Bunions! 

 

 

Back on October 19th I had a surgery to correct a bunion.

Over the past couple of years, it’s become increasingly painful to wear shoes, and the swelling from the bunion caused reduced flexibility in my foot along with burning and aching if I stood for more than 3 hours. I couldn’t wear heels  at all.

Now, I deserve this bunion. It represents a handful years of dancing on feet bent in unnatural positions and more than a dozen years running back and forth serving assholes and stunners  like you drinks in strip-bars, gay clubs and dive-bars. I have insurance now so I, with urging, decided to have my foot-golum corrected.

There exist a  few different surgeries to correct bunions. One’s mostly cosmetic and involves shaving down the Sticky-out-y bit we generally associate with bunions. I didn’t have that one. In the  particular surgery I had ( called an Osteotomy) the surgeon  basically cuts your toe in half and pins it back together. Basically. I’m not a foot-scientist,nor am I going to deprive you of the joy of googling the procedure. I went into the whole thing thinking I’d be *healed up in about three weeks, and just go back to work. LOLNO

I won’t be able to go back to standing on my feet all day until around the 7th, per Doctors orders.

The surgery only took about an hour: They put me to sleep, did the damn thing and I woke up about sixty minutes later, said some weird stuff and went home with drugs.  I don’t remember the rest of the afternoon, but I know My girl Sarah showed up later that night, slightly toasted after drinks with her dad, I put myself to sleep, and woke up the next day in a world of fucking pain, as if someone had sawed  my food open and filled it with hot shards of murder. Sarah and I drank coffee. I called my DR. and informed him that the drugs for pain (hydrocodone) were not stopping the burning murder-shards. He changed the drugs.  I stayed on pain-killers for two weeks, at which point I was literally sick of them and dying (not literally) to poop normally again. By that point (around the 1st), the swelling was gross, but the pain had died down, I followed up with my foot-scientist and he told me to come back in two more weeks and put me in a flat shoe and told me I still couldn’t drive.My soul begins to atrophy along with my muscles. I read a lot, I whine more.  I do one hundred foot-bendy exercises a day.Two weeks after that, (about 4 days ago) I went to another follow-up, and He tells me I can’t wear normal shoes yet, nor can I drive. I disagree, and now I’m stuffing my still weird-shaped foot into the only 3 pairs of shoes that fit; Uggs (stfu, Uggs are fine, we can stop hating them now) a pair of platform Tevas, and my solitary pair of Nike trainers. I’m driving. The joint in my toe isn’t activated by the activity. In short, I’m very glad I did this. At this point, the pain in the joint is less than it was before the surgery and it’s noticeably smaller.  I can walk now, with mild discomfort and many breaks. There’s no way in hell I could put in even a six-hour work day at this point, though. My doctor’s conservative estimate of my going back to work on the 7th-ish is totally valid. If you need bunion surgery, get it. Yes, it takes over a month to recover from: Admittedly, it hurts quite a lot while healing, but there’s a rod holding my Growing-back-together toe in place, FFS. The worst part of the whole thing is the solitude: The sitting with myself, the house, every day. The not being able to really go anywhere alone. That’s my problem . I can’t sit still or in stillness, but I learned to do so.

Alvin, if you’re reading this… I couldn’t have done this without you. Literally. Thankyouthankyou and I’m sorry I’ve been a whiney dick. You’re everything. A Bunn-ion, even.

My ass is asleep, you guys.

Bai

*heel pun here.

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Not your sacred Sad-girl.

dscn03561My generation seems to hold its sadness sacred and romantic. I’m one of those Millennials whose  adolescence held awkward court in the early 00’s.

We spent our teen years with Fallout Boy and As I lay Dying and in basements of our grandparents homes with Bob Dylan and Quiet Riot on Vinyl and in my case, hiding behind my insanely religious step-fathers shitty house listening to Nirvana on CDs borrowed from older friends who, in hindsight, someone really should have made sure I wasn’t alone with, but I’m wandering off topic. We started studying for SATS at 13. We went to therapists because our parents/guardians didn’t want us as emotionally inept as they were. We learned about sex in chat-rooms, lying about A/S/L.

