The appointment I just got cancelled on me without notice and then rescheduled has again been cancelled and rescheduled already, to February. Almost 7 weeks since I last saw her.

I don't see the point in this anymore. I'm not meant to talk to anybody.

 

Yet another appointment cancelled at the last minute. I even made sure of it being scheduled (due to them "forgetting" to note it down and then cancelling and rescheduling on me repeatedly the last time) with Psychologist herself and she herself said it was already scheduled for January 7th at 11AM; she made note of no problems being with that day and time. I call them up this morning (after waking up early, tired and depressed as always, to wash my hair) to make sure. Different day, same old shit.

Me: "I'm calling to see if my appointment is still on for today."

Receptionist: "Your name?"

Me: "Rachel H."

Her: *random mumbling and rustling* "Let me just check..." *pause and more rustling* "There should have been a letter..."

Me: *rolling eyes* Of course.

Her: "I'm glad you called."

Me: "Uh-huh." I saw this coming a mile away.

Her: "Psychologist isn't going to be in today...I try not to reschedule you on Thursdays..."

Me: WTF?? "Well, the problem is, Thursdays are the only day I have a ride there." I've only been telling you guys this for f**king MONTHS.

Her: "Well, if you have an appointment on a Thursday, chances are it will end up cancelled." *rustling noises* "We can get you in on the 28th."

Me: Wow, like a month from now, and maybe like a month and a half or two months since I've last seen somebody I'm supposed to see every two weeks. How lovely. "Okay. Thank you." Hang up, tell my mother she might need to talk to her boss to ask about getting a different day of the week off because heaven forbid I should be able to get therapy on the only day I have a f**king RIDE there. Psychologist never, ever made mention of Thursday being a bad day...in fact, as my mother angrily informed me, the only reason her day off from work changed from Tuesday to Wednesday and then to Thursday was because of all the cancellations I kept getting on THOSE days. She can't get any other day off. Her hours aren't flexible. Apparently my psychologist's hours aren't, either.

The last appointment ran late, I had so much I needed to talk about, and I still didn't manage to go over it all. By the time I finally get in to see her, so much time has elapsed between sessions that I never get to go over all the important things I really need to discuss. I only ever have time to talk about this stupid bladder thing, never mind anything good that might have happened, no matter how infrequent or small. Not to mention all this shit regarding so-called "friends" on the Internet and whatnot. By the time she's done questioning me about my bladder, it's time to leave, then I'm lucky to see her again any time within a month.

There's no affordable public transport to get me there on a moment's notice (due to them cancelling on me with no prior warning--I'm supposed to give them 24 hours' notice), and nobody else, no family, no friends, to drive me there. Looks like yet another message from God/life/whatever that I'm just meant to be stuck here with nobody to talk/connect/reach out to. Guess I should take the f**king hint already, I can't even talk to somebody when they're PAID to listen.

No big surprise there. Like I said, different day, same old shit.

 

I am now the owner of a laptop, and of a strange mechanical toy dog which looks eerily realistic as it just lies there sleeping and...breathes. I feel rather lame in saying that this laptop is the first time I have ever actually used one or even seen one up close while it's actually turned on; I've gazed at them from afar, but the closest I've ever been to them is when looking at the (turned off) display models in the store. It takes getting used to. I'm glad I never succumbed to the temptation to buy one of those little tiny cutesy ones; whenever I placed my fingers over their keyboards, they were just so small I could never hope to type anything properly (and as anyone reading this knows, typing is like 90% of what I do on a computer), so I refrained from buying one of those. Lo and behold a fullsize one shows up unexpectedly at Christmas. It's running Windows 7, which isn't terribly different from Windows Vista but does have a few differences, mainly in small but useful details that Microsoft for whatever asinine reason decided to do away with. It hadn't a mouse so I navigated by running my finger along a touchpad and pushing a button; this grew bothersome so we invested in a wireless mouse, which is incredibly fast and touchy and hard to control, yet after I use it I keep finding the regular mouse on the PC to be slow and clunky and hard to control, so I keep bobbing between the two. It has a battery, which means it can run without electricity for a couple of hours; we in fact suffered a +5-hour blackout 12/27, but I was so leery that it might be a days-long outage that I refrained from using the laptop lest I need to use it even more later on during the blackout, which in fact ended later that night. It has a CD/DVD player/burner in it as well--my mother paid extra for that feature alone, though I'm indifferent to it. I plan to use the thing as nothing more than a glorified word processor, but that's what I've always been wanting anyway, a way to work with my files someplace besides the PC in the dining room. The new version of Wordpad is horrific; seeing as I do most of my work in HTML, I believe I'll be using Notepad a lot more often. I've already transferred all my writing files so they now exist on the PC, the laptop, and my flash drive, which works to move things between the two.

