticking out of the river is?” and “I still can’t believe I actually live here.” I don’t lay awake at night with regret that I was too snarky about something. I don’t cry myself to sleep wondering why I’m such a closed-off bitch.
No, it’s usually something much simpler. Like hearing “I’m just sittin’ out here, watchin’ airplanes” and thinking, in turn, of driving down SC 14 behind GSP. Or NC 280 behind AVL. Watching airplanes.
This is nuts. It isn’t healthy. It’s probably something I need to be medicated for. That’s totally my style: to beat my impulses into submission with manufactured chemicals.**
* I decided if she’s going to have a nickname, the guy next to me gets to be Sad Old Dad. He reminds me a lot of Dr. Durham.
** This is sarcasm: I very rarely do this. It usually ends badly.
Music: Whiskeytown - Black Arrow, Bleeding Heart
I’ve been doing this for a few years, and only recently (as in three minutes ago) have I realized why I write the way I do: bluntness causes pain. The truth hurts.
I can go round in circles for an hour about the nature of loneliness, solitude, and displacement. I can wax like nobody’s business. It’s when I break it down and make it concise that I can’t keep it together anymore. When I state it baldly, say I’m lonely and miserable and I miss my family and I don’t belong here, my heart aches like I’m a character written into a bad plot device.
It’s also during my moments of precision that I tell myself to make the best of it. Hey, I’m getting out of bed every day. I’m going to work, and doing my very best, even though my best isn’t very good. I’m pleasant to people who haven’t given me a reason to hate them. I can’t paint a smile on my face and stare into space vacantly (I can do the staring thing, just not with the ding-dong facial expression).
(I look unhappy because I am unhappy. Also, why don’t people ever get onto guys for not being happy-go-stupid all the time? “You look so much prettier when you smile” is sexist bullshit and I’m tired of it. I’d look much prettier with a different face entirely.)
I’ve always found writing to be therapeutic, but lately it hasn’t been doing much for me. I don’t know if the well inside me is deeper and more poisoned than originally thought, or if what I do here is more cosmetic than anything else; if I make it look better, maybe it’ll feel better.
This all makes me think I might need to get real therapy. I probably won’t, because I don’t have the time or money. I don’t really have the energy, either, to censor myself with a professional prober like I do with everyone else. Then again, my lack of energy also keeps me from doing more self-destructive things, so why upset the status quo?
Music: Sublime - April 29, 1992
I thought I was going to fall asleep standing up twenty minutes ago; I was so bored, I was intentionally chugging water because I can’t sleep if I have to go. Then I get home and have a catbox to clean out (ammonia does wonders for your state of consciousness); a package to open up that I fear may be the work of a third TFSS (not that I don’t appreciate it, or even that it actually is a TFSS gift, but who else would send me random books? And how is it fair that I get three gifts when so many people got none?); and an interesting yet silly imbalance to ponder.
The meeting was like our standard departmental meetings to the nth degree; instead of just collections staff, this one included everyone working in the Fort Smith center. A little bit of hey, way to go and a whole lot of hey, quit this shit. A little bit of public love feast, too, which, along with sandwiches from Quizno’s, made the whole thing lean towards bearable.
I wanted to stand up and say that communication and cooperation (which, according to the results of last year’s employee satisfaction survey, were pretty big concerns) would go a whole lot smoother if everyone tried on a little bit of conscientiousness, “doing unto others”, and being maybe 3-5% nicer to one another. I didn’t, at first because I thought it would make me sound stupid and like a kindergarten teacher (although, to be fair, some people really just need a goddam lesson in the basics of human decency). I then realized that pretty much anyone there who dealt with me or my work in any way probably already thought I was stupid, but it’s a moot point anyway, because it would have done no good.
I think I’m a pretty thoughtful person. I know I could do better if I tried, but I don’t know if I’d be able to stand the way I’d feel. It is incredibly fucking draining when no one notices what you’re doing for them, or appreciates it. I do have at least one person who does, and lets me know, so I won’t be going down the road or across the street anytime soon.
I suspect that the reason I’ve been in a funk the last couple of weeks is because I’ve not worked with this person once, and spent a whole lot of time working with someone who chides me like a five-year-old over insignificant shit.
