naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Thane)
Skip it if you like, but man, the self-contained internal logic of a completely insane place is really cool.  I cannot believe my brain did this.  I have really vivid, narrative dreams often, but this was actually pure metaphor.

I dreamed about the place where everyone goes for their real-life city dreams.  It was called Noetic City.  It was always night, and there was no visible sky, just darkness and the glow of neon and streetlights.  It's cold and wet and there's a sheen of water on the streets and shallow puddles everywhere.

It's where you meet the dreams you have, or you see them in the movie theaters, or they just happen to you.

It's thronged with real people though, all the other people having dreams.  No cars.  You walk everywhere, many alleys, many buildings with walkways to walk through.  Lots of shops.

So I went through this place and saw everything.

The best place was a place where a man carved things out of wood that became living things or real things.  Like, he could carve a tiger and it would become a real tiger, or it represented a real actual, individual tiger.  He said if I stayed, I could learn too, but it was really dangerous.  He had a whole case full of real miniature things.  These things that he made were the only objects capable of crossing over for real.

He offered to let me take something with me, but I don't remember what, if anything, I took.  He had strong hands that I think were made of wood like the wood he worked, because they were very dark.  The saw he used was a big jigsaw, and really scary.  He carved things from wood slivers mostly, like those snap-together 3-D wooden models you can get in the kids' section of the craft store.  The bits and pieces came around on a track like a model train, with all these little dioramas around it, until they reached the blade, and then he'd carve them and his assistant would put them together, and it was just so cool to watch.

There was a clothing store that only had one thing that would fit you. You had to find it, but when you did you realized it was just what you were looking for, and you always liked how you looked in it.  There was a room that was all mirror, and you could see yourself from any angle.  You put the outfit on and you took pictures and this was added to how you thought you really looked.

There was a restaurant where they served you anything, as much as you wanted, all for free, and nobody left hungry.  You came with friends and you left with friends, but they were not always the same people.  That's not creepy as it sounds.  Mostly it just means that you were making friends with dream people you'd never met, and that's why some people know each other, or feel like they do, before they've met in real life.

There was a place where you could get records/tapes/cds of everything anyone knew.  Poe was popular, for some reason.  But they were all dead people, who had been dead a long time so their stuff was public domain.  All their secrets were bonus tracks, and listening to them was not necessarily recommended.  Most people only bought one thing, then never came back, but there was other stuff to buy, like tee shirts and stickers, so they did okay.

There was a shop that sold magic tricks that were actually just things that worked like they were supposed to.  It had a bin full of playing cards of all kinds and sizes, for 2 cents each (but not really, it was just a sign, and you could draw one if you wanted one).  You could choose as many as you liked, but since these were all playing cards lost from real decks, you'd never have all the cards from any one deck, which meant that you couldn't use them as playing cards.  You really needed to know what you meant to do with it when you took one.  Some people interpreted them like tarot cards.  Some people used them to write messages on.  Some people just put them in their pockets.  I picked some for these kids behind me; little half-sized cards.

There was a tattoo shop called Premonitions where you chose your flash and they tattooed it on you using music (and that's why you have songs stuck in your head sometimes). These tattoos are representative of things that are going to happen soon, and the tattooist is the one who decides which of them to give you and therefore tell you about, even though all the ones you picked mean something, and represent things that are very likely to happen.

There were places, too, without anyone in them, or hardly anyone.  Like places that are part of bad dreams, or which are the dreams of places that have bad dreams, but most of those were inaccessible.  There were people caught on the edges.  People obviously sick, people who couldn't leave, or people who were lost.  Lots of addicts.

There were whole sections just for people other people had dreamed into existing.  People who were parts of other people's dreams.  The sex dream ones were sex workers.  Some were bad people because people dream about people who hurt them.  Some were fading away and semi-shapeless and it wasn't possible to tell if those were fading dreams or dreams that hadn't been born quite yet.

