Dear Snow,
My hair wanted me to tell you that it truly hates you. Like, seriously. Making it all frizzy and cold and whatnot. GO TO HELL, SNOW.
So yeah, just wanted to let you know.
Hugs and kisses,
<3
Snow? In the middle of the winter? WHO WOULDA THUNK?!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Monday, November 10, 2008
Prednisone
... Is the worst thing in the whole wide world.
Funny how the doctor mentioned "being on edge" but failed to mention my "loss of appetite," "crazy insomnia," "joint pain in joints I didn't even know COULD hurt like this" and "wishing I was dead."
My elbows hurt from bending them to use my laptop...
This stuff is evil, I swear it. :(
My Steri-Strips finally came off (or were taken off, either way), and my scar is pretty grody. You can see where the staples were, and I have a fun little line down it. Maybe a pic later.
But sometimes when I move in the wrong way, I can still feel the stitches under the skin. It sucks, but the pain isn't as bad as this dull throbbing of the rest of my body.
Perhaps I can go to sleep now...
Good night. <3
Funny how the doctor mentioned "being on edge" but failed to mention my "loss of appetite," "crazy insomnia," "joint pain in joints I didn't even know COULD hurt like this" and "wishing I was dead."
My elbows hurt from bending them to use my laptop...
This stuff is evil, I swear it. :(
My Steri-Strips finally came off (or were taken off, either way), and my scar is pretty grody. You can see where the staples were, and I have a fun little line down it. Maybe a pic later.
But sometimes when I move in the wrong way, I can still feel the stitches under the skin. It sucks, but the pain isn't as bad as this dull throbbing of the rest of my body.
Perhaps I can go to sleep now...
Good night. <3
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Harumph
So...
This old couple told me that I reminded them of their dead daughter.
I don't know whether to be weirded out or flattered.
I'm leaning toward weirded out.
This old couple told me that I reminded them of their dead daughter.
I don't know whether to be weirded out or flattered.
I'm leaning toward weirded out.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Gettin' an MRI is Srs Bsns
"Okay, sign here,” the receptionist at Invision Imaging at North Florida Regional Medical Center smiled sweetly at me.
So I signed. She seemed trustworthy enough. I highly doubted this whole setup was an elaborate plan to steal my vital organs. I mean, I was just going in for an MRI. There would be no slicing me up or putting me to sleep. If they did something like that, I’d probably notice a thing or two was amiss and say something.
That would be ridiculous, though. I started to think about imaging specialists dressed in black, with their hair all slicked back (because that’s what all bad guys look like, of course; maybe they’d have long, skinny mustaches and top hats in order to better channel their inner Snidely Whiplashes), poised over patients’ bodies as they were stuck, helpless, in the MRI machines.
Those machines are so loud, nobody would hear them scream…
Smiley Receptionist broke through my thoughts. "And sign here."
"And here."
"And here… And here, and here… Aaaaaand here.”
I should probably be reading these forms more closely. I might have just signed away my spleen… or soul, or something.
Oh well. What’s done is done. They’ll have to fight me for them.
As I was walking back to the waiting room to sit until they called my name, Little Miss Smiley Receptionist’s voice rang out like a shrill bell, "Oh, and by the way, you'll have to take out all your piercings, including the one in your tongue."
Oh shit, why did she say just that?
Hearing the words "piercing" and "tongue" used in the same sentence directed at his daughter, my father, who was accompanying me through all this, swung around and "What's in your tongue?" couldn't come out of his mouth fast enough.
I was caught.
Slowly, I stuck out my tongue, and the 14 gauge barbell with pink beads that I had managed to keep hidden around my father for two long years was out on display for the whole world to see in all of its stunning glory.
The noise my father made could only be described as Eeeeeuuuugh.
I shot Perfect-As-A-Picture Little Miss Smiley Receptionist a look of death. It was like she wanted to get me in trouble; I just know she did.
Bitch. I hate her.
