Beautiful Heartache - L.T. 07/08

Neon Nightmare - Redefining TMI

In case the caption wasn't sufficient, consider yourself warned: I'm about to give TMI! Right. So I have a bladder infection. It happens all the time - result of a scarred urethra - result of childhood infections left untreated (for years, if you must know) - result of sexual abuse. Nothing I can do about it. In fact, I drink more water than god, take cranberry pills, wipe front to back, pee after sex, and generally do everything in my power to avoid the motherfuckers. I still get them, about once every three months. This is apparently a terrible issue for Kaiser, but that's another story. Today's story features the painkiller specially made for bladder infections which I received yesterday for the first time ever. Wow, didn't know they had anything like that. Kinda would think considering that I have these things all the time that maybe at some point somebody would have forked over a little relief? Nope. Never. Not in 28 years. Ok. Really, not in 10 years (I go to the doctor when I need to, and have done so ever since I attained the great age of 18)

The stuff is called Uristat. You pee neon orange. It's creepy. You know what? It helps. Immensely. I won't go on and on for pages about how much it would have helped or how much pain and suffering and emotional anguish I could have been saved if someone had given me the neon earlier in my life, or how I always have ptsd issues when I get the infections and flashbacks to the bad that caused them and being a kid and all that, and essentially am emotionally traumatized. Nah. It's all good.

Ladies, just remember URISTAT, and ask for the stuff, if you need it, because apparently the Doctor thinks pain is good for you.

OCD Painting Fits; Sunday Night Skulks In

I've been painting this ridiculous little thing for two days now.  Its a thing - I say thing because I really am not sure what it is, some sort of surreal female form that turns into something similar to veins crossed with guts, kinda creepy and sad with a gaping hole right in the center of her chest.  Yes, my mood is that upbeat!

Actually, my scary-creepy painting aside, the weekend has been great.  The garage sale was even fun and interesting.  I just hate Sunday nights, I never want to go to bed, because that means the next thing I know I have to be an uber-competent adult, and frankly, the role begins to chafe after a couple of years, and you wonder if you really need nice things so much and maybe you really should just sell it all, get a camper and live on the go.  Learn to tattoo.  Paint.  Write poetry.  Dance.  Laugh.  Do absolutely nothing that you don't want to do, with the exception of course of some good old-fashioned physical labor sometimes for money.  Its not really a moral debate, but it tastes like one to me.  I suspect that's because it was a moral debate to my mother.  Also, sometimes I feel like I am willfully forcing a wild thing, like breaking a horse, but I'm doing it to myself, and there's always some wild animal in the back of my head chanting "get out get out get out before its too late"  ('till age and use accept them, so to speak) and sometimes I'm just terrified that I'll be trapped at  standstill.

Really though, I'm anything but still.  Thursday LeeAnn and I are starting our quest for the ultimate dojo.  I want to kick some ass.  Wish me luck!

Naked San Franciscans

Today’s heat has the ordinarily black-clad denizens of San Francisco’s financial district stripping off their customary garb of woe and reaching pale-limbed for that colorful whatever they’ve been saving. For once we’re a motley crew of riotous colors pouring out of the Muni tunnels and across the sidewalks, sandals crowning glaring legs that haven’t seen sun in years. I am no exception of course, but I have enough freckles that occasionally I pass for having been exposed to the sun in the last decade. My legs, while blinding, are conservatively covered to the knee. I’m a tall girl, and frankly, if I wear a truly short skirt, I look like a felony. I haven’t done it since I was 19 and had the excuse of idiocy. On my walk to work I saw more cleavage and bare leg than I've seen since the last time I went to the Hustler Club. Seriously. It was intense. A lot of it was bad. Then there’s the issue of the sun dresses. Some feral prankster invented the folded-under skirt and set it loose on the general public. Some foolish fashion-forward women then donned this singularly unflattering garb and hit the streets, having the dubious distinction of doubling their size instantly! Oh, and there was a girl on the train in a sun dress that literally was pleated under the breasts like a baby doll and then sewn around the bottom with a three inch band of fabric that was – tight to her legs. So, that means she was wearing a pear. I could tell she was skinny, but she looked like she had the worst pregnancy belly/unfettered pear-ass I’d ever seen. I felt for her. Tonight I get to go get session number four on my back! Huzzah! I think there is very little that I prefer to the prick of the needle. That sounds bad, and I mean it the way it sounds. Take that, PTSD gods! I heart Paco, and I heart my tattoo. It’s really coming along. I love when I put on a dress and see the canopy of flowers sketched on my shoulders. I can’t wait to see the finished piece, but at the same time, I am enjoying the process. This kind of severe body modification (and that is precisely what it is, it turns out) takes time to get done, and frankly, time to get used to. I smile in the mirror and sneak peeks of myself and prance around nude in the mirror whenever possible. It’s refreshing. Now, if I could just stop grinding my teeth off in the night….

Lunacy in black and white

This morning I got up with more than usual reluctance, despite the less-than-usual exhaustion. It took me a bit of rustling around to find something to wear that seemed appropriate, and I eventually settled on a black and white ensemble. I admit, the sun nearly took me out when I walked out onto the porch, and I immediately crossed to the shady side of the street, steaming slightly (think Spike from Buffy, when he tried to go in the sun).

On my way to the train I saw a yellow rose tree so laden with flowers that in fact it only had two leaves on the whole bush. It made me smile. The shameless flower thief in me was tempted to strip it, but I restrained myself and made it onto the train. (Shamefully, my self restraint had more to do with the daylight and the fact that I was headed for work than anything else). It was Amy's train, but so far, she's followed my advice to the letter and "not let me set eyes on her". Maybe that was a bit menacing of me, but I am careful to ignore any fleeing leopard or green coated individuals at train stops, and thereby, have not laid eyes on her.

Pursuant to a conversation about pretentiousness with my best ladies, I pulled out my little leather sketchbook and spent the entire commute listening to Erasure at unreasonable volumes and scribbling. It put me in a marvelous wonderful mood. I even did a little doodle of the guy wearing the kilt and suspenders at the Castro station. I restrained myself from doodling the results of that image produced by my overstimulated imagination.

Well. I guess I'll get some work done. Today's deep thought:

I used to be a serious loner. Spent whole years primarily in my own company. Perhaps I should consider the seeming madness of the majority of my friends lately as natures way of returning me to that more natural state.

My Assets are sqishing my lungs!

So here I am, at my new blogging place of residence, having abandoned the capricious MySpace for what I hope to find as greener pastures.

The bottom line is that I must share this: I have assets on. They are there to keep my thighs from scraping eachother into a blistered swelter of chafed misery under my dress on a warm day like today. City dweller that I am, I must make certain concessions for the fact that I actually walk extensively on a daily basis. Unfortunately, these Assets are the ones that go right up to your bra for a "seamless" line. A seamless line of my total inability to breathe!!!

Okay. I'll calm myself. My undergarments are suffocating me. Most of my friends appear to have gone stark raving mad. Maybe it is the heat.

They might try some Assets. (they keep your panties out of a twist!)