And walking down between these two squalid, pressed-together apartment buildings, a door banged open and a girl with two ponytails and amber hair came running out, holding some sort of animal in her arms.  She was running from a bunch of big dogs that were barking and snarling after her.  A man was yelling for her to get her ass back there; he was really gross and scary.

I walked past him, then turned around and yelled at him so he'd look away from the girl and not see where she went.  I told him to shut up and stop yelling, to just stop it.  He threatened me pretty graphically but I knew he was a dream, I knew it was all a dream.  I knew he couldn't hurt me. He yelled and foamed and I yelled at him to GET BACK, like a dog, and he settled back, surprised, because I wasn't supposed to be able to do that. I was supposed to be scared.  It was his job to scare people, it was what he was, what he did, and I ordered him and his other dogs back inside.

I worried about the girl because maybe it was her home that she dreamed about, or her past, and I knew she'd maybe have to come back, but at least the dream was maybe over.  Maybe I made it to where it wouldn't be as bad next time, or maybe he hadn't been a dream but a real person, and he'd wake up slightly less of an asshole. Walking away, I really didn't know.

There were rats with the tails of other animals – I don't know what that was about.

Nobody bought anything there, you just traded what you had with other people, and sometimes those trades were fair and sometimes they only seemed like good ideas at the time and sometimes they weren't fair and you knew it, and you did it anyway because the other person really needed to take what you had or give you what they had.

And for everyone who comes there's a thing given to you, a special thing.  You never know what it might be but you know when you have it and when you have to give it up.  You might forget about it or lose it, but it can't be lost forever, and nobody can take it from you; it has to be given away.  Some people start with nothing or lose things or just forget where they put them, but they find it again, always. 

I had a woven blanket (green, rough, a little too small) of experiences, words people gave me that were good, and it's armor and magic and a the map of the place all at once.   

These things, your thing, once you have it, you may give it to someone else when you know it's time, when you see that they need it. 

But when you do that you will forget everything about the place, and you have to start all over again.  With a different thing. 

I started wandering around just looking at this place, and the people were mostly just lovely, and I thought, this can't be all there is to it, because nothing is this nice, really.  I moved back, back into the darker parts, behind, looking around.  I saw two people crying, a white, blonde woman in a salmon sweater, and her black boyfriend who was wearing glasses and a green cable-knit sweater-vest, and he was comforting her and I thought she needed a blanket, but she had him, so she'd be okay. 

I passed a little girl who was lost – a different one – and she was clearly concerned but not hurt or scared so I thought she didn't need it either. 

I passed someone calling their cat. What use is a blanket there? What he needed was a lost pet sign, and maybe he could get one made at the tee shirt shop. 

I passed some old people sitting in back of a shop which they couldn't keep open, and a blanket wasn't going to help them any. 

I passed empty body shops, and an empty strip bar with a really offensive name, and behind restaurants and among the steaming pipes that wound between buildings until I was pretty sure I was wandering way away from where I was supposed to be.  But I was looking for someone. I knew I was going to wake up, I'd already half-woken up three times.  I had a blanket to give away, I needed to do it, but none of these were the right people. 

I finally found a guy who looked really miserable and desperate, clearly homeless but maybe newly so. He was digging in the garbage bins. He had something in a bundle in his hands and I don't know whether he had just pulled it out or was putting it in there, but it was still the only thing he owned, obviously.  So I went up to him after he did that – because that was obviously what he needed to do – and I gave him my blanket. 

He took it from me and thanked me sincerely, and I said "I don't know if that's what you've been looking for, but it's what I have, and I gotta go soon, so maybe you can use it to find something better.  It's a good blanket, not like as a blanket because it's rough and scratchy and too small even for a short person, but because it knows things and will whisper them to you, and that makes it hard to be lost, or at least makes you less scared of being lost, so you take it and I'm going back to the real world, and wow, you don't even know this is a dream."