So we shall see how that all works out. I have the temptation to put stickers all over the thing (it's shiny and black and plain) but have refrained.

I had the most humiliating afternoon while out eating at Big Boy on Saturday before shopping. Sometime during the meal of a club sandwich and French fries, part of one of my bad teeth disappeared, and it was left with a sharp edge which scraped the inside of my cheek and made me uncomfortable. I got to thinking about this and for some reason it began to nauseate me. Before I knew it, my head was starting to swim. I tried putting it down, putting it back, resting it in every position I could short of putting it between my knees, but to no avail. I know the feeling of losing consciousness when it happens, I'm so used to it. The last time I recall this happening was at the Northwood restaurant (see the 10/5/08 entry), when I didn't fully lose consciousness but came close. This time, I passed out. It was very weird and seemed to last forever and it took me a while to figure out what was going on.

I recall all the dizziness and nausea and fuzziness that preceded it.

Then I remember a bunch of nothing.

Then I recall I seemed to be dreaming, but I can't recall what it was. I think there were lots of people and/or lots of activity, but I'm unsure.

Then everything was black and I heard noises, voices, faraway and muffled, like I was coming up from underwater or something, like the beginning of Saving Private Ryan or something. They grew louder and clearer as if my ears were slowly being cleared. I at last heard some discussion going on, and a man's voice saying to my mother, "I'm an EMT. In training. I'm from Dearborn." Somebody was holding my wrist and I thought, "Ah, cripes," because I had merely passed out, it was nothing big, but here was an EMT already, what the heck was going on? Nobody had ever called an EMT on me before.

More voices and talking. I can't recall if it was before or after I tried opening my eyes, but I heard someone--the EMT-in-training, or my mother?--say that my lips were turning blue, and the EMT-in-training said, "Her pulse rate is really slow, and that's not good." The question kept getting tossed around, what had happened? I felt incredibly sludgy and weak, too much so to respond, but was fully lucid and aware of what they were discussing and why. My lips were blue? Weird. No wonder they were worried, but it was just a faint. No reason to call anybody, I always come out of these things.

"Can you tell me your name?" I heard the EMT-in-training ask me.

"Rachel H.," I managed to murmur.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Big Boy."

"Do you know who's the president of the United States?"

Jeez, this was lame. I'd just passed out, I hadn't lost my memory or anything. Still, this question made my brain stumble. Bush, I thought; then, No, Clinton. Then, No, the black guy, I always think his last name is his first name so that's why it's taking me so long to answer. "Obama," I mumbled at last. I wanted to tell him I knew why he was asking me these questions and they weren't necessary, but I just could not summon up the strength. I kept trying to clutch at my shirt with my right hand, but could barely do so, and it kept slipping back to the seat. It didn't seem worth the extreme effort needed to do so.

"Rachel, can you open your eyes and look at me?"

I don't WANT to look at you, I thought--even in a faint, my inability to make eye contact prevailed, yet I dragged my eyes open and turned them in his general direction just the same. I saw no faces, just bodies. The EMT-in-training was kneeling beside me, scribbling on a napkin while holding my wrist. Beside him, I saw a shirt and pants--that's all I saw, shirts and pants, but I recognized the restaurant manager. Ugh, cripes. My mother was standing at her side of the booth, answering a question here and there--they kept wanting to know what had precipitated the event, and there was no real answer, merely that I'd just been eating, had started feeling dizzy, and then had passed out.

I saw another shirt-and-pants--a blue uniform--approaching. A city policeman. UGH, cripes. He, too, stopped at the booth and started to question me, though he seemed to be there more to keep me calm than do anything else, for the only specific comments I remember him offering were, "You know, Rachel, you look familiar," at which I thought, You probably saw me in the DARE program when I was in elementary school. Well, that was the only place where I figured a policeman would remember seeing me. "I think I saw you on America's Most Wanted," he quipped, and I felt like offering a groan of a laugh, but was too weak to do so. Mentally, at least, I rolled my eyes. What a weird joke to make. I must look a lot younger than I really am.

