Tag Archives: RA

Letting Go Challenge: Week 16

The Junk

  • 1, 2., 3., 4 Lampshades
  • 5. Camisole
  • 6. Make up bag
  • 7. Empty packing tape roll (Really!)
  • 8.,9., 10., 11., 12. Medicine bottles
  • 13. Rusted butter knife
  • 14. Rusted fork
  • 15. Broken Otterbox
  • 16. 17. Two purses
  • 18. Eyeliner
  • 19. Old nail polish
  • 20. Big Book
  • 21. Old blush brush

Filing:

Only 19 this week. I did well last Sunday, and then just didn’t have it in me for the rest of the week.

So much for upping my game. The RA decided to throw a hell of a tantrum this week, and I barely made it with the items themselves. (It’s Sunday as I write this.)

No shelf. No drawer. No getting healthy. Although I did lose a couple of pounds, there was no specific action put into it.

I had the opportunity to catch Michael Hyatt’s webinar called The 10 Biggest Mistakes You’re Making in Goal-Setting (and How to Fix Them), which, incidentally, I really recommend. It helped me specify 7 areas of my life I really want to see improved. I was able to set specific goals for:  Writing, Health, Home Organization, Relationships, Finances, Education, and Renewal.

I was psyched. I was organized. I was en pointe.

And then hell broke loose.

But still, 21 things out. 19 things filed.

I’ll take my victories where I find them.

Bonus:

I did find most of a book of stamps and seventeen cents while clearing out a box from the garage.

Seventeen cents richer.  I’m on my way to financial independence now!

 

 

 

Fabulous Friday: Moving through Fear

I know that worrying is fruitless; it catastrophizes the future while stealing from us the present.

Logically, I know this.  I also know that, roughly 99% of the time, I am pretty much worry-free.

I am grateful beyond words for this.

But that 1% gets me.

As I had expected, I am responding extremely well to Enbrel, as demonstrated by the fact that I can do anything even while I’m tapering off the prednisone.

As of this coming Sunday , I’ll be steroid free.  And I fear it.

I know that the medicine is working. I know that I can’t be on steroids for the rest of my life.

I know, I know.

But I also know, or rather, remember, that the first time I tried to taper down, I was immobilized.

And of course this time is not that time; I have been tapering down for the past 6 weeks or so. 15 mg, then 10 mg, then 5.

And now I will be on 0 mg.

A friend of mine told me that she had an appointment to get a shot in her shoulder, and that she was scared of the pain.  She’s to the point where she can barely move it–lifting her arm above her head is damn near out of the question.

I have so, so, so been there.  “It will hurt,” I told her.  “But the difference it will make will be worth it.”  I remember getting that injection, how I was so scared of it, but afterward, I realized that the shot did not hurt anywhere near as much as the shoulder did.

And when the relief flooded over me, I would have easily done 10 of them to find that same relief.

My fear of the shot was far worse than the shot itself.

Perhaps it’s the same with the steroids. I’ve been on them since April. I know that they cause all sorts of bad stuff, but I’ve been with them for so long, I’m afraid of being without them.

I’m already seeing the side effects of weaning off them. I only thought I was exhausted before.  I had somehow lost track of how much the prednisone was “propping me up,” masking the depth of the exhaustion.

But I’m adapting. If I want to do anything like write, have clean clothes, clean house, it has to be before work. And it may only be 10 minutes or 20 minutes or a single paragraph written, but it’s something.

I’m making it through a 40 hour work week, give or take for doctor’s appointments and taking off an hour or so here and there toward the end of the week when I can’t hold my head up anymore.

And I won’t “win” NaNoWriMo this year.  But still, I’ve laid down about 6k words in 13 days, which is far more than I did the entire month of October. And, I’m managing to limit the self-editing, so that I’m just plowing through.

And that’s something fabulous. 

 

 

Fabulous Friday: Fabulosity Part 2 (Living with RA)

(This is a part of a multi-part series [the total number of entries I as of yet do not know] regarding the question, “How has your life gotten better since you were diagnosed with RA?” The first part can be found here.)

Way #3 I prioritize my time better.

Because I have only so much time, and have only so much energy,  I have (as a result of mindfulness), have become much more attentive as to how I spend my time.