I saw Juno yesterday, and it was completely full of win. The title character reminded me a lot of myself when I was in high school, if I’d spent more time being who I wanted to be and doing what I wanted to do and not worrying about what people thought of me or harboring pointless crushes.
It was a little bittersweet, actually. And I’ve discovered that I cannot watch a movie with a childbirth scene without getting upset. Probably a combination of my feelings about the nephew I never got to meet, and about my own body’s having proven to me that it wants no part of this reproduction thing.
Speaking of high school: we had a little in-joke in French II about Mrs. Gallagher working at Platinum Plus (which I always thought sounded like a strip club that employed only bottle-blonde fat chicks). So imagine my amusement to be in possession of a Bank of America credit card that says “Platinum Plus.”
Further imagine my amusement to be holding a Bank of America credit card at all, when I settled with a collection agency for the ~$500 I owed them in December and agreed that they would never open an account with me again. Corporate incompetence at its finest.
I’ve Pavloved the cat with my keyboard cleaner. When she’d jump up on my desk and start acting retarded, I’d shoot a bit of compressed air at her to get her to knock it off. Now I don’t even have to depress the trigger; soon as I pick up the can, she’s off like a shot.
Apparently, this stuff contains a bittering agent to prevent inhalant abuse. I could go melodramatic and say “As does everything else in my life” or I could be whimsical and say “They oughta put a warning on the can about that.”
More like, out of the mouths of the stuporous….
I never really say anything truly insightful, especially not when under the influence of alcohol or narcotics, but I just had something float into my brain. I’m not on anything now, but it well relates to what’s currently on my mind.
I sometimes wonder why I do this writing thing, and why I persist when I’m obviously not very good at it. My primary reason is that it’s cathartic - being able to write about the mundane bullshit that pisses me off makes me understand why people have friends. It makes you feel like someone’s listening, someone who isn’t just going to try and one-up you. Mostly it serves to remind me of where I’ve been, and who I’ve been. It gives me hope, I suppose - that I can look back on the past and say, “Well, I may be such a sorry sack of shit that even the military wouldn’t want me*, but at least I’m not as bad off as I was then!”
Then again, I don’t remember being such a sorry sack of shit when I was 21 and 22. In fact, those were pretty good times, and I can’t access the stuff I wrote then. I don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse.
At any rate, to wade back through the muck and onto my original topic, I remember saying something rather intelligent (for me) last time I took Vicodin: “Everyone who cares about me is 1000 miles away.” (On the off-chance Jeramy is reading this, can it with the Justin Timberlake references, okay?) I do this, I suppose, because I want to feel like someone cares, even if I know that someone is only me. And I am in the center of a 1000 mile diameter of indifference.
I’m a little miffed.
The movie I want to see is not playing in Van Buren. And I never really want to go to movies, but I decided I need to get out more, even if only by myself. Plus, I’ve heard Juno is really good, and I’ve been waiting a while for it to go into wide release.
I could go to Fayetteville. But if I drive that far, I will smoke. And if I smoke, I will hate myself. I have avoided smoking for many, many hours, and I’m sort of perversely proud of myself for that.
I have about an hour to decide. I have absolutely no willpower. And I’ve convinced myself that I don’t deserve to be successful at anything. Plus, I don’t have this irrational hatred for northwestern Arkansas and in fact even miss it a little, although I imagine it’s in much the same manner as heretics envy the wrathful.
(The fact that I have to be at work at 6:30 in the morning is completely irrelevant because I am going to look like shit and feel like shit no matter how much or how little I sleep.)
I was out at Chaffee today, and I saw a group of Patriot Guard riders. Made me wonder if the WBC is in the area. Like I don’t have enough fucksticks and douchebags in my life.
Music: Whiskeytown - To Be Evil (I’ve had e-fucking-nough of the blatant steeldrum abuse in that asinine “Soulja Boy” song, and I wanted to hear one being treated well by someone with talent)
* not that I’ve actually tried to join, but I’ve considered it with varying degrees of seriousness ever since I decided to move out here - joining the medical corps and using the money to go back to school. I was talking about this with Anna, and she basically told me I was too fat, and that at 5′11, I’d be expected to be around 160.