I started to come out of it, so my vision grew clearer and I wanted to sit up a bit more; I kept blinking and making grasping motions with my free hand, trying to ground myself. Someone--the manager?--said an ambulance had been called. Ah, cripes. I didn't need an ambulance! I don't even have insurance! Over and over, I wanted to tell them all it was okay and I didn't need all this attention, but I just didn't have it in me to speak up. I noticed that our food dishes had been moved aside and one of Ma's saucers set atop my unfinished plate of fries. I wanted to reach out and grab a few of them. The fries had been good and I hadn't even gotten to finish them. It was such a waste. Throughout the entire rest of the episode, I kept longing to finish those fries, but it would have looked remarkably stupid for a half-conscious person to be grabbing at fries while being checked over by an EMT.

Two more people arrived--paramedics. Cripes. I wanted to apologize profusely for all this bother. One of the paramedics conversed with the EMT-in-training, who gave him the napkin with the information written on it and told him about his observations and who was thanked before heading on his way. I don't know what his name was. One paramedic knelt down beside me and started chattering while the other one stood back a bit, maybe talking with the policeman or manager; I don't know what became of the latter two. The paramedic, too, was cheerful and chatty and kept joking as if to keep me calm; he said the policeman was Officer F. and that he was a "good guy." Put anybody in a police uniform and I'll assume they're a good guy. I was again asked what had happened and I managed to explain that I'd felt nauseated and had fainted; I informed him the last time had been perhaps a couple of years ago (the Northwood incident, which seemed longer ago than it really was), and that it happened now and then, usually caused by overheating or by me thinking about something that nauseated me. Nothing serious. When I told him (and earlier, the EMT) about what medications I was on--Elmiron and generic Atarax--none of them had ever heard of those. No, I had no medical conditions I was aware of, this was just something that happened now and then. As I explained when I became a little more lucid, "I start to get lightheaded and then it's like my blood pressure just plunges." I remember one day at home, every time I merely stood up from kneeling, I'd get so dizzy I'd have to sit back down, so it's nothing new.

By now I was just about awake, but still very weak and in a cold sweat; I kept making the grasping motions with my hands and blinking and abruptly shaking my head. The paramedic checked my pulse, took my blood pressure, put electrodes or something on my arm and leg to check something, and even took blood from my finger--I had to turn away, cringing lest I get nauseated enough to pass out again--it hurt so little, it didn't even leave any mark, not even a prick or a tiny bruise, I can't even remember which finger it was. My pulse rate was almost back to normal, my blood pressure too, and my blood sugar was normal. "I was wondering about that," my mother said. "Is this like a vasovagal thing?" My mother heard that term in the past and likes to bring it up, even though it's just fancy talk for fainting. I mean, I could have told them, I'd just fainted, that was all. They weren't going to find anything immensely wrong with me.

The paramedic kept asking/urging me to let them wheel me out to the ambulance to be checked out further; I kept putting him off, even though first a wave of exhaustion--I suddenly felt so sleepy and heavy, I just wanted to shut my eyes and nod off--then a second, smaller dizzy spell passed over me; I just didn't see the point in wasting their time and resources when it was just a faint. I wanted to tell them how I'd passed out during a graphic description of an injury in a college science class and had been wheeled out to a woman's van in a computer chair to be transported to the hospital, but didn't have it in me to go into that. That had been in the dead of winter, too, me being wheeled through the parking lot in a computer chair by a bunch of strangers, I hardly needed to go through that again, much less get in an ambulance (even though it would have been a novel experience), much less go to the hospital. I have Medicaid, for crying out loud. I hardly need to rack up a bill over a mere faint.