Before RA, I would have won an award for the World’s Best Procrastinator. I’m pretty sure I have a statue somewhere in my notebook-shrouded office. I procrastinated with everything, not just the things I didn’t like to do.  I’d spend time willy-nilly, mostly as an escape from a to-do list, as if I had an unlimited supply of time, and then scratch my head when stuff didn’t get done.

Now, I set goals both weekly and daily. I may not hit them (I usually don’t hit them), but I can see where I fell short.

The two best organizational tools for me have been a monthly organizer and a two-columned stenographer’s notebook.

The organizer is slightly-larger than notebook sized, and I put my doctor’s appointments, meetings, etc.  I also track my bills with it, listing in the side-column all of my monthly bills, and I check them off as I pay them. In the “daily” column for each day, I write the amount I paid and the confirmation number since I pay all of my bills online.  If there’s ever a problem, I can retrieve the information.

I also use it to make notes like, “Call So-and-So” on Friday, “Dinner with So-And-So” on Saturday. Things like that. Because my memory IS a sieve, and I will have every intention of meeting someone or calling someone, but unless I “schedule it,” I won’t remember.

Sometimes I forget to write them in, but I have done much better with “remembering” since I started adding to the organizer.

The second tool I use is the stenographer’s pad. This is probably THE most important thing to keep me on track, and I only started using this about a month ago.

Every Sunday, I spend about 20 minutes planning my goals for the week.  I am both focused on time and activity.

What are the things I want most to get accomplished this week in different categories? For cleaning, it may be cleaning the blinds. For writing, it is “book progress,” blogging, making quotation images. Even catching up on emails that I’ve put off for too long.

How much time do I want to spend on housework?  Well, the answer is none, honestly, but I’ve schedule 240 minutes (an average of 40/minutes a day). What’s my goal for the book? For blogging? For exercising?

I break those things down into 20 minute increments (which can be halved if need be), and do one thing at a time.  As I go along, I’ve needed to tweak things, add things.  For example, I “schedule” meditation and dog time so that I won’t forget them. Plus, I can, you know, make that check mark that I so dig.

Here’s the thing: I almost never make my goals, falling short in almost all of the categories.  Flares happen, exhaustion happens, deciding to go somewhere happens, getting caught up in re-watching Better Call Saul happens.  Too much reading happens.

But at the end of the week, I look at how close I came to meeting the goals and list reasons why I didn’t make it.  What where the areas that fell shortest? What were the areas that came closest to meeting the goals?

Was how I spent my time worth not accomplishing my goals?

Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t.  And sometimes things are entirely out of my control.

I still procrastinate. I still move slowly. My house is nowhere near as clean as I wish it to be.

But I’m accountable, and that’s a start. And I don’t think of it as “failure” when I repeatedly don’t meet my goals.  It’s still a hell of a lot more than I did before I started making them, and I’m making progress toward meeting them.

And, in a bit of unexpected irony, as soon as I typed “things are entirely out of my control,” I had discovered that I had locked myself out of my house.  Which, as I’m waiting for someone to come and let me in, I’ll get to the next way my life has gotten better.

I LOVE my new back door and the doggy-door with it.  A friend promised me that a doggy-door would change my life. It has. It really has. I can schedule appointments or run errands after work without having to worry about the pup busting a pipe.  It’s probably changed my neighbors’ life as well: sometimes I forget to close it before dragging my ass to bed.

I do try to do better. But onto the next thing:

Way #4 I’m a lot less stressed overall.

Sure, I have those moments when I get frustrated, panicked, and scared, but they seem to be far more fleeting than they used to be.

With RA, I’ve found that if I stress out, I pay for it doubly. Not just the stress of the moment (and the aftermath of things left undone while tweaking in my stress), but afterwards. For me, stress is a major trigger for a flare.

Funny enough, when I first made the connection, things got worse (way, way, way) worse before they got better. Apparently everyone has different triggers for flares–flares being  acute episodes of inflammation and pain (thanks www.arthritis.org for the definition).  According to some self-reporters, different things cause flares for  people. For some folks, it’s sugar or dairy, for others, it’s gluten or red meat or infection or a host of a thousand other things that they know of.

The only thing so far–for me– I’ve been able to definitely connect to a flare-up is stress.

And when you know stress will make things worse (which, after a point, it always does, inflammatory disease or not), and you’re stressing cause you can’t get your stress under control, which is making you stress more because the end result will be harsher…it’s a cycle that won’t end without outside interruption.