X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count: comment count unavailable
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Thane)
Skip it if you like, but man, the self-contained internal logic of a completely insane place is really cool.  I cannot believe my brain did this.  I have really vivid, narrative dreams often, but this was actually pure metaphor.

I dreamed about the place where everyone goes for their real-life city dreams.  It was called Noetic City.  It was always night, and there was no visible sky, just darkness and the glow of neon and streetlights.  It's cold and wet and there's a sheen of water on the streets and shallow puddles everywhere.

It's where you meet the dreams you have, or you see them in the movie theaters, or they just happen to you.

It's thronged with real people though, all the other people having dreams.  No cars.  You walk everywhere, many alleys, many buildings with walkways to walk through.  Lots of shops.

So I went through this place and saw everything.

The rest. )
naamah_darling: Cartoony snarling wolf in profile. (Werewolf)
Apparently, at some point, I wrote four pages in my little bedside notebook about an artifact known as the "Fork of Horripilation*."

I have no memory of writing this.

Perhaps it was Ms Knightley-Someday. Although if it was, I have to confess her handwriting looks nothing like I thought it would.

It's quite interesting. Perhaps I will contact her and ask if she knows anything about it, and would be willing to send pictures.

ETA: I have just retrieved the notebook and looked at it again. The excursus on the Fork of Horripilation is followed by a drawing of a pterodactyl ejaculating lightning bolts.

I cannot explain this, either.

* Horripilation: a real or fancied bristling of the hair of the head or body, resulting from disease, terror, chilliness, etc.
naamah_darling: Picture of a treasure chest with a skull and crossbones on top. My art! (Artistic)
On this day, the 23rd of July, 2012, I have accomplished something great:

I have made a functioning strap-on harness for a My Little Pony.

You're welcome.
naamah_darling: A very sweet-faced one-eyed Himalayan cat with a crooked jaw. (Smooch)
Until I was about six, I thought:

A guilt trip was something grownups actually took because they were mad at someone. It lasted all weekend and was always to someplace that you really wanted to go. But you didn't get to. Because you were bad.

Every grownup got actual bills in the mail marked "YOUR DUES," which they had to pay or, presumably, they got yelled at and/or had to go back to school and start over at being a grownup. (I was unclear on the consequences and how this actually worked.)

Adultery was called adultery because that's just what adults did. (To be fair, this was due to the media and not due to a childhood spent with blatantly adulterous parents.)

. . .

Now, I think all of that is hilarious, but it is kind of appalling in retrospect.

I'm not sayin' I don't love my parents. I'm not sayin' that they were bad people who did bad things. I'm just sayin' make sure your kiddos don't have any reason to think these things are true, 'kay?
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Capacitors
Batteries
Male corsetry
Kevlar
Galvanic fluid
Faraday cage
Tesla coil
Hailstorms
Victorian dildos
Leather tanning
Japanned leather
Smell of patent leather distinctive?
Smell of REAL patent leather -PVC -vinyl -latex -rubber
D-rings historical
Carabiners invented
Harness leather
Saltwater crocodiles
Draft horse crossbreeds
Horse breeds hunters + jumpers
naamah_darling: Close cropped image of a blonde ponytailed man with a woman pulling a black stocking tightly around his neck. (BDSM)
Awesome:

Perverted sex dream about playing with a giant horse-cock shaped sex toy.*

Awkward:

Whole thing takes place on your mom's bed.

Alarming:

Your mom has been dead for a number of years.

At least:

She wasn't still IN the bed.

. . .

Not cool, subconscious. Not cool.

* Shut up. Don't you judge. It's not like I actually HAVE one.

Fuckers are expensive.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Another earthquake. This one strong enough to scare the cats and briefly scare the crap out of me. Rattled the pictures on the walls and the windows and all the cabinets, nearly shook stuff off the mantel. The whole place was shuddering, and you could hear it in the ground, like wind. Lasted about a minute, about a 5.2 according to the news.