I at last managed to say I had no insurance; the paramedic said it cost nothing for them to merely take me out to the ambulance to be checked out, I didn't have to go to the hospital or even be checked out if I didn't want to, but he really felt I should be. There was quite a lot of time spent with them making sure my vital signs were stable and me putting off their offers to escort me to the ambulance. I was at last presented with a form to sign, informing anyone who read it that I'd refused to be treated or whatever; I got hung up signing my last name since cursive is hard for me (I recently tried writing a sentence of it on a paper of mine then, when I noticed this a week or so later, didn't even recognize my own writing, it was so foreign) and it's always been hard for me to sign my last name, so I told him that, lest he think I was having trouble writing due to whatever my condition was. Ma went to settle the bill while they continued trying to convince me to at least go to the ambulance; she returned as I was at last standing up, still insisting I was able to walk, I really did NOT want to be wheeled out of there like an invalid. So embarrassing. "I'm sorry I took up your time," I apologized to the paramedic (he'd told me their names, though I promptly forgot them, was his name Pat or something?), but he quickly assured me that's what they were there for, to make sure I was okay. Ma stated that Big Boy had refused to charge us for the meal; I was astonished and dismayed at that, it's not like it was the FOOD that made me pass out, Big Boy has great food. Only later on did I learn she didn't get to finish her meal, either, and I felt lousy, and still wished I'd gotten to finish my fries. I was perplexed to find that my purse, which had been sitting on the seat beside me, was gone. It showed up on Ma's side. My DID book was still on the table so I picked that up and put it in the purse, which Ma offered to carry, but I insisted on carrying it, and merely kept my right hand out to balance against anything in case I needed to on the way out. At some point during all this I stated that this was too much drama for one restaurant--not long before this, our waitress had tripped on a knife near the kitchen and had fallen with a thud and a loud yell, so of course adding my incident to that was humiliating. I hoped nobody thought I was faking. It's not like I'd wanted them to go to all this trouble. Poor waitress, with me stealing her thunder.

I saw the ambulance waiting in the parking lot. The paramedic kept his hand on my back the entire way out to the car. I felt so lame. What an immense waste of their time and resources. I got in the car and he even tucked the edge of my coat in so it wouldn't get caught in the door, and told me again that I was free to call them back at any time if I changed my mind about being brought in, whether it be ten minutes from now or tomorrow. We thanked them and left.

Ma mentioned that the call to 911--made by the restaurant manager--had probably been broadcast over the scanner that my dad is always listening to. Ugh, CRIPES. Turns out he had missed hearing that particular call, so I can only imagine how it went. "Such-and-such-so-and-so-babble-that-starts-every-call, you are needed at such-and-such-street-address, Big Boy restaurant, for a 33-year-old female; unconscious, lips turning blue, very slow pulse, no known medical history, such-and-such-so-and-so-babble-that-ends-every-call." I wonder if Dad would have known that was me had he heard the call. I can't even think of all the times we've heard stuff like that and have quipped, "That doesn't sound good!" It was weird to possibly be the subject of such a call for a change.

Ma explained, to my insistent questioning (I always wonder what I looked like and how others reacted every time I pass out), that the EMT-in-training had just shown up--"I don't know if he was just passing by, or if he came over to us, he just popped up right there"--as if out of the blue, offering to help. The manager had called 911 and that was why the police officer had shown up. It felt like I was out for ages but it hadn't been long at all. It would really have been free to go out to the ambulance without being transported, but there was no way I could have known that. My own reaction had almost caused my mother herself to pass out--"When your legs just spread out, I knew that wasn't good!" (I remembered spreading my legs out to try to relieve the swimmingness in my head, not that it had helped much, either.) Even more later on she exclaimed, "I thought your head was going to knock against the guy in the booth behind you!" and laughed--I remembered that I'd been trying not to put my head back too far lest that very thing happen. I just couldn't get over my lips turning blue. They really did that? Ewgh. That's the first time I've ever heard of that happening, usually I just turn white.

Ugh, it will be so embarrassing going back to that restaurant.

Resuming typing up this entry on the laptop aforementioned. Good God, the calculator on this looks weird. (I can never remember my age--my date of birth, yes, but not exactly how old I am--so had to subtract, and could not find the "clear" button for a moment or so.)