We got good at talking about our feelings with people who might have been nothing like us. Somewhere along the way, for different reasons, we got really good at dying. Really good at falling in love with our own sadness and desperation and romanticizing the silver ribbons of scar-tissue on our wrists and upper-arms and thighs.

A decent portion of us left institutions of higher learning and fell into the dark maw of economic collapse because Fuck us, right?

We Stayed in the university towns we moved to and tended bars, went back to the places we were from and opened vintage stores and Occupied Wall Street. We went into our Fields and became Vegan leaders of today who participate in less damaging consumerism. We took Jobs in the Tech-sector and made shitloads of money we lovingly toss into burning man. We also became the new, Hip face of the Alt-right too, unfortunately, and a myriad of self-serving shitty things. We became adults who strive to make the world something it wasn’t when we arrived.  We done good for Hipster Scum, you know?

Maybe it’s  time to stop romanticizing our sadness for other people’s  consumption. I am not proud of the scars I walk around with, in the same way I’m not proud of the terrible Self-Tanner and Black-eyeliner and dresses over jeans  and liking Dane Cook. I want to shine brightly until I blink away, something I never thought I’d feel when I was younger.

As usual, I don’t have a suitable ending here.

I love you, scars and all.

D

 

Thoughts on the usage of”what’s your objective opinion “

I think what’s happening when someone asks for an *objective opinion is an untethering of you, the asked, from the protection and safety of polite social niceties. You’ll notice I said “protection and safety”,not “crushing niceness” or whatever. Maybe this is key in how I think about this. Whether or not we claim to like them, polite social norms often protect us from saying what  we really think in situations where it doesn’t matter  what we really think.
When a friend asks for an objective opinion, they are asking to cut you free to possibly  hurt them. They are cutting you free from safety to tell them that their paper isn’t up to standards, that their wardrobe could use improving, that their kid is a shit, that they are going bald, or maybe they are really codependent. They’re setting you loose to give an honest opinion from your heart, and they are not saying that nothing you say will be held against you.

They’re not giving you permission to be cruel.

This isn’t coming out of anywhere in particular. Occasionally I just spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about word usage and why we think the things that we mean, may not mean exactly what we think they do. (could I have said that more confusingly? V unlikely)

I love you. Be nice to each other.
* I don’t really think there’s such a thing as a genuinely objective opinion.

Enjoy these here 🍌 🦆

Me too. 

Two days ago when so many people stood up and said “Me, too” on Facebook, I was one of them. And then 2 hours later I took that post down. The reason I took it down is because on some level I still feel some shame or some confusion regarding some  of the things that have happened to me. So instead of explaining  that shit anymore I’m going to say this.

I believe You. 

It doesn’t matter  what the circumstances were, I don’t care if you should have been more sober. I don’t care if you weren’t as in control of yourself as you wish you had been. I don’t care if you were a sex worker and you couldn’t talk to anybody else about it at the time, and you’re still confused about it. It doesn’t matter  the circumstances were that led to your sexual assault(s). 

Me. Too. I believe you and I love you. 

Fuck nuance, fuck what you should have done differently, It shouldn’t have happened, and I believe you.

Books as a metaphor, or something

I’ve always loved myself, once I learnt what that meant. I certainly wasn’t raised with that idea: I was raised from the school of thought that value is earned, that certain people are born with more value than others and that I was one of those with lesser value. (“you’re pretty, but we’ll not say that, wouldn’t want you to think you’re more than you are, you can ruin people by telling them you love them too much”) and from an early point I understood that this was in fact, stupid, despite many attempts to convince me otherwise.

Still, I’ve loved myself.

I’ve loved the fire that rose up through my chest and through the top of my head like the eye of gods, I guess that’s called inspiration.

Because I wasn’t supposed to.

(You couldn’t tell a child-sized me how I was supposed to be, any more than you can tell the wind to not blow the dust around)

Because I was what I had.