Really cool. Really not wanting to ever feel that again. EVER.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Angry)
And we just had ourselves a tiny little earthquake. Felt like having your feet on the floorboards of an idling truck, but I was napping in bed so it felt like a big cat scratching itself just out of smacking reach. Never felt one before. Can't say I care for it, but it was kind of cool.

Ironically, I click over to make the update, and the Wikipedia page I had left hope was for "tremolo."
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lick Here)
DEAR SUBCONSCIOUS:

Noooo! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

You can't stop the puppy play scene RIGHT THERE!

I was being a good dog! I. WAS. BEING. A. GOOD. DOG!!!

That's a TERRIBLE place to wake up!

*GROANS!*

I do appreciate the Western-themed kidnapping scene, but that degenerated into nonsense. The dog thing was going SO much better.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lick Here)
DEAR SUBCONSCIOUS:

Noooo! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

You can't stop the puppy play scene RIGHT THERE!

I was being a good dog! I. WAS. BEING. A. GOOD. DOG!!!

That's a TERRIBLE place to wake up!

*GROANS!*

I do appreciate the Western-themed kidnapping scene, but that degenerated into nonsense. The dog thing was going SO much better.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Key)
Had a really awful nightmare which, in retrospect, was funny.

All of my writer friends are to be honored at an internationally-televised ceremony. I am eligible, but I can't find anything on my computer to bring with me (apparently you don't qualify as a writer in dream-land if you don't have a piece of writing on you right at that moment). My thumb drive is gone, all my email backups are gone. Every printout is missing. None of the friends who have backups are available by phone. My phone breaks and my computer dies.

In desperation I load my dead computer into the car, intending to find someone who can resurrect it along with the data at the event. On the way I am in a terrible car accident and am impaled through the stomach with something very sharp. It is horrible and agonizing and there was blood everywhere and gaping wounds and this part was really disturbing. I am sent to the hospital where they perform surgery to repair it, and before the anesthesia has even worn off I am staggering into the venue hall, desperate not to lose my place.

I arrive and beg them to let me on despite not having any of my writing with me. I am told by the event coordinator that I have two minutes to write something, anything. Even a haiku. I am still in terrible pain. There is nothing to write on but a small paper napkin. I cast about futilely for something to write with and can only find pencils (which tear the napkin) or felt-tipped pens (which tear the napkin). I can't get any writing done.

Everyone is angry with me for not being able to go on. Each writer has been paired with a celebrity announcer. Mine is Michael Sheen. He winds up going on with Catherynne Valente,* who wins, and as a prize they will both be appearing in a movie version of her winning story. Because I like her very much, I cannot even be mad about this. Again, I am still in terrible pain, but I applaud with everyone else and then slink quietly off to read and pick at my stitches.

I woke up expecting to be in pain, but it was only dream-pain, and not real pain that makes its way into a dream. Thank goodness. The pain was really quite terrible.

Obviously, I'm having issues with my writing-type creativity right now. I don't think I could have made up a clearer representation of it if I had tried.

* [livejournal.com profile] yuki_onna. I think the reason my subconscious picked her is that I have seen video of her giving an acceptance speech, so it was easy to imagine, and also because I really, really like her stuff and my subconscious was trying to take away even my ability to sulk. Also, I am working on something for her at the moment, and she's on my mind. So it's not personal.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Key)
Had a really awful nightmare which, in retrospect, was funny.

All of my writer friends are to be honored at an internationally-televised ceremony. I am eligible, but I can't find anything on my computer to bring with me (apparently you don't qualify as a writer in dream-land if you don't have a piece of writing on you right at that moment). My thumb drive is gone, all my email backups are gone. Every printout is missing. None of the friends who have backups are available by phone. My phone breaks and my computer dies.

In desperation I load my dead computer into the car, intending to find someone who can resurrect it along with the data at the event. On the way I am in a terrible car accident and am impaled through the stomach with something very sharp. It is horrible and agonizing and there was blood everywhere and gaping wounds and this part was really disturbing. I am sent to the hospital where they perform surgery to repair it, and before the anesthesia has even worn off I am staggering into the venue hall, desperate not to lose my place.