I also discovered that what I had assumed to be a sickly chickadee is in fact not sick at all, but crippled. He's the only chickadee I can tell apart from the others in that whenever he lands, he keeps splaying his wings out and losing his balance; it's hard for him to maintain his balance enough to hammer at a seed while clinging to a branch, so he often simply eats on the ground or from the plate. I assumed he had salmonella, but the other day when he landed, I saw that he kept one foot elevated while balancing on the other. The only reason he flutters and splays his wings is because he's perching on only one foot. I then noticed that the lame foot was dangling from his leg by a mere thread, and I think I even saw him trying to peck it off, though I don't know if he was successful. Poor thing. Yet he still keeps coming to eat and has been doing so for weeks. I wish I had that sort of perseverance.

I can't think of a way to end this, and am not sure whenever I might have anything else to say since my mood plunges so much and so often...and this issue is starting to act up again, right on cue...so I suppose that's it.

 

I sent a short letter to Dianne a while back to try one more time to reopen communication. Received a nice letter from her a while later. Sent a nice longish letter in response. Today received a Christmas card with a short note inside which didn't really reply to anything in my letter, basically just says she hopes I'm doing fine. I reached out to her again in the hopes that we could open real communication, but it looks like it's failed yet again here, too. Yes, she replied, like so many other people have. But what kind of reply? Almost a non-reply. I feel like I wrote an entire letter for nothing, if there's practically no response to its contents, and she's not really left open any means of response for me. Didn't ask anything specific, didn't tell anything specific, just pretty much said she hopes I have a happy holiday and that I'm doing okay. I can't really think of anything to say in response but the obvious, I hope you're doing fine too and happy holidays to you too, which would make the entire "communication" boil down to the meaningless "Hi-how-are-you"s I dread. That's not communication. It's empty parroting that eventually, inevitably, dwindles to nothing and leaves me wondering yet again why I even bothered.

I don't see the point in getting in touch with people if all you ever really feel like saying is, "How are you? I'm fine, hear from you soon." When people ask me in person--and even often online--how I am, I've programmed myself to mechanically reply, "Fine." No matter how lousy I feel. Because people don't want to hear the truth. People don't want real answers or real communication that requires a commitment. It's too much time and trouble. Shooting off a simple "How are you? I'm fine, hear from you soon" is what "communication" boils down to nowadays, and I see no point in it. I really don't want people asking me how I am unless they've already invested enough time and energy in getting to know me through REAL communication for the question to actually MEAN something. (Why do you care how I am or how I'm doing if we don't really know each other? What does it contribute to your life knowing if I'm doing fine or lousy if you have no clue who I am?) If somebody you've just gotten in touch with runs all their conversations like this, you never get to really know each other. You AVOID getting to know each other by keeping it all shallow and superficial, thus you avoid all the effort involved. That's not communication or friendship. I don't know what it is...apparently it suits most people nowadays just fine, but I assume these people already have all the friendships they need. Why take the time to really get to know more people nowadays when you already have what you want? The unfortunate thing is, I haven't managed to find this. Everybody has paired off while I'm left on my own. And no one has time for anything more meaningful than a "How are you? I'm fine, hear from you soon." Which, to me, means absolutely nothing.

Don't get me wrong. I love people asking how I am...when there's other, real communication going on too. I love people asking after me, if we already know each other and I know this person cares whether I'm doing fine or not. But how often does that happen? If all I ever get from somebody is this trivial shallow stuff, then I'm just going to clam up and give up. The guy who e-mailed me did this, Mya did this, other old "friends" from Facebook keep doing this, Dianne basically did this, I can't count how many times people have done this, I guess because they already have all the friends they need. I just wish I understood why they bothered me when they didn't want to take the time or commitment to really get to know me, but I guess that's not ever for me to know. I also wish I knew what it takes for me to find somebody who really cares to keep real communication open. I just always seem to show up too late. I came along in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nobody needs me. So I wonder why I'm here.

I wish I hadn't bothered sending her another stupid letter. The only reason I did was because I was so desperately lonely, especially now with whatever this condition is, and since she too has an illness I thought maybe she would understand. But yet again there's just the empty "How are you? Hope you're doing fine, bye" with no real attempt at further communication behind it. I feel like such an idiot, thinking over all the long letters and e-mails I've written numerous people over the years. All the things I said, all the things I shared, all the times I poured my heart out to people who only had time to say, "Sorry I didn't have time to reply to all that, but I hope you're doing fine, hear from you later" in response. People who probably had little time or interest to read even a fraction of what I wrote, people who probably thought about how stupid and desperate I must be to write so much. I'm so stupid. I have so much I want to share with people, with the world, so much that I could never hope to get it all out, I've been holding it in so long, but nobody cares to hear it. Not only that hurts, but the fact that I've tried so many times, and have been rebuffed so many times, that hurts. Not knowing why I'm even here if my life means nothing to anyone else, that hurts. Not having a purpose really hurts. Everyone else seems to have one. I don't understand why I don't. Why I continue to wake up every morning.