So I meditate. Very short periods (I have gone beyond monkey-mind, I think–my “monkey mind” is more akin to a Mexican jumping bean on meth.), but consistently.   And things are seeming to arrange themselves in a way I didn’t actively plan.

But because I’m scheduling time–or at least blocking dedicated chunks of it to specific tasks–I’m getting more done, being accountable, and not beating myself up for what’s not done yet because I’ve made a sincere effort to accomplish things.

Overall, I’ve noticed that my stress has gone down overall because I’ve taken an “active” (as “active” as meditation and scheduling can be, I suppose) step toward lessening them.

And, for a chronic procrastinator,  that’s a huge step, with or without a cane.

Straight Outta NSFW

I do not want this blog to be about RA.  Not constantly, and not as its focus. I want it to be about writing and good stuff and chipotle and unrepentant cats. I currently have 86 drafts: half-finished (or barely started) posts about everything from current events (not so current since they’ve been stashed) to writing to celebratory stories of pure awesomesauce.

It’s a big, big world out there, and something is always happening.

If my writing delves into RA, which it is apparent that it will, I want it to be about the inner transformation that is possible because of it. What happens through RA it is far more important to me than what happens from it.

And so, I have started a list of ways that my life has changed for the better since my diagnosis. I am writing them to post over a few “Fabulous Fridays.” (The first of which is here.) I was officially diagnosed about 5 months ago. It is still new. Things are still unknown, still changing. I suppose they’ll always be changing, RA or not. Just when I thought I was becoming accustomed to this new life and comfortable in what I could expect, things change again, and I realize that I have no idea what to expect from life any more.

I’m living in the vast ocean of the unknown.

“46 & 2” was the song of the week. The one I needed to hear over and over and over. It’s the song of change, of transformation, of excising “what could’ve been.”

I’ve been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could’ve been.
I’ve been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions
For a piece to cross me over
Or a word to guide me in.
I wanna feel the changes coming down.
I wanna know what I’ve been hiding in

I spent many years digging through and picking scabs, believing that I must get to the root of “it,” the “whatever,” the root of the issue, the root of the problem, in order to burn it all away.

I’ve always been a “Why girl.” Why’s the sky blue? Why does my cat hate me? Why are people hypocrites? Why did this happen to me? To them? To us?

Something has happened, though, and I have either moved through this stage or I have found it’s no longer necessary. Not for everything, at any rate.  I no longer require a “why” in order to choose my “what’s next.”

It’s the difference between spending endless energy on pondering “Why is the sky blue?” and being more solutions-focused. “Okay, so the sky is blue. Is this something that needs to change? If so, what do I do about it? What can I do about it?”

When it comes to issues like dropping things, much like changing the color of the sky, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it, other than focus on getting replacing my dinner plates with plastic.

I’m still clearing out what could’ve been. Perhaps that’s part of my de-cluttering challenge. There are some things that “could’ve been,” but will not be. I’ve accepted that. There are other things that may yet still be, but cannot be right now.  Swimming with dolphins, for example. Or road trips.  I’ve accepted that as well.

As for my list, I’m going to go ahead and skip to the end. The last item on my list (saving the best for last and all that jazz) is, quite simply, I’m straight outta fucks to give.

What this means for me is that, if someone gives me the shifty eye because I’m on crutches or use my handicap parking tag, so be it. I’ll smile and keep on stepping. It means that if someone attempts to draw me into their drama, I’ll swing my London lilac-coiffed, steroid-inflated moon-head toward them and say, quite calmly, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

It also means that if I’m gonna have to use a cane, I’m going to have a rocking-as-fuck cane.

Rocking-as-fuck
Rocking-as-fuck Sun-and-moon-and-stars. I’ll just call her Khaleesi. 

What this means is that I’m not as accommodating as I used to be–I simply can’t be. It’s not that I have given up the notion of service or of kindness. My day job title is secretary; my self-styled job description is “Serving People Who Serve People,” and I’m fiercely proud to do so.

But I am learning my limits, and I’m learning a whole new kind of exchange rate. My energy is my currency, and I’m learning not to spend it haphazardly. Everything has an energy price-tag attached; everything has a price.