I arrive and beg them to let me on despite not having any of my writing with me. I am told by the event coordinator that I have two minutes to write something, anything. Even a haiku. I am still in terrible pain. There is nothing to write on but a small paper napkin. I cast about futilely for something to write with and can only find pencils (which tear the napkin) or felt-tipped pens (which tear the napkin). I can't get any writing done.

Everyone is angry with me for not being able to go on. Each writer has been paired with a celebrity announcer. Mine is Michael Sheen. He winds up going on with Catherynne Valente,* who wins, and as a prize they will both be appearing in a movie version of her winning story. Because I like her very much, I cannot even be mad about this. Again, I am still in terrible pain, but I applaud with everyone else and then slink quietly off to read and pick at my stitches.

I woke up expecting to be in pain, but it was only dream-pain, and not real pain that makes its way into a dream. Thank goodness. The pain was really quite terrible.

Obviously, I'm having issues with my writing-type creativity right now. I don't think I could have made up a clearer representation of it if I had tried.

* [livejournal.com profile] yuki_onna. I think the reason my subconscious picked her is that I have seen video of her giving an acceptance speech, so it was easy to imagine, and also because I really, really like her stuff and my subconscious was trying to take away even my ability to sulk. Also, I am working on something for her at the moment, and she's on my mind. So it's not personal.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Male Lust)
Dear Naamah's Subconscious,

I am aware that we have had kind of A Thing for James Purefoy ever since we saw him in A Knight's Tale, and that recent events including but not limited to finally seeing the Solomon Kane movie and casting him as our current player character.

You do not need to remind me of this on a nightly basis, as you have for the past four days.

It is uncomfortable, rude, and aggravating.

Last night's dream was especially flagrant and lust-engorged, so much so that when I went back to sleep, I immediately told someone in the next dream what an awesome dream I'd just had.

I appreciated the set design of the retro-future-tech hortus conclusus, and I especially liked the symbolism of me upending enormous jars of fragrant earth onto the garden floor, into which lizards and snakes and all manner of other crawly animals joyously burrowed. I'm glad that my cats seemed happy with the arrangement as well.

Sending James in wearing nothing but cloven hooves, silver horns, an enormous hard-on, and a cat-chasing grin was just unnecessary and cruel, as was the ensuing sex. I appreciate your desire to make dream sex really fucking spectacular sex, but the fact remains: my orgasms require physical touch, you fucking asshole.

Pretty quasi-mythological imagery doesn't come with 6,000 rpm if you know what I mean.

Understand this: drugged on Seroquel, I am not even coherent enough to snap my fingers when I wake up after an hour and a half of sleep, let alone summon and utilize Hitachi Cat. I am probably not qualified to find my own underwear in that state. I will just roll right back over and fall asleep again. That is quite literally all I am capable of doing.

At least it was better than the Tom Jane oral sex and ice cream dream. I am still pissed at you over that one. Stealing my goddamn ice cream was just mean. Still, thanks to you I spent a restless and frustrating night continually nagged by the feeling I was forgetting something important. Like the cock of Cernunnos. Or something.

In short, keep up the good work. That was fucking awesome.

-- Naamah

P.S.: THROW JASON ISAACS IN THERE NEXT TIME. THEY'RE FRIENDS IRL, SURELY A THREESOME CAN BE ARRANGED.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Male Lust)
Dear Naamah's Subconscious,

I am aware that we have had kind of A Thing for James Purefoy ever since we saw him in A Knight's Tale, and that recent events including but not limited to finally seeing the Solomon Kane movie and casting him as our current player character.

You do not need to remind me of this on a nightly basis, as you have for the past four days.

It is uncomfortable, rude, and aggravating.

Last night's dream was especially flagrant and lust-engorged, so much so that when I went back to sleep, I immediately told someone in the next dream what an awesome dream I'd just had.

