Welcome, one and all, to the incongruent ravings of an inferior mind!
Happy Birthday to Me, boys and girls.
Man, what a long, boring year it has been. That's all I have to say about that, moving on!
My mom went into the hospital the other day with severe stomache pain. At first they diagnosed her with having a hole in her stomache, then they said she had pancreatitis, and then they actually checked and found out that she has a small, easily taken care of ulcer. Right before we found out that it was an ulcer and thought that it was pancreatitis (which, despite what the doctors said, we knew could be much worse than her just spending a few days in the hospital not eating anything) I went to the hospital myself with a terrible headache, no doubt induced by the fact that my mother was in the hospital with some as-of-yet ill defined disease in her stomache or vital organs. What did they give me? Three hours in a dark room before I got to see a doctor, and then a bitch of a doctor who gave me two roxicets and said, "That ought to hold you over til' your refill." and gave me a long lecture about how I was handling my pain. You know, one of those doctors who think that every patient they have is a moron who has done absolutely no research into the needs or chemical reactions of their bodies. One of those doctors who give you pretty much no help and then try to charge you for it. It was a fucking waste of time, and I told the nurse exactly that (a very attractive, intelligent, and kind nurse; who unfortunately had the duty of giving me a shot in my ass muscle). She said that according to the texts the medicines they were giving me were the best things for migraines, I said that I had read all the texts and tried everything that the texts indicated, finding nothing that worked without almost killing me in the process, and that the doctor wasn't giving me any help at all. She looked very upset and said, "Well, I hope you feel better." I gave her my thanks and then left without signing the discharge papers. I'll be damned if they are going to charge me 50 dollars for lying in a bed not using their electricity, getting a lecture, and getting drugs that I could've very easily gotten for nothing if I had felt like going in a less legit direction and talked to some of my contacts on the street. I could've gotten more effective ones, too, but I prefer the legit way. I do not like to accept or smuggle stolen or illegitimately gotten drugs, be they neccessary to my health or not. I do have some scruples.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave.
They didn't even give me an anti-nausea med. What kind of doctor does that?
Anyway. I'm working a lot more on "The Chronicles of Heck." I've come to realize that that writing, like many others I have started and then found myself unable to leave incomplete, has begun to become something of an obsession for me, and I am not surprised. It's just such a large undertaking, longer by far than any one piece I have written thus far. But the story compels me so, I find myself unable to resist creating more of it in my mind, or creating more social and political overtones to it, giving it more depth, more structure. Even did I not write the story, my mind would be completely consumed by it by the time the summer is out. The urge to give a figment of your imagination an element of humanity is an urge that I doubt any one with any creative muscle could ignore; and I, the bi-polar pill-popper with a few loose wires firing off short bursts of incongruent thought inside my already pain ravaged brain, I can ignore that urge least of all.
I guess I have nothing else to write. I am nineteen now, it'll be exactly two more years till I can legally by alcohol. God help us when that time rolls around.