Whatever. Looking over at my father, his eyebrows were arched almost straight up to his hairline in his signature “I am not impressed with what is going on at all” look. The name that my mother and I came up with for that particular look, I just noticed, is quite a mouthful. He turned his back to me and walked through the door of the waiting room. I knew that I hadn’t heard the last of that.
I plopped down in a waiting room chair (Seriously, do they purposely make these as uncomfortable as possible?) in a way that couldn’t be any good for my back.
I think I just felt something pop back there.
Leafing through the pile of three-month-old magazines, I picked up a bright pink copy of Cosmopolitan and started flipping through the pages.
Advertisement.
Advertisement.
Advertisement.
Sex tips.
Advertisement.
Fashion dos and don’ts.
And more advertisements!
I refuse to read this nonsense any longer. I can feel my brain atrophy by the second.
I put the magazine back in the stack I got it from, placing it at the very bottom of the heap, so the thing wouldn’t trick any other unsuspecting people into wasting their time reading it.
Sighing, I looked around. I studied the other people in the room: my father, his eyebrows still arched up to high heaven, was watching the news on the waiting room television; a man, probably in his 50s, was wearing wraparound sunglasses indoors, even though it was cloudy outside; a woman with a mullet was showing complete disregard for the fact that those went out of style ages ago; and a young man in the corner of the room, was playing what sounded like a Simpson’s game on his Nintendo DS.
My father continued to watch the news. I think the plunging stock markets were making his eyebrows arch like that (or at least I hope so; it couldn’t still be because of my tongue). The old man looked to his left, then to his right, and then he busied himself with a copy of the Gainesville Sun, the paper making crinkling noises as he brought it up to his face. The young man with the video game… well, he just continued to push buttons on his game, with Marge and Homer making random comments as he did so.
Why doesn’t he turn that blasted thing down?
“Ms. Jawad? We’re ready for you.”
I hobbled through a hallway (making sure to glare at the receptionist she-devil as I walked past) and into a changing room, where the nurse asked me all sorts of questions I had heard before.
“Weight? Height? How’d this happen? How would you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten? Where exactly does it hurt? Does your foot go numb? Do you sense any weakness in your leg? Do you have any difficulty doing daily activities?”
I answered them all just as I had answered them those many times before. “About 140 pounds. Five foot ten. I fell off my bike, flew over the handlebars. It’s about an eight right now, but it varies between a five to a ten. My whole leg hurts. Yes, it does go numb, especially when I’m driving. Yep, it’s a lot weaker. And yes ma’am, I do.”
You’ve always got to throw a ma’am in there somewhere.
Once that was done with, she gave me the run-through. No metal anywhere (but fixed retainers and braces are a-okay), no clothes, put this robe on, put all of your stuff in a locker, and bring the key with you.
Sounds easy enough.
After removing the metal from my 11 piercings (Hah, there’s more that my dad doesn’t know about!), I stripped down to my underwear and surveyed the over-starched hospital issue robe.
It was huge in the way that four of me could have fit inside of it. And it hung wide open in the back.
I have never been happier to not be wearing a thong in my life.
I put it on, and tied it up as tight as I could to protect my underwear from being seen by everybody.
At least they’re cute.
… Much unlike the robe itself. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of ugly light blue that smelled like hospital.
After locking up my belongings, a nurse showed me into a room, and there it was.
So, Machine, we meet again.
The nurse explained that the process would probably take about half an hour.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty long minutes where I can't move at all, where I am stuck in the noisy, hulking beast. A lot can happen in that time period. I could have a pizza delivered to my house, or I could watch a sitcom, and if I was traveling at 70 miles per hour, I could cover a whole… 35 miles.
The nurse left the room, and it began.
“It” was all quite unceremonious. The man operating the MRI machine looked nothing like my cartoon villain idea of a bad guy, which made me breathe a sigh of relief. I think my organs did the same. I don’t know why I expected more from him, but what I got was this: “Okay, your head goes there in between those things, that ‘pillow’ is for you to rest your legs on, and these earplugs will help with the noise.”
Oh yes, the noise. All the noise, noise, noise, noise.