I appreciated the set design of the retro-future-tech hortus conclusus, and I especially liked the symbolism of me upending enormous jars of fragrant earth onto the garden floor, into which lizards and snakes and all manner of other crawly animals joyously burrowed. I'm glad that my cats seemed happy with the arrangement as well.

Sending James in wearing nothing but cloven hooves, silver horns, an enormous hard-on, and a cat-chasing grin was just unnecessary and cruel, as was the ensuing sex. I appreciate your desire to make dream sex really fucking spectacular sex, but the fact remains: my orgasms require physical touch, you fucking asshole.

Pretty quasi-mythological imagery doesn't come with 6,000 rpm if you know what I mean.

Understand this: drugged on Seroquel, I am not even coherent enough to snap my fingers when I wake up after an hour and a half of sleep, let alone summon and utilize Hitachi Cat. I am probably not qualified to find my own underwear in that state. I will just roll right back over and fall asleep again. That is quite literally all I am capable of doing.

At least it was better than the Tom Jane oral sex and ice cream dream. I am still pissed at you over that one. Stealing my goddamn ice cream was just mean. Still, thanks to you I spent a restless and frustrating night continually nagged by the feeling I was forgetting something important. Like the cock of Cernunnos. Or something.

In short, keep up the good work. That was fucking awesome.

-- Naamah

P.S.: THROW JASON ISAACS IN THERE NEXT TIME. THEY'RE FRIENDS IRL, SURELY A THREESOME CAN BE ARRANGED.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
In other news, I received a not-entirely-unexpected kick to the groin that is my life. I've now been turned down for insurance twice, meaning that very soon I will not have insurance.

I can't explain the situation fully. It's all acronyms and if/thens and deductibles and bullshit and so forth. I don't understand it at all, which makes me feel exceedingly stupid -- also helpless -- but Sargon has been working on it, and it's just not coming together in a way that we can afford.

I thought that if we paid for the COBRA coverage we wouldn't have these problems. Apparently there's a way out of that for the insurance shitheads, because they've denied me based on my preexisting conditions. I'm eligible for "high risk" insurance, which is more expensive than not having it at all.

Being denied coverage because of my thyroid condition and my mental health issues sucks. I did nothing to cause or deserve these things (and even if I had, that's not their fucking business to determine). I manage this shit very well with comparatively little intervention. It makes me angry, it makes me sick, it makes me sad, and I wish to god it didn't make me feel like pond slime, but it does because some part of me believes that if I had just sucked it the fuck up and held on, that I would never have been diagnosed and could not now be denied because I am a human being with the temerity to not have perfect mental health.

AND GUESS WHAT IS NOT HELPING MY MENTAL STATE? YOU SHITPICKING INSURANCE FUCKNECKS, THAT'S WHAT. Thanks a lot, you soulless piss-gargling anal sores. Go suck horse cock-sized shit popsicles in hell. And may the wind from Satan's colon boil your eyes in their sockets and strip the flesh from your bones for a thousand thousand years. Amen.

Sargon, because he doesn't have any chronic health problems and thus theoretically won't actually need the insurance, is insurable.

I love their logic. And by "love," I mean I would like to break all their bones, force-feed them bees, blood-puke, and maggot cheese, drown them in chilled menstrual blood, and then serve them to a pit full of angry wild pigs. Like revolting human ortolans. It would at least be a use for them. If all the insurance world had but a single throat. . . .

I know that many of you, and I suspect the majority, have gone through something similar, probably worse, so I don't need to go into further detail about it. It's just shitty. And it makes me feel shitty. Like I am not worth taking care of. I have nowhere to focus my anger, so it goes inward. I hate this.

Doctors have been fucking me over for 15+ years. I suppose it's not surprising that insurance assholes would get in on that action at some point.

I'm so tired of hearing about shit like this happening to other people, even more than I am pissed at it happening to me. It's so fucking stupid and so fucking unfair. Evil. Actually evil.