Annie is gone and the house is finally quiet.
I’m not, generally speaking, a huge fan of the teenager. Exceptions can and have been made on a case-by-case basis, but generally I find them to be a subset of the human race comprised entirely of douchebags.
I’ve never wrecked a car. I’ve dinged my own car a few times but I do not understand the mentality it requires to drive a new car at high speeds paying absolutely no attention to your surroundings, including the car stopped at the light in front of you.
So this douchebag from Van Buren smashed the hell out of Cindi’s truck, debilitating her for a while, and Jeramy and I kept the dog while she got back on her feet. I’ve always wanted a dog, so you’d think this would be kind of a miniature thrill for me.
Unfortunately, Annie is a chihuahua, either purely or so close as to not matter much. And chihuahuas are small dogs, and small dogs are annoying. They’re very needy, and I do not do well with being needed that much. And pets don’t need you nearly as much as children do, which is reason #92,492 that it’s fortunate God has blessed me with an inhospitable set of woman-parts.
I wanted to be a dog person, though. Aside from the fact that dudes dig chicks who dig dogs, what’s the alternative? Being a cat person? Not only does that tell people that you’re self-centered and callous enough to only want a pet that can largely take care of itself, but you never hear of an eighty-year-old woman dying in her trailer surrounded by fifty Boxers. (Which would kind of kick ass, now that I think of it.)
That cat*, though, never woke me up at 6 in the morning because it had to pee. It’s woken me up at ungodly hours because it wanted to play, but that’s a problem that can be solved by tossing it into a pile of dirty laundry (a trick you definitely don’t want to try with an animal that’s gotta go).
Conclusion and moral: I’m so fucking selfish.
I’ve always been one to take my knocks when they’re deserved. I have no trouble admitting that I’ve done something incredibly stupid, and when I can learn from the situation, all the better. So when I forgot about tipping points and gravity at work this evening (a Haemonetics machine is not a good object with which to relearn such a lesson), I laughed at myself for being a dumb bitch and promised to learn from the mistake, which is something I have about a 95% success rate with.
My face hurts, and I can deal with that. My pride hurts, too, because when Cindi and Anita came over to get the dog, and I told them what happened to my nose, they said, “You’ve got a black eye, too.” I checked it after they left, and they were referring to my ever-present, ever-lovely undereye Louis Vuittons.
I guess my pride is okay, since I’m not all that fond of my naturally-haggard visage anyway.
Speaking of work; I wonder if any of the other Caucasoids feel a minor guilty pang when they ask someone of Native American heritage if they’ve had a smallpox vaccination recently?
I am not quitting smoking. If I put it that way I will fail, although that’s probably exactly what it looks like to the layperson. I slept extremely poorly last night, and I’m assuming it was a withdrawal thing. The Benadryl, it does nothing.
I’m just practicing what I preach: avoid smoking or hot beverages for an hour. I’m trying to avoid smoking for an hour. Each day is only a series of hours, right?
(Rationalization and trying to use reverse psychology on yourself are opposite sides of the same warped coin, I believe. And it’s a lot of fun watching it spin.)
Speaking of work again, now I know why we tell people not to smoke for an hour. (I should have anyway, but I could fill a large volume of pages with the shit I’ve forgotten from nursing school… actually, I guess I couldn’t, could I?)
I assumed it was an anticoagulation thing, because I am a moron. In actuality, it’s that when you smoke, you inhale CO, which binds to your hgb and keeps O2 from boarding the RBC streetcar. (Same reason people die of CO poisoning, either accidentally or on purpose: even though they’re breathing, the O2’s coming right back out the way it came in, because the CO is taking up all the space on the hgb.)
So you’re RBC-depleted anyway, lowering your O2-carrying capacity. Then you do something that’s going to muscle O2 to the side. Too little O2 and down you go. And not in a good way.
I guess the hour is just kind of a cushion to let your body acclimate to its decreased blood volume. I’m still not 100% sure about the hot beverages thing; the closest I can guess is the potential for vasodilation, which, combined with a decreased blood volume, could make your BP drop appreciably. But by the time anything you drink makes it to your bloodstream, it’s pretty well filtered and temperature-regulated.