Because when I was crazy, I knew it. (When I was crazy, I was like a bullet  crashing through other people’s lives and they loved me, even as the havoc occurred and bones (often mine) broke, even as I couldn’t stop the disaster and hated them for not seeing,) I loved myself a little, even when I hated myself, when I wasn’t trying to die. Somehow I left that part behind, even though I’m saddled with regret from all the damage I caused in peoples lives.

I love myself because when I should have fractured a hundred thousand times or collapsed like some 5-foot-4 black hole, I had the innate sense to hold the pieces of my soul together.

It is because I have loved myself truly and honestly, that when someone holds me in their hands like a book with scars in its leather, I am confident that he will read the book all the way to the end.

A girl has no name

The results of my tests from 23andme tests should be back any time, and  I’ve been nervous for reasons I don’t completely understand . What is it that I’m afraid of, what answer do I not want?

I do not expect answers to my genealogy: I don’t expect anything but to see that I am 1/100th everything.
This entry was intended to be much longer, more obnoxiously introspective and witty. Instead, I did average things we all do. Make the cat a vet appointment( he grinds his teeth), pick up a check, pick up Alvin, make dinner for him and my *lovely friend. Apply assorted creams. Worry about millennial/human/american things. Tomorrow, I’ll return here with something more.. Something. 

For now,  I must spend precious dozens of minutes of gazing at imgur and drooling gently into a pillow.

Goodnight, you voyeurs. I love you. Most of you.

*you’re lovely even when you leave sad, lonely boxes stranded in the living-room.

 

Go write your message in the pavement

It’s taken me a while to come to terms with or even understand in any real way, who and what I am as a person. In the scant years that have passed since I’ve figured myself out, I’ve tried to be honest with the world about my being, to varying levels of success.

My background and my early personhood doesn’t lend itself to total revelation because it sits outside “the way things are usually done”, and tends to weird people out.  It was weird. We’ll leave it there. It’s also not really something I enjoy talking about and frankly, unimportant , other than how it informed me as a person. I could’ve been  far worse off, given what I had to work with and I’ve crafted myself into an attempt at a good person so that’s what ultimately matters.

The past few months I’ve been  low-key navel gazing and have decided to out myself in regards to a few things.

I’m gender-fluid. After years of trying to make excuses for the ways I feel/live/experience my existence, *I’m okay with saying that. I fluctuate day to day as far as the masculine and feminine go.  (I’m not going to  even get started on gendered language, gender in media or social enforcement of gender here, but trust, I have opinions, specifically that the gender binary is outmoded )The way I choose to perform my genders changes. I’m not going to throw a label at anything, because it feels unimportant to me. I’m two souls in one physical body. That’s the truth I know and have known since childhood. I don’t feel much need to look to die on the hilltop of forcing people to understand me right now and the world has more important things to think about than my definition. You can interpret me and how I appear to you in any way you like,That’s my superpower. People see in me what they need to see and I roll with it. #yolo.

I believe in something. I’m actively spiritual and I’ll call myself pagan with a little “p” for the lack of a better-fitted word. I’m also fascinated by transhumanism, but I’ll save that for another conversation. I was furious at the idea/construct of the Judeo-Christian god. That religious construct wrecked my mother, and therefore my early life. I called myself an Atheist for a long time, but what I really am is a person who believes that people created gods because we needed them, maybe some of them created all of us or some of us, and we have no fucking clue. I believe in universal consciousness, astral projection and that people have more power inside them than most acknowledge , and I believe in the reach of science soon explaining all that and de-mystifying it. It’s our lack of understanding that makes things mystical. We live in a time where science and tech are peeling away so much mystery and I’m so thrilled about that, aren’t you? FUCK YES YOU ARE.

 Religion is a tool of the oppressors.  The largest global religions are used by whoever’s power to oppress. I believe in your right to all the gods you need or don’t need to pray to to fill your life with meaning, joy and peace. I fucking hate religions and dogma and narrow-minded thought.

My own practice is my my business, so are the gods I send prayers out to. You do you. I’ll do this.

I believe in using what you want to free your mind, because it’s you goddamned mind. I believe I have a lot of beliefs and opinions jammed into my logical brain and I’ve not sorted everything I know out yet.

I Love You. Whoever you are in this moment, whatever you are, I love YOU. Close your eyes, and feel it.