After I positioned myself on the machine and put my earplugs in, he said, “Oh wait, we’re going to put these foam pads beside your head to keep those earplugs in your ears.”
Great. Now I can’t move my head at ALL.
I started to move through the tunnel of the machine. No matter how many times I go into one of these MRI machines, the first few seconds are always terrifying.
Okay.
I’m in, and I can’t move for a while. This is all right. I can do this. No sweat.
“Doing all right in there?” the man operating the machine’s voice that seemed to come out of nowhere asked.
… God, is that you?
“Um, yeah. I’m okay. Just a little cramped,” I answered with a strained laugh.
“Okay, well if it gets too bad, just holler.”
Really? Holler?
Has he ever been inside one of these machines? I doubt my hollering would be heard over the din of this hulking beast that is holding me captive.
It started up.
Whirrr click click.
Not too bad.
WHIRRRRR CLICK CLICK CLICK.
Okay, a little worse…
BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB WHIRRRRRRRRR CLICK CLICK WHIRRRRR.
Oh lord, and I have to be in here for how long?
So I signed. She seemed trustworthy enough. I highly doubted this whole setup was an elaborate plan to steal my vital organs. I mean, I was just going in for an MRI. There would be no slicing me up or putting me to sleep. If they did something like that, I’d probably notice a thing or two was amiss and say something.
That would be ridiculous, though. I started to think about imaging specialists dressed in black, with their hair all slicked back (because that’s what all bad guys look like, of course; maybe they’d have long, skinny mustaches and top hats in order to better channel their inner Snidely Whiplashes), poised over patients’ bodies as they were stuck, helpless, in the MRI machines.
Those machines are so loud, nobody would hear them scream…
Smiley Receptionist broke through my thoughts. "And sign here."
"And here."
"And here… And here, and here… Aaaaaand here.”
I should probably be reading these forms more closely. I might have just signed away my spleen… or soul, or something.
Oh well. What’s done is done. They’ll have to fight me for them.
As I was walking back to the waiting room to sit until they called my name, Little Miss Smiley Receptionist’s voice rang out like a shrill bell, "Oh, and by the way, you'll have to take out all your piercings, including the one in your tongue."
Oh shit, why did she say just that?
Hearing the words "piercing" and "tongue" used in the same sentence directed at his daughter, my father, who was accompanying me through all this, swung around and "What's in your tongue?" couldn't come out of his mouth fast enough.
I was caught.
Slowly, I stuck out my tongue, and the 14 gauge barbell with pink beads that I had managed to keep hidden around my father for two long years was out on display for the whole world to see in all of its stunning glory.
The noise my father made could only be described as Eeeeeuuuugh.
I shot Perfect-As-A-Picture Little Miss Smiley Receptionist a look of death. It was like she wanted to get me in trouble; I just know she did.
Bitch. I hate her.
Whatever. Looking over at my father, his eyebrows were arched almost straight up to his hairline in his signature “I am not impressed with what is going on at all” look. The name that my mother and I came up with for that particular look, I just noticed, is quite a mouthful. He turned his back to me and walked through the door of the waiting room. I knew that I hadn’t heard the last of that.
I plopped down in a waiting room chair (Seriously, do they purposely make these as uncomfortable as possible?) in a way that couldn’t be any good for my back.
I think I just felt something pop back there.
Leafing through the pile of three-month-old magazines, I picked up a bright pink copy of Cosmopolitan and started flipping through the pages.
Advertisement.
Advertisement.
Advertisement.
Sex tips.
Advertisement.
Fashion dos and don’ts.
And more advertisements!
I refuse to read this nonsense any longer. I can feel my brain atrophy by the second.
I put the magazine back in the stack I got it from, placing it at the very bottom of the heap, so the thing wouldn’t trick any other unsuspecting people into wasting their time reading it.
Sighing, I looked around. I studied the other people in the room: my father, his eyebrows still arched up to high heaven, was watching the news on the waiting room television; a man, probably in his 50s, was wearing wraparound sunglasses indoors, even though it was cloudy outside; a woman with a mullet was showing complete disregard for the fact that those went out of style ages ago; and a young man in the corner of the room, was playing what sounded like a Simpson’s game on his Nintendo DS.