My efforts to coax the answer out of Google led me to this. It’s an interesting perspective, I think. (By which I mean, “that really is neat, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to sit over there now.”)
I guess I could ask, but I feel stupid enough, thank-you. I could just make something up, like “If you have a cup of coffee after you donate blood, Jesus will cast your soul into Purgatory for all time, where you’ll listen to the weeping of unBaptized babies until the Judgment trump sounds.”
Speaking of Indians again, I had this thought while riding by the massive Choctaw casino earlier. I wonder why people who gamble don’t just donate money to the Indians themselves, or to any other of the sixteen thousand charities there are out there. I guess because when you blow your money on slots or cards or dice, there’s that minute chance of winning, which gives you a rush, which is why you keep doing it even though you’re statistically likely to leave with less money than you had coming in.
It’s actually quite similar to people who donate large sums to certain causes then put out press releases about it. The rush of altruism.
Music: Ben Folds - Landed (that it was used in a Hilton commercial makes me want to break things)
* her name’s Ellie, by the way
I guess it’s a little cheesy to wish myself luck, but there aren’t very many others who know about what I’m doing today. I’m not sure why that is, but I’ve been told (and people have been acting) very hush-hush about it, so I’ve been trying to keep it under my hat.
I’m trying to be better about keeping said hat on my head. When I was in high school, I was pretty good about not running my mouth about stuff. I’ve thought about this, and the conclusion is that, back then, there was a series of guys I was pretty seriously into (these were one-sided, for the most part) that I would have been mortified if anyone had found out I liked. I’m not even sure why; it’s not like they were total chuds. I do know that I had a really thin skin. Now it’s new and improved, with greater thickness. Plus I know it’s not a crime against humanity to have a damn crush.
(Just a mite silly. The kind of silly that would damn sure come in handy at the nadir of a bout of SAD.)
But I think one thing that may stand in my way of this thing that I need luck for, is the fact that I am good at being told what to do, and I am good at telling myself what to do, but not always so good at telling others what to do. People ask why, and I don’t always know the answer to that question. I can bullshit myself all day long, but other people are a little harder to con-….
Wait a second. These are people who don’t know that a closed fracture is the exact same thing as a broken bone that does not protrude through the skin, and that medications that inhibit platelet function are pretty much the same as anticoagulants. If I get this job (the only way that will happen is if there were no other applicants), I could probably get away with telling fairy tales and fables.
That makes me feel much better. Time to get dressed and not eat breakfast.
What’s worse - a beautiful girl with extremely high self-esteem, or one with extremely low self-esteem? I suppose it depends on what you hate more - being exasperated, or being heartbroken.
Man, am I glad Harrison’s over.
Jeepers Christmas, am I tired.
Here’s the thing. I’m a worrier. Not enough people know that about me. I worry about the most ridiculous things ever.
Since my ability to move in four days pretty much hinges on my getting paid the correct amount and on time, this week’s anxiety has been focused on the possibility that my paycheck would be incorrect or there was some sort of “end of employment” hold they would do (which is silly, now that I think about it in a mind unclouded by irrational fear).
I’ve been having trouble falling asleep all week. And half the time I’m awakened in the middle of the day by noise outside my room, or the slamming front door. I’m wiped out, man. This morning, I went looking for something to calm my brains so I might be able to get some rest, but there was nothing helpful to be found, not even Nyquil or Tylenol PM - although I doubt the diphenhydramine would have done much good, since its effects on me are wildly variable. Out of desperation, I took two generic Lite Dramamine (the less drowsy kind). The only effect I noticed, was that now, 12 hours later, I’m half-asleep and I feel like I’ve knocked back a few drinks.
Help me Jesus, help me Tom Cruise.
In other news, I popped my Ann Coulter cherry this evening. I must have fallen asleep watching Imus on MSNBC. When I woke up, that fluffy-assed goofball Chris Matthews was on, interviewing the scourge of lefties everywhere.