I really thought there was a time people really communicated, and my life really mattered to someone besides myself, but something happened and I don't know what. I don't understand why I became so meaningless. Not understanding hurts.

Having tried so many times, only to achieve nothing except to grow to hate myself, really hurts. What am I supposed to find any meaning in if not in myself?

I might not post in here for a while anymore. It doesn't seem to be doing me much good, so tar.

 

Not to belabor the point, but on seeing their website yet again updated, I again have to ask--honestly, what is the point in e-mailing somebody, e-mailing them again several years later to say you didn't hear back from them before but you'd sure like to hear back now and get to know them, replying to their reply to assure them that you really mean it and can't wait to start corresponding, then apparently forgetting about this or changing your mind and deciding not to bother replying at all? Seriously? Why do people keep deciding to do this to me? (As mentioned in my restricted entry, I didn't even have enough fingers to count how many times this has happened to me. How many people out there find it amusing to get in touch with me and make me think they're honestly interested when they're not, or else whose attention spans are about as big as a gnat's, and whose consciences, in admitting to me that they're no longer interested, apparently don't exist.)

I already know I'm boring. I'm the first person to admit it, as these people could attest if they'd bother staying interested for more than one minute. I really do not need a bunch of people e-mailing me assuring me I'm not, then quickly proving that I am. Anyone else who e-mails me in the future to tell me they aren't really into my work or my interests but gee, they'd sure LOVE to get to know me, can expect no answer from me ever again. No matter how sincere they seem. ESPECIALLY NOT if they seem sincere--the sincere-seeming ones are the ones who disappear fastest. I don't have the time, energy, or self-confidence for this. Enough. This is the end of it.

If you want to get to know me, really know me, then read my f**king writing first (THAT'S where you'll find my heart, my passion, the "real" me), show me you MEAN it; don't e-mail me insisting you want to get to really know me if you really don't. I'm sick and tired of these people, which seems to be just about everybody. I don't seek them out and bother them. I really don't understand why they seek me out and bother me. Find something better to do with your time, because I'm not falling for it anymore.

And it's this attitude of mine that gets such people thinking, gee, what a bitch she is, sure glad I decided not to keep writing to her. Like it's my fault for being pissed off. Fitting.

 

I just knew when I saw this scene that somebody was going to get whiny.

Bill O'Reilly lashes out at 'Law & Order' executive producer

Fri Dec 11, 1:34 pm ET

Fox News' Bill O'Reilly lashed out at "Law & Order" franchise creator/executive producer Dick Wolf Thursday night. The bombastic host, upset over how he was recently characterized on the long-running NBC drama, called the "far left" Wolf a "despicable human being" whose show is "out of control."

Sparking O'Reilly's ire was an episode of "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" that aired earlier in the week, in which a crazed anti-immigration activist set out to murder the children of illegal immigrants. In one scene, a character named Randall Carver, played by veteran actor John Larroquette, is sitting on a park bench talking to Fin, the detective played by Ice-T. In defending the actions of the man who killed the immigrants’ children, Larroquette's character says, "Limbaugh, Beck, O'Reilly, all of 'em, they are like a cancer spreading ignorance and hate...They've convinced folks that immigrants are the problem, not corporations that fail to pay a living wage or a broken health care system..."

After playing the clip of the "defamatory and outrageous" scene, O'Reilly slammed Dick Wolf as a "coward" and a "liar" before playing a montage of clips demonstrating his past defenses of "poor people who only want a better life." O'Reilly went on to explain that his "beef" isn't with illegal immigrants themselves, but rather with the federal government for doing little to control immigration and the "violent aliens who wreak havoc once they get here." He concluded by chastising Wolf for "distorting and exploiting" the issue of illegal immigration.

When contacted by Yahoo! News, a representative for Dick Wolf declined to comment on O'Reilly's accusations.