And, as I write this, I have a treble-flare: my feet, my jaw, my neck.

But I’ve gotten exactly what I wanted:

I wanna feel the change consume me,
Feel the outside turning in.
I wanna feel the metamorphosis and
Cleansing I’ve endured within

This is what change feels like. This is what the outside turning in feels like. This is the metamorphosis.

Change has never been painless for me. In order for change to occur, for movement to occur, something must be lost or killed or moved away from, and something else must be found or birthed or moved toward.

Change always involves loss.

This is a cleansing, a wiping away of all that is not necessary. It is liberating, and it is consuming.

Despite the steroids, I’m not angry. I know that I tend to use the word “fuck” quite a bit when I’m angry, but this more…something. Pure. Unadulterated. Fuckery. It is a bit frustrating at times, but it seems that my fury has burned away, destroying with it the false self, the petty little bullshit and concerns and distractions that left me listless and directionless and stole away my energy.

I am not angry. I am joyful. In a halle-fucking-lujah sort of way.

I AM fabulous-as-fuck.

I could be better–I could always be better, but right here, right now, I’m fabulous-as-fuck.

Thankyouveryfuckingmuch.

Credits:

  • Cat on Fence: My own cat who never had any fucks to give.
  • Cane: Nova Medical Products. Image from Amazon.
  • Lyric excerpts in italics from “46 & 2” from Tool’s album Ænima, copyright 1996. Lyrics found at  azlyrics.

Sunday Something: Adaptation and Letting Go

Two of the biggest lessons that RA is teaching me involve adaptation and letting go.

I’m not quite as good as either as I’d like.  For example, I’m still steaming about the fact that all week I’d been longing for chocolate ice cream and, braving rain and being unable to drive (Thank you, Driver!), I managed to make it through the grocery store, buying supplies to make several meals and sandwiches, only to find that my chocolate ice cream had magically become coffee and donuts ice cream.

Who makes such a thing? Who chooses such a thing?

I haven’t quite let go of the fact that I didn’t double check it before I put it in the cart (I swear, I was looking right at the chocolate!) nor have I adapted by even tasting it yet.

So there’s that.

A friend of mine is doing a 30-day minimalism challenge on Instagram. On the first day, she gets rid of one thing; the second two things, and so forth. At the end of the month, she’d be rid of a shit-ton of stuff. Four hundred and something, I think she said.

I’m too lazy to count them for specificity.

I wanted to do something like this.  I’ve been in the house for six years now, and I still have boxes I haven’t unpacked. I have tons of stuff I never use.

At any rate, that’s waaaaay too ambitious for me, and so I had to adapt it so that I’d at least have a chance at success.  My goal for the next four weeks is to get rid of 3 things per day. That seems far more doable, and I seem to work best in 3’s.  I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s a memory thing.  But because there are days that I may not be able to do anything, I’m going to make it simpler: 21 items/week.

It is simple in theory, but the truth is, I collect stuff. I don’t mean to. I just do. I hate throwing anything away.

Cause, you know, I’ll need it as soon as I throw or give it away (is has happened), or magically, I’ll drop 20 pounds and be able to fit in my old-favorite jeans again as soon as I donate them.

That hasn’t happened, by the way.

If all goes well,  I will have 84 fewer things in it that I’ll never, ever use.

Today, I found a shirt that doesn’t fit and 2 pairs of tennis shoes that I’ve given up on trying to wear.  Those I’ll donate at work tomorrow. I also found — in my garage while waiting for my ride to the grocery store–not one but 2 broken coffee pots. In my junk drawer, I found a set of Mardi Gras beads that some of the beads have come off.

So that’s 5 things so far.  Sixteen more to go this week.

It’s a start. Here’s to a simpler life.

Have you ever done a de-cluttering challenge?  If so, how’d it work out?

Fabulous Friday: Fabulosity Part One

In a Facebook Rheumatoid Arthritis group that I’m in, someone posed the question: How did your life get better after being diagnosed with RA?

Not necessarily because of RA, but after you found out you had it?

I marked it, saved it for later for when I was a) not hurting so badly and b) could actually think of ways my life has gotten better.

My answer, when I had sketched it out, was far too long for a Facebook post. In fact, it’s far too long for a single blog entry.

So I present to you, Part One.

I.     I have become more mindful.

I say this one first, because it is the foundation for all the rest of the ways my life has improved.