I guess the next step is to try to get myself on disability. I won't even go into the enormously complex shitpile of feelings I have about that.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
In other news, I received a not-entirely-unexpected kick to the groin that is my life. I've now been turned down for insurance twice, meaning that very soon I will not have insurance.

I can't explain the situation fully. It's all acronyms and if/thens and deductibles and bullshit and so forth. I don't understand it at all, which makes me feel exceedingly stupid -- also helpless -- but Sargon has been working on it, and it's just not coming together in a way that we can afford.

I thought that if we paid for the COBRA coverage we wouldn't have these problems. Apparently there's a way out of that for the insurance shitheads, because they've denied me based on my preexisting conditions. I'm eligible for "high risk" insurance, which is more expensive than not having it at all.

Being denied coverage because of my thyroid condition and my mental health issues sucks. I did nothing to cause or deserve these things (and even if I had, that's not their fucking business to determine). I manage this shit very well with comparatively little intervention. It makes me angry, it makes me sick, it makes me sad, and I wish to god it didn't make me feel like pond slime, but it does because some part of me believes that if I had just sucked it the fuck up and held on, that I would never have been diagnosed and could not now be denied because I am a human being with the temerity to not have perfect mental health.

AND GUESS WHAT IS NOT HELPING MY MENTAL STATE? YOU SHITPICKING INSURANCE FUCKNECKS, THAT'S WHAT. Thanks a lot, you soulless piss-gargling anal sores. Go suck horse cock-sized shit popsicles in hell. And may the wind from Satan's colon boil your eyes in their sockets and strip the flesh from your bones for a thousand thousand years. Amen.

Sargon, because he doesn't have any chronic health problems and thus theoretically won't actually need the insurance, is insurable.

I love their logic. And by "love," I mean I would like to break all their bones, force-feed them bees, blood-puke, and maggot cheese, drown them in chilled menstrual blood, and then serve them to a pit full of angry wild pigs. Like revolting human ortolans. It would at least be a use for them. If all the insurance world had but a single throat. . . .

I know that many of you, and I suspect the majority, have gone through something similar, probably worse, so I don't need to go into further detail about it. It's just shitty. And it makes me feel shitty. Like I am not worth taking care of. I have nowhere to focus my anger, so it goes inward. I hate this.

Doctors have been fucking me over for 15+ years. I suppose it's not surprising that insurance assholes would get in on that action at some point.

I'm so tired of hearing about shit like this happening to other people, even more than I am pissed at it happening to me. It's so fucking stupid and so fucking unfair. Evil. Actually evil.

I guess the next step is to try to get myself on disability. I won't even go into the enormously complex shitpile of feelings I have about that.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Key)
Last night I dreamed that my entire high school class was kidnapped before finals and taken to a secret location near the Christ of the Ozarks. We protested, we griped, we complained, and we were told to just wait. That help would be along any minute. So we waited and waited and nothing happened. Then it hit me. It was the final test, and we were failing it! We were supposed to break out! And if we didn't, we would be here forever, imprisoned!

I waited until our attendant came in and hit him over the head, then escaped into the hallway, where I proceeded to terrorize the staff with incredibly vivid and nasty threats. I finally got someone to give me the keys to the rocket ship, and before I went, I recorded a short statement for the media outlining my plan to take my classmates and go and establish a pirate colony on the moon that ended with this quote:

"I hope the record reflects that while my villain monologue was open to multiple interpretations, it was nevertheless awesome."

Then I realized that the keys were really to the Christ of the Ozarks, and woke myself up laughing before we could take off.

Then I had a dream where I was a werewolf pirate guy, about which I remember nothing but these quotes, which, along with the above quote, I scribbled down.

While being held at the edge of a cliff: "I'd rather the sea smite me to death against these cliffs than endure another moment of your personal company." *sniffs* "That sea smells awfully smite-y today."