I know, I know, talking about her only encourages her, but honestly, like it matters on this blog? (And if it does, Ann, hey, wassup? Let the makeup girls do your face next time - they’re professionals.) I’ve seen pictures of her, and she’s not the transvestite-esque hag the left insists she is, nor is she the blonde goddess her audience claims. She’s a tired-looking middle-aged hack whose purpose is… I don’t even know. Reminding everyone that life would be perfect if not for the much-hated liberals? She should be thanking them every day. Maybe she does. If not for her opponents, she wouldn’t be followed by a cloud of controversy and making tons of money.
I think it must be acknowledged that if not for liberalism, Ann Coulter would still be a corporate lawyer in Greenwich. What exactly do corporate lawyers do? Ensure that the company is in compliance with the law, that it meets regulations, that if the company is sued, they have legal representation. Since it’s liberals who want corporations regulated, and it’s liberals who sue them (since only liberals ever try to get money they didn’t work for), if there were a dearth of leftists, she might even have to get those gangly hands of hers dirty doing real work.
It must really suck to be so beholden to someone you hate so much. So I can understand why she looks and sounds as bitter as she does when she scrunches up her face and denounces liberals every time she can’t answer an honest question with a valid and reasonable response.
I’m really trying to find something to be happy about. I know that sounds totally emo, like the world is my own personal monster and I’m running round frantically looking for a bed underneath which I can hide, and I don’t mean it that way. In fact, as I type this, I’m giggling uncontrollably, and I’m more than a little worried that it may be a sign of incipient madness. Bring on the Thorazine, motherbitches!
One thing I have on my side is that I have a backup plan, which is always a good thing to be carrying around in your knapsack. And I get bonus points because apparently it’s something that freaks people out. Yeah, I’ve decided that if this whole Arkansas thing doesn’t work out, I’ll join the military. There’s a 3-in-1 recruiting office a mile away from home on Pelham Road. If I can’t be useful in the domesticated female capacity, I can be useful to my country. As a nice bonus, I might stop feeling so stagnant and useless.
And now, for a little hilarity-slash-ridiculousness, even if I am the only one who really sees it: what is the point of worrying endlessly about every molecule of fat and salt and protein and phosphorous and niacin and sunshine, happiness, and rainbows that goes into your body… and then plunking your ass down in a tanning bed? I would just like to know the rationale behind that. It’s as if people think skin cancer is some sort of harmless itch-factor that doesn’t really, like, fucking kill you.
I love this weather we’re having, with the rain and mist and cool. It feels almost coastal, and it makes me oddly happier than sun and blue skies are ever able to. I just hope, for once, I am able to maintain the feeling-good once I get to work.
(I’m a little tired of hearing “you can’t bring your personal problems to work with you.” I don’t. Not anymore - it descends on me like a cloud as I climb the hill from the parking lot, and lifts like a burning fog as I drive away.)
Music: The Wreckers - Stand Still, Look Pretty
Forget anything you may have learned in high school biology about plankton and amoebae and the circle of life and phyla and such (if your educational experience was anything like mine, that might not be too difficult anyway). I have determined that the lowest form of life is not, contrary to what many people may believe, the telemarketer. However, he is a close relative. Ladies and gentlemen, I present the faxemarketer.
The faxemarketer is a hipper, more modern derivative of the guy who puts papers under your windshield wiper because for some reason he doesn't want to throw them away himself (sup, Mitch Hedberg). Instead of taking his dog-walking or baby-sitting or car-vacuuming ass to the local Kinko's and then papering every car in the mall parking lot with his advertisements, the faxemarketer simply sends his fliers out over the phone lines. His clients are people that would ordinarily have a difficult time reaching their audience, such as the clever but lonely dude who invented the alarm clock made especially for the hospitality business. Now, instead of visiting every hotel in his town, clever-but-solitary guy simply calls up his local faxemarketer and says, "Dude. Idea."
"baeeeeeooooooooooooooooeeemp eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemp eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemp," says the faxemarketer.
The guy, who clearly did not get this far in his life by being easily discouraged, faxes his proposal over. Judging by some of the ones I see at work, it probably looks something like this:
This is the kind of shit I come up with when I can't think of anything to write in my novel. It's almost hard to believe I ain't doin' so good.