Within the past few months, I have incorporated meditation into my morning routine, a short piece of time where I try to do nothing but follow my breath. It’s a bit funny…everything comes along just as I sit “to sit,” as they say, and that’s when the dog’s butt must be scratched, the wild cat who detests me decides to rub against me, and the cats in the far bedroom knock something over that may or may not make it dangerous to walk into my bedroom.

But I sit.

2. I also take 20 minutes in the morning and use it to attempt to learn something new.

I have what may be a literal ton of books in my house–many of them I haven’t read. I’ve made a vow with a passion that Brienne of Tarth could appreciate: I  will not get any new books until I read the ones that I have. I’ve been tested. There are so many things out there I want to read, and I am ever-so-grateful for Amazon’s wish-list feature.

oathkeeper

Aah, my precious. Is that an Oathkeeper in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?

But I have so many books that I have and, at one time or another, wanted to read them. So, I read them first.

Right now, for example, I’m reading Dealing with People You Can’t Stand: How to Bring Out the Best in People at Their Worst by Dr. Rick Brinkman and Dr. Rick Kirschner.

I think i won it for raising my hand at a customer service conference I went to several years ago.

It’s a decent read, at least at 20 minutes at a time. I don’t know that it’s affected my behavior in dealing with people. In fact, I don’t know that it’s directly changed anything except pointed out the irrationalities of some of my own behaviors.

It’s just one of many elements that have been introduced within a short amount of time. But I am different.  I deal with people differently. I deal with my time differently.  I deal with forgiveness differently.

My life has deepened; it has–perhaps not more–but different meaning.  What I love has been magnified:  a flower that is where it “shouldn’t be,” a shared laugh with a friend, really, really good coffee, the feeling of accomplishment at adding another 1,000 words to the novel.

What I don’t love has lessened or fallen away:  the attraction to negativity, the addiction to distraction.

Mindfulness–as it’s progressing for me, anyway–has been the single biggest change in my life, but it has set the stage for every other positive that has happened since I was diagnosed.

It reminds me that flares are temporary, life–with or without   flares–is fleeting, and my proverbial clock is ticking. It forces me to examine the question: What do I want to do with my life?

Rumi said, “Let the beauty of what you love be what you do.”

RA has, at the very least, sharpened my focus and led me, perhaps kicking and screaming, in small steps toward the beauty of what I love be what I do.

I won’t go so far to say that “RA is a gift.”

I am SO not that Zen.

But it has brought about changes for which I am grateful.

And that is something.

(Image Sources: Featured Image taken by my cell phone; Brienne with Oathkeeper from HBO’s Game of Thrones found here.)

Bringing the Calm and Sharing the Peace

Today is a day of frustration. My body won’t do what I need it to do; my head won’t do what I need it to do.

It’s a day of frustration and unknowing and a good dose of fear.

My attention won’t do what I need it to do.  It’s like buckshot; I send it out with all the focus I can muster only to have it spread out, landing on shiny and unshiny alike.

I’m frustrated due to limitation, but that will pass. I’m frustrated due to seeing otherwise intelligent people lose all reason when it comes to pride.

Pride of what?

I’m frustrated with politicians and pundits acting like three year old children, unable to discuss straight-forwardly what they are for, instead, countering and insulting their opponents. I’m frustrated with people who mistake opponents for enemies and sound bites for reasoned argument.

I’m frustrated with the celebrated repetition of falsehood: you know, the bearing false witness thing. I’m frustrated with the fact that we have lost our ability to consider the source.

Not all sources are equal.

I’m frustrated that parroting what so-and-so said or such-and-such did has become an art form, and when the parrots are confronted with contradictory data, they view facts as an assault on their character.

I’m frustrated with people who have appropriated the term “family values”: where once it meant honesty, integrity, good citizenship, and compassion, it has been reduced to “one man + one woman.”

I’m frustrated with the blame-game, this activity of (insert word here)-shaming, with finger-pointing and the utter, utter lack of accountability.

I’m frustrated with people who won’t do what I need them to do–return a phone call, fill a prescription.

I’m frustrated with myself–and it’s so much easier to find frustration with other things. I can’t seem to get a single word down about a cat I miss more than I thought I would. A cat whose timing was so precise, our evolution so cosmically timed, that her going off into the woods, ostensibly to die, coincided perfectly with my first RA flare up.