While being propositioned by the enemy's first mate, an obnoxious man: "It's not that I have an objection to breeding wolf to wolf, as it were. It's that I have no like for breeding wolf to dog. You are a dog, and I don't fuck outside my species. . . . *BARK!*"

While talking to my first mate: "Captain X? No. My God, he's worse than Dickens."

". . . You mean a pirate named Dickens, Sir?"

"No, I mean Dickens the writer. Neither of them know when to shut the fuck up. Captain X is a cunt, and monologues like he was getting paid by the queef."

"Perhaps next time you see him, Sir, you should suggest he change his name."

"Very well, but he should still go by Captain Pompous Cunt Dickens just to avoid confusion."

. . .

I don't need television. I just need a way to record the shit that happens in my head while I sleep.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Key)
Last night I dreamed that my entire high school class was kidnapped before finals and taken to a secret location near the Christ of the Ozarks. We protested, we griped, we complained, and we were told to just wait. That help would be along any minute. So we waited and waited and nothing happened. Then it hit me. It was the final test, and we were failing it! We were supposed to break out! And if we didn't, we would be here forever, imprisoned!

I waited until our attendant came in and hit him over the head, then escaped into the hallway, where I proceeded to terrorize the staff with incredibly vivid and nasty threats. I finally got someone to give me the keys to the rocket ship, and before I went, I recorded a short statement for the media outlining my plan to take my classmates and go and establish a pirate colony on the moon that ended with this quote:

"I hope the record reflects that while my villain monologue was open to multiple interpretations, it was nevertheless awesome."

Then I realized that the keys were really to the Christ of the Ozarks, and woke myself up laughing before we could take off.

Then I had a dream where I was a werewolf pirate guy, about which I remember nothing but these quotes, which, along with the above quote, I scribbled down.

While being held at the edge of a cliff: "I'd rather the sea smite me to death against these cliffs than endure another moment of your personal company." *sniffs* "That sea smells awfully smite-y today."

While being propositioned by the enemy's first mate, an obnoxious man: "It's not that I have an objection to breeding wolf to wolf, as it were. It's that I have no like for breeding wolf to dog. You are a dog, and I don't fuck outside my species. . . . *BARK!*"

While talking to my first mate: "Captain X? No. My God, he's worse than Dickens."

". . . You mean a pirate named Dickens, Sir?"

"No, I mean Dickens the writer. Neither of them know when to shut the fuck up. Captain X is a cunt, and monologues like he was getting paid by the queef."

"Perhaps next time you see him, Sir, you should suggest he change his name."

"Very well, but he should still go by Captain Pompous Cunt Dickens just to avoid confusion."

. . .

I don't need television. I just need a way to record the shit that happens in my head while I sleep.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Fuck Me)
Just an FYI, especially to anyone who knows me IRL.

I'm having a host of unpleasant symptoms that I believe is related to my thyroid levels/insufficient meds.

These include forgetfulness -- way worse than usual, and usual is pretty bad -- extreme sluggishness, and an occasional but particularly foul sort of irritability that I find deeply upsetting, as it means I can become hostile toward people I care about, or get angry with people over nothing at all.

The forgetfulness and inability to concentrate is really the worst of it; it peaked Wednesday and seemed to get better partway through Thursday night, like my brain finally woke up. I was sometimes literally forgetting things people said ten seconds after they said them, and I consider the fact that I was able to take coherent notes during Wednesday's gaming session quite impressive under the circumstances. I even remember what happened.

I don't want anyone to worry; I have a doctor's appointment and am going to get this seen to. I don't take cognitive problems lightly. I'm just saying this so that you will know why I am slow to respond, don't remember things, or seem inattentive, sleepy, or otherwise withdrawn. Or if I am bitchy.

Ugh. With this crap going on, tired all the time, forgetful, and the ever-worsening hearing problems I'm having (and boy, that fucking sucks) . . . it's really not giving me a good feeling about the birthday I just had.

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