(if you already read the intro about IC, check out today's thoughts underneath the row of pretty pretty stars)
I thought it would be cool to document teh life of a chick who's got the girlie-disease "interstitial cystitis."
A lotta people don't know what I.C. is so here goes: incurable tiny ulcers inside the wall of your bladder make it hard to walk, exercise, eat, drink, fuck, dance, breathe, smell flowers, blah blah blah.
The thing is? I have this disease and i'm still kickin' ass.
And other for-real chicks that have bullshit going on with their bodies can relate.
No matter what our mutherfucking misogynistic doctors, sadistic nurses, well-meaning family members, and uninformed aquaintances say, we are awesome, and we can do a good job of taking care of ourselves, thankyouverymuch.
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(Not the usual incoherent babble about random events and trite Freudian symbolism) My dream last night:
The convenience store I'm in gets held up. After the shooting is over, I'm the only customer left alive and the cops wail up, guns akimbo. The two perps use me as a hostage to get out of the store and throw me in the back of a car. We speed away to a hideout in the woods. I sit on a dusty old sofa while the bad guys argue about whether or not to kill me. One guy is hesitant, cause he's kind of a good egg, and he has qualms about murder. But eventually he relents - keeping me alive will just mean trouble for them. They discuss how to kill me, the best way to dispose of my body, etc. etc., right in front of me. They tie me up with rope and duct tape (once my trusted friend!) and tape my mouth closed. They wrap my head in a grey wool blanket, "to keep the brains from getting everywhere," and I feel the gun pressed to my cheekbone. The good egg can't pull the trigger. A third guy arrives, gets updated on the situation, and I feel him sit down next to me on the couch. While the original two bad guys continue to argue about my fate, the third dude distracts me, says everything will be fine, tells me they won't kill me, and puts on some 80's tunes to help me relax. I feel reassured, I realize I'm not actually going to die. I cease contemplating how one actually dies (pain levels, length of time between injury and death) from a point-blank shot to the head. Then I feel the gun on my cheek again. In a fraction of an instant, I realize that this third perp was actually just trying to make my last moments more bearable before he did the deed. I freak, hear the BANG, feel my head explode, and I wake up.
So fucking scary, dude. Why do my dreams have to be so coherent? It just makes them that much more disturbing.
I thought it would be cool to document teh life of a chick who's got the girlie-disease "interstitial cystitis."
A lotta people don't know what I.C. is so here goes: incurable tiny ulcers inside the wall of your bladder make it hard to walk, exercise, eat, drink, fuck, dance, breathe, smell flowers, blah blah blah.
The thing is? I have this disease and i'm still kickin' ass.
And other for-real chicks that have bullshit going on with their bodies can relate.
No matter what our mutherfucking misogynistic doctors, sadistic nurses, well-meaning family members, and uninformed aquaintances say, we are awesome, and we can do a good job of taking care of ourselves, thankyouverymuch.
*********************************************************************************************************************
(Not the usual incoherent babble about random events and trite Freudian symbolism) My dream last night:
The convenience store I'm in gets held up. After the shooting is over, I'm the only customer left alive and the cops wail up, guns akimbo. The two perps use me as a hostage to get out of the store and throw me in the back of a car. We speed away to a hideout in the woods. I sit on a dusty old sofa while the bad guys argue about whether or not to kill me. One guy is hesitant, cause he's kind of a good egg, and he has qualms about murder. But eventually he relents - keeping me alive will just mean trouble for them. They discuss how to kill me, the best way to dispose of my body, etc. etc., right in front of me. They tie me up with rope and duct tape (once my trusted friend!) and tape my mouth closed. They wrap my head in a grey wool blanket, "to keep the brains from getting everywhere," and I feel the gun pressed to my cheekbone. The good egg can't pull the trigger. A third guy arrives, gets updated on the situation, and I feel him sit down next to me on the couch. While the original two bad guys continue to argue about my fate, the third dude distracts me, says everything will be fine, tells me they won't kill me, and puts on some 80's tunes to help me relax. I feel reassured, I realize I'm not actually going to die. I cease contemplating how one actually dies (pain levels, length of time between injury and death) from a point-blank shot to the head. Then I feel the gun on my cheek again. In a fraction of an instant, I realize that this third perp was actually just trying to make my last moments more bearable before he did the deed. I freak, hear the BANG, feel my head explode, and I wake up.
So fucking scary, dude. Why do my dreams have to be so coherent? It just makes them that much more disturbing.
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
Steer clear of ducks.
Seriously, dude, they're fucking evil.
Oh, and take some vitamin C.
The doctor is always in with Zombie Elvis and his spin-the-wheel medical advice board.
Kick ass dog picture by the way.