My father continued to watch the news. I think the plunging stock markets were making his eyebrows arch like that (or at least I hope so; it couldn’t still be because of my tongue). The old man looked to his left, then to his right, and then he busied himself with a copy of the Gainesville Sun, the paper making crinkling noises as he brought it up to his face. The young man with the video game… well, he just continued to push buttons on his game, with Marge and Homer making random comments as he did so.
Why doesn’t he turn that blasted thing down?
“Ms. Jawad? We’re ready for you.”
I hobbled through a hallway (making sure to glare at the receptionist she-devil as I walked past) and into a changing room, where the nurse asked me all sorts of questions I had heard before.
“Weight? Height? How’d this happen? How would you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten? Where exactly does it hurt? Does your foot go numb? Do you sense any weakness in your leg? Do you have any difficulty doing daily activities?”
I answered them all just as I had answered them those many times before. “About 140 pounds. Five foot ten. I fell off my bike, flew over the handlebars. It’s about an eight right now, but it varies between a five to a ten. My whole leg hurts. Yes, it does go numb, especially when I’m driving. Yep, it’s a lot weaker. And yes ma’am, I do.”
You’ve always got to throw a ma’am in there somewhere.
Once that was done with, she gave me the run-through. No metal anywhere (but fixed retainers and braces are a-okay), no clothes, put this robe on, put all of your stuff in a locker, and bring the key with you.
Sounds easy enough.
After removing the metal from my 11 piercings (Hah, there’s more that my dad doesn’t know about!), I stripped down to my underwear and surveyed the over-starched hospital issue robe.
It was huge in the way that four of me could have fit inside of it. And it hung wide open in the back.
I have never been happier to not be wearing a thong in my life.
I put it on, and tied it up as tight as I could to protect my underwear from being seen by everybody.
At least they’re cute.
… Much unlike the robe itself. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of ugly light blue that smelled like hospital.
After locking up my belongings, a nurse showed me into a room, and there it was.
So, Machine, we meet again.
The nurse explained that the process would probably take about half an hour.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty long minutes where I can't move at all, where I am stuck in the noisy, hulking beast. A lot can happen in that time period. I could have a pizza delivered to my house, or I could watch a sitcom, and if I was traveling at 70 miles per hour, I could cover a whole… 35 miles.
The nurse left the room, and it began.
“It” was all quite unceremonious. The man operating the MRI machine looked nothing like my cartoon villain idea of a bad guy, which made me breathe a sigh of relief. I think my organs did the same. I don’t know why I expected more from him, but what I got was this: “Okay, your head goes there in between those things, that ‘pillow’ is for you to rest your legs on, and these earplugs will help with the noise.”
Oh yes, the noise. All the noise, noise, noise, noise.
After I positioned myself on the machine and put my earplugs in, he said, “Oh wait, we’re going to put these foam pads beside your head to keep those earplugs in your ears.”
Great. Now I can’t move my head at ALL.
I started to move through the tunnel of the machine. No matter how many times I go into one of these MRI machines, the first few seconds are always terrifying.
Okay.
I’m in, and I can’t move for a while. This is all right. I can do this. No sweat.
“Doing all right in there?” the man operating the machine’s voice that seemed to come out of nowhere asked.
… God, is that you?
“Um, yeah. I’m okay. Just a little cramped,” I answered with a strained laugh.
“Okay, well if it gets too bad, just holler.”
Really? Holler?
Has he ever been inside one of these machines? I doubt my hollering would be heard over the din of this hulking beast that is holding me captive.
It started up.
Whirrr click click.
Not too bad.
WHIRRRRR CLICK CLICK CLICK.
Okay, a little worse…
BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB WHIRRRRRRRRR CLICK CLICK WHIRRRRR.
Oh lord, and I have to be in here for how long?
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Teh Ragin' Cajun
Oh, James Carville, you're so silly.
Everyone should deal with their problems... CAJUN STYLE.