 

*

I’ve said this in a handful of ways , for many years., but always sort of skirted around really saying it.

no, my husband isn’t weirded out by my gender stuff. Thanks for your concern.

 

 

 

Hurry up, we’re dreaming

 

With the exception of 2 years in my early twenties,  I’ve been on some form of hormonal birth control since the age of 17, when I responsibly  drove my tiny, frizzy-haired, boney-child-kneed self  to a Planned parenthood in the midwest town I lived in, but wasn’t from. That experience was both frightening,(as some things just are when done alone) and liberating for some of the exact same reasons it was frightening.

Now, more than ten years off from being that kid, and I’m sick of this shit.

My hormones have always been off, my androgen levels high and my periods are exceptionally irregular. They’ll be  non-existent for years or, conversely, every fucking day for 2 months. My period and the hormonal nightmare hell-scape that comes with it fuck with my perception of self and my life.

I have no intention of having children. Even if I could , even if wanted to and it was a physical possibility,I wouldn’t. That’s rough sometimes, I’ll admit. Sometimes I look at Alvins’ little nose and face and want to make am adorable amalgamation  of the 2 of us, but the other 98% of the time, I know I want a life where all my options are still options, (to quote Aziz Ansari) and I can travel and spend my time being the person I spent my twenties wishing I was, with this amazing human I’ve married. I  know as well,  that I can’t saddle a human being I might create with the burden of mental issues and physical problems that ran like Noble Rot through the vines of my family.  Which is sad really.. I could make some hot, smart weirdos.

I want a Hysterectomy. That’s what I’m getting at. This junk doesn’t work properly, never has, and won’t have children, and I’d like to wear white linen pants.

Carve this shit out with a grape-fruit spoon, if that’s what it’ll take . That’s what it feels like might be an option, if this country keeps disposing of women’s rights to govern their own bodies. Fuck.

I feel like this goes without saying, but I’ll add here, that I’m going to, at times, Write About Sex And Sex Organs and Gender.

This has been your content warning.

 

Covefefe,

Dez

Melatonin

Recently I started taking melatonin.  I don’t know that melatonin actually succeeds in helping me sleep, but then again I’ve taken actual sleep aids invented by doctors, so I feel like my view towards supplements can be a bit skewed. I take  a handful of supplements that have been proven to work by scientific research. After you’ve taken drugs that actually work you can’t go back to supplements and pretend they’re even remotely similar. They are fucking not.
At any rate, Gabba and melatonin are causing me truly  strange dreams that are boring in their usual-ness.

The dreams don’t tend to lean either  good or bad: They’re generally problem-solving scenarios.Basically, I’m trapped somewhere with some people and I have to help them get out of the situation. It tends to be incredibly stressful,  the Landscapes are strange and there’s an Ex thrown  in there that I can’t actually talk to easily.

Last night’s abstraction was loosely about wine labels. Basically,  I was running a business on what seemed to be another planet, and the same ex that always shows up in stress dreams showed up and was vaguely denunciatory. (maybe? It could be I just always worried he was?)  I’m attempting to defend my product while also not looking defensive and being genuinely happy to see this person, there is a massive fucking earthquake.

Cue the rest of the dream which is trying to get a person I have a difficult time communicating with out of a dangerous situation, while trying to find Alvin.

I’m sure that the specific ex-boyfriend shows  up in my brain because I feel some guilt over that relationship. A lot, really. You don’t always get to go back and say what you’d like, nor should you.

He’s always much, much taller than his reality, like a giant, as people tend to become in memories. As far as the stress dreams are concerned, this is literally been pretty much every dreams was my childhood . just a Labyrinth of anxiety and flop sweat set against a sexy topographical map of “aaaaaggghhh”, and then I wake up.

It’s Tuesday. That means I work in the evening. I woke up at 7:30 this morning without the assistance of Hades Yodeling to the cat-gods,and made Alvin French-toast with bread that I’d actually made, but sadly is too dry for my liking. Now, I’m sitting , trying in vain to stretch my ass-muscles out before going to the gym.

You’re welcome for the visual.

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