See Bill O’Reilly’s reaction:


- Brett Michael Dykes is a contributor to the Yahoo! News blog

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ynews/20091211/en_ynews/ynews_en1030

Bawwwwww.

O'Reilly apparently doesn't recognize the difference between truth and fiction, a writer's opinion and a character's opinion. Yes, I get the strong feeling the L&O franchise is definitely more left leaning than right. (I always joke about the growing inclusion of "public-service announcements" in SVU.) So? O'Reilly's show is definitely more right leaning than left. Live with it, Bill. And just because a character says something means the writer behind it must mean it? (As if Dick Wolf even wrote the episode? Thought he was the producer or something. Why aren't'cha going after the writer, Bill?)

What about the characters in the episode who were ranting and railing about how nasty immigrants are and how their kids should die, do their opinions hold for Wolf's, too? Don't hear O'Reilly complaining about Wolf "defaming" the poor immigrants. How selective of him. Bawwwwww.

I do hope he only learned of the scene because somebody pointed it out to him, and not because he's, you know, a fan of the show or anything.

Somebody needs a thicker skin. Or else to stop watching shows he hates. I don't watch O'Reilly, for example! He's so surprised that maybe somebody doesn't like him? "Waaaaah Mommy, Dick Wolf hates me!"

 

THANK GOD I am finally done reading Time-Life's "American Indians" series. It only took me, like, a year and a half.

Now to get started on the almost 300 other Indian-related books on my shelf.


 

So, whereabouts are the mild winter and lower heating bills they were calling for a month or so ago...? *looks around expectantly* *after getting frozen & dumped on by snow & paying a gas bill twice as big as last month*

Just a notice, in my next entry I'm going to post a very whiny and woebegone entry I typed up a day or so ago but slept on and refrained from posting due to its whini- and woebegoneness, but despite those it still expresses many of the frustrations I've been feeling lately. I'll be marking it members only for now just in case two of the people referred to in it, neither of whom is on this site as far as I'm aware, should see it and take offense as people tend to do whenever I whine and woebego.

I haven't read the next entry since typing it up so...

 

Suprisingly, Medicaid covered both medications, Elmiron (the non-generic) and "Atarax" (a generic, hydroxyzine, which is actually an antihistamine/anti-anxiety/sedative).

I was honestly kind of hoping it wouldn't cover the Elmiron since "hair loss" is a possible common side effect. If my hair starts falling out there is no way I am continuing this crap. Plus it says to take it three times a day, well before or after eating, and with a full cup of water. No way in frigging hell am I taking it with a full cup of water three times a day which is three cups (24oz) of water. I can drink only 24oz of tea in an entire day, plus a little water, and that only after 4PM, without my bladder starting to go haywire with all the urine, and even then it still acts up, so no thank you, I'll have to do with just a swallow. Stupid-ass medications for a disorder I probably don't even have. Stupid-ass doctor who can't even listen to plain English.

I guess I'm to start taking them tomorrow, the generic one at bedtime as it's a sedative, and see if they at least make my bladder less twingy while I wait three months to see the doctor and tell him AGAIN that the problem is still there. While this disorder could explain my oversensitivity, it doesn't explain my output, and I read that "pain" is a symptom described by 100% of people with interstitial cystitis. I have no pain. Just extreme discomfort, which, IMO, is just as bad as pain so to me personally yes, is pain, but I'm fairly certain it doesn't count as pain to doctors, so no, I do not have bladder pain. I've told them this repeatedly. So I haven't any idea how he made this diagnosis aside from the fact that I happen to go to the bathroom a lot, BECAUSE I HAVE TO FRIGGING PEE A LOT.

I'm tired of this and have to pee so tar.

 

I could go the usual route and type up an entry regarding my doctor visit of 12/2, but later that night had a dream that allowed me the perfect opportunity to explain it in enough depth, and it's much easier to just recycle that here from my dream journal rather than expend the time and energy on another entry when I have little energy to spare, so here you go.

No, at first glance this dream really doesn't look like it's related to my doctor visit. So this entry will do the double duty of illustrating how something so seemingly pointless can become more than a "meaningless firing of neurons" (see 3/25/09 and 10/4/09--no, I will never let that jackass live that comment down) once you really look at it.

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