Everyone should deal with their problems... CAJUN STYLE.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Seventeen- What??!
$17,294.24
That's how much it's going to cost.
This morning was awful.
Thanks a bunch, Shands... and thank you, Assurant Health.
Feeeeeck.
That's how much it's going to cost.
This morning was awful.
Thanks a bunch, Shands... and thank you, Assurant Health.
Feeeeeck.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
May 12, 2003 / 11:10 p.m.
“They’ve got machine guns! They’ve got machine guns!”
She didn’t know him by name, but he was another guest at the dinner party; the party that they shouldn’t have even gone to in the first place. It was a weeknight, what were they doing out so late?
Why did it sound like there was thunder a few minutes ago when the desert night sky was clear? Why did a flare just shoot up into the air? Why was this man running towards them like a bat out of hell, shouting about machine guns? Who are “they?” And why do they need guns? What’s happening?
Too many questions. No time to think. React. Get inside. Where is my son?
The host struggled with the keys. Seconds lasted an eternity as the party guests pushed forward, trying to get away from the unseen, unknown horror.
Then it hit.
Everybody was pushed through the doorway by the blast, and for a moment, there was absolute chaos. The glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room – the room they were sitting in no more than fifteen minutes ago – shattered into millions of tiny glittering pieces, and for one brief moment, it appeared to be raining diamonds. People were falling over each other, stumbling, tripping on the hallway rug, trying to steady themselves, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
My Sammy, my baby… I can’t let anything happen to him.
She fell to her knees and her son fell in front of her. She instinctively wrapped her body around him, trying to shield him from – from whatever it was that was happening, holding him as close as she possibly could. She could feel things hitting her back: not the shards of glass that were flying from the windows into her skin, but substantial things… legs of people tripping over her as the blast propelled them forward, and other things that she couldn’t identify.
Later on, her husband would tell her that as they were making their way through the front door, he had turned around and looked to his left. He saw the wave of the explosion make its way towards them from where it started, over by the pool area, before he could feel the wave of it crashing into him.
The noise seemed to all fall away, and it was as if she was suspended underwater. Movements were slow and uncoordinated. She could barely breathe. She was afraid to open her eyes, for fear of what she would see around her.
Sammy! Is he okay?
The hostess obviously had the same thought. “My children!” she shrieked as she ran up the stairs to their bedrooms. Her husband was a few steps behind her, as everybody else in the confused dinner party went to the family room at the back of the house. She scooped her son up in her arms and carried him back there. Her son was looking up into her face, bewildered. His eyes wide, he clung to her tightly.
The curtains were drawn – thankfully these windows were still intact – as everybody came in. The room soon radiated with the warmth of about twelve terrified people. It was as if it became its own entity.
Somehow, at some point while they were in the family room, the lights were turned off. She didn’t recall when it happened, but she looked around, and each and every one of them was shrouded in darkness. The only light in the room came from people’s cellular phones as they tried to get a hold of their loved ones; some calling, some texting.
One woman stood out, huddled in a corner under a table. Her facial features were lit up by the two inch screen of her phone, her eyes glowing eerily as she licked her lips, and large blue tears streamed down her face while she pounded out a message to her husband.
“No idea what just happened…” “ An explosion, I think…” “Yes, we’re okay… for now,” “The windows are completely gone.” “…Guns.”
Bits and pieces of conversations. Shouldn’t we be quiet?
“Yes dad, I’ll call you when we find out more… You too, good bye.”
The last one was her husband; the loudest of the bunch, of course, easiest to pick out. Wasn’t that always the case? Or was it because his voice had simply broken through her thoughts?
“We need to get on the floor, away from the window in here,” someone said, “just in case that wasn’t it… just in case something else happens.”
Did it matter who said these things?
They all complied. They settled themselves against the walls, huddled up against one another, her son pressed up to her left side. She could feel his heart beat, could hear him breathing. He was there, and he was alive, and that was the most important thing.
My baby, my child, my Sammy. What is he thinking through all this? I can’t stand to see him going through this. What’s going through his mind? He’s sitting there so quietly… hasn’t said a word.