I’m frustrated.

Two strange things happened this week, both involving a single word “peace.”

Continue reading Bringing the Calm and Sharing the Peace

I Got It

You know what Honey Badgers Don't Give?

You know what honey badgers don’t give?

It’ s a bit frightening to see a three year old with the attitude, spunk, foot stomping, and mad manipulation skills that took me nearly 19 years or so to master.

I fear for her parents.

She and her brother are like the sun and moon–I’m just not sure which is which.  She–the younger by 2 years–is blonde and fluffy; he’s dark and slender.  Their physical attributes are the least of their dissimilarities.

While the boy craves approval, and, thus, rarely actively misbehaves, the girl is a three-year-old honey badger with curls.  Approval isn’t something she strives for, instead, it is something she bestows upon those around her if the mood so hits her.

Despite these differences, despite their sibling squabbles, it is so evident that they love each other, very, very much.  If one falls down, the other is right there, even in the middle of having a hissy-fit, to pat the other on the back and say, “It’s all right, Bubba,” or “It’s all right, Boo.”

They hug. They dance. They fight.

They are amazing.

Two of the girl’s favorite phrases are “No” and “I got it.”

“I want” ranks pretty high up on the list, too.

We’ll ask her to get her shoes; we’ll say to someone else, “I’m going to get a glass of tea.”

If it involves getting something, she’s all about it, assuming her mood is amenable. “I got it.”

When she doesn’t want to share, the answer, if not the tone is the same. “I got it.”

When she’s really pissy, she has a mantra: “I got it, I got it, I got it.”

Continue reading I Got It

‘Roid Rage and Rational Musing

orangeisthenewblack2

“Prison is quite literally a ghetto in the most classic sense of the world, a place where the U.S. government now puts not only the dangerous but also the inconvenient—people who are mentally ill, people who are addicts, people who are poor and uneducated and unskilled.”  — Piper Kerman

There’s an owl calling out for some reason. It’s 1 pm in the afternoon just after a rain storm–not exactly what I’d expect.

I’ve been on prednisone–an abolute miracle, for a few weeks now–not exactly what I’d expected, either.  That’s one of the (few) benefits of whatever-it-is-I-have and/or prednisone. Caught in the drudgery of 9-5 five days a week, it would take me some digging sometimes to find out how one day was not just like another.  Now it’s like a fluorescent tie-dyed shirt: even without my glasses, I can see that neon blob a mile a way.

That’s something, I guess.

I had just started to lose weight, too, and suddenly I’m besought with the eats–I knew it was coming, but I thought I could manage it. The past week? Not so much. But it was expected. Sort of. What wasn’t expected was the inability to handle multiple annoyances at one time, some convergence of trivial things–stupid things that really are so minor–that all swirled around in a centrifuge of rage. That was unexpected. And so, when the Josh Duggar scandal first broke (way, way, way too many links to make it easy), I had already been possessed by this ectoplasmic ghost of rage, like Slimer from Ghostbusters if his molecular construct was composed of acrimony and anger, bitterness and belligerence, just awaiting the moment to pour forth sliming everyone with poison.

AngrySlimer

This really doesn’t convey the true slime potential of Slimer, but it works.

Somewhere in my gut, I had hellfire and pitchforks, tar and feathers just ready, ready to pounce. A pacifist ‘roid-rager with a cause.

It sounds like a Saturday Night Live skit. Or a Tom Robbins novel.

The problem, at least for me, is that this sort of rage sucks every bit of, well, everything out of me, and leaves me empty. My mind doesn’t work; my body doesn’t work. I can’t put a sentence together, and I can only drag my feet, too exhausted to even pick them up to walk properly. I am absolutely useless and limp. Flaccid, even.

I know there’s a penis joke there somewhere.

And then there’s the anger hangover.  Complete with headache and nausea and all. The uselessness lasts for hours, sometimes even days. Sometimes it’s only when I’m in the midst of this post-rage-ejaculation that I realize how good I have it, hangover and all. Once upon a time, this was a daily occurrence.  Once upon a time, my life was brief spans between outbursts. After the sliming, after the hangover comes a clarity of thought I haven’t quite nailed down at any other time.
Continue reading ‘Roid Rage and Rational Musing