Her husband put a hand comfortingly on her arm as they sat there in the darkness (It truly was darkness at this point; nobody was using their telephones anymore. They were just sitting as quietly as possible and waiting.), and then suddenly he pulled his hand back, wincing in pain with a sharp intake of breath.
“You’ve still got glass in you…”
She looked down at her arm. She hadn’t even noticed.
It was at that moment that her husband realized something was terribly wrong. Up until that point, it was nothing but confusion; chaos. Even if everything had seemingly calmed down outside, for they could no longer hear gunshots ringing out into the night, their minds were all stumbling about, grasping on to anything that made sense. For her husband, the glass embedded in his wife’s arms was enough to bring it all back into sharp focus.
Gingerly, he tried to take the shards of glass out, but she held up a hand to stop him. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to bleed any more than I am, so just leave it there for now. We can deal with it later.”
Time passed with them quietly sitting. There was nothing to do but let her mind run free, faceless terrors popping up in every corner of her thoughts. Not knowing the full extent of the damage outside, she could only imagine.
If it did this much damage to us in here, how bad is it where the bomb went off? I don’t think I want to know…
Ten minutes could have passed, or an hour and a half. She couldn’t tell. In the darkness, time seemed to stand still. She was tired: tired of being here, tired of not knowing what was going to happen next. She held her son close to her, ignoring the pain in her arms, as she felt his steady breathing.
Sammy, I’m so sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry, baby… I’m so – Wait, what was that?
Outside the family room, out in the hallway, there were footsteps. Heavy, clumsy footsteps. Were they getting closer? It did sound as if they were. They stopped right outside the family room, and they heard the faint *click* as the doorknob turned.
Everybody looked up, terrified. What was on the other side of that door? Would their last minutes alive be spent huddled together on the floor in a dark room?
No. Thank God, no. The host opened the door and peered in, asking if anybody wanted some water. It was as if the whole room was holding its breath until that moment, and it let out a collective sigh when they realized who it was.
“Go back upstairs to your family. We’re fine,” said somebody across the room. (But are we, really?) She couldn’t make out the face, but the voice was very familiar. It sounded like the man they had over for dinner at their house a few weeks ago. Or maybe she was completely wrong. Who knew?
The host came back into the room. Somehow, with the scare he gave them earlier, everybody was a little less on edge.
“My next door neighbor just came in; he said it’s all over.”
Just as they had somehow turned off, the lights seemed to magically turn back on. Funny how these things happen. People were shakily standing up and brushing dust and other things off of themselves.
She stood to get up, to try to pick out the tiny pieces of glass anchored in her arms (and back, it felt like). But as she stood up, her son, who had been sitting there quietly this whole time, looked up at her, held tightly onto her leg, and said, “Mommy…”
She sat back down and held him in her lap. The glass could wait; her son needed her.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
This is an Update
... And this is what Naudia looks like when she's intently watching The Weather Channel.
Go figure.
HAI GUIZE! <3
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Epic Poem
I wrote this about a year and a half ago, and it's awful and stupid but it made me smile.
THUSLY, IT IS EPIC.
Am I going?
Or am I not?
I can honestly say
That I know not.
What do I do,
What can I say,
To just take
This pain away.
Shitty poem,
Horrible rhyme,
Writing it
To pass the time.
Is it working?
Don't think so.
But who the hell
Am I to know?
"She's a good girl,
Crazy about Elvis.
Loves horses,
And her boyfriend too."
Oh wait!
That's not mine.
But copyright infringement
Happens all the time.
THUSLY, IT IS EPIC.
Am I going?
Or am I not?
I can honestly say
That I know not.
What do I do,
What can I say,
To just take
This pain away.
Shitty poem,
Horrible rhyme,
Writing it
To pass the time.
Is it working?
Don't think so.
But who the hell
Am I to know?
"She's a good girl,
Crazy about Elvis.
Loves horses,
And her boyfriend too."
Oh wait!
That's not mine.
But copyright infringement
Happens all the time.
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