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HS: I'm a pudgy pear!
I finally found a tankini top that I like, in size Small as usual, bright pink, no horrible plunge. Unfortunately, it was an "old" (early in the season) model and I couldn't find the matching simple bikini bottoms. I tried on a few different bottoms (hooray for mix'n'match), and shockingly I apparently have just enough fat around my waist that it gets squished around by the bottoms. And to make matters worse, I'm a size Medium on the bottom, as usual. I wasn't about to try on a size Large. I was complaining to the friendly saleswoman with the same name as myself (spelled the other way though), about how I have a small top and bigger bottom and how I shouldn't have to wear a Large and I certainly shouldn't have to wear something that makes ME feel fat, and she said, "oh, you're a pear!" I guess that's a body type that's small on top and big on bottom. Hee, I've got a big bottom!
Y'know, I think I'd be more coherent if I'd had dinner this week. But then I'd be FAT!!!! :-P Seriously, I haven't really had dinner all week, I had a half a dinner yesterday.
Insert nasty HS (skin) stuff. You don't want to read this, I mean it.
Well, it's your funeral.
I haven't been eating much because I've got a stupid fucking CYST in my left armpit AGAIN. :'( All that bitchassfucking effort with getting Remicade approval, all for nothing. [Newer readers, read this entry on my old blog for a quick intro to my skin condition, and this one here about failed treatments. If you still want more torture, see tag "skin".] It's bigger than a golf ball, and my dermatologist hasn't gotten back to me after three days (it usually takes him less than 24 hours), so I decided to start the levoquin (antibiotics) anyway.
It hurts like a mofo, including having a hard time sleeping and harder time cleaning out the stupid lab. Good thing it's ibuprofen (Advil) I've been taking and not Tylenol, b/c the latter you can OD on easily while Advil you supposedly can't. "No more than 6 within 24 hours" my ass. It's horrible to look at in the mirror, I just realized this afternoon while trying on clothes that it actually *sags* from gravity. And those stupid cutsie T-shirts with short cropped sleeves, yeah, they're just short enough to let my pus-bag cyst peek-a-boo out at the bottom.
Argh! And I was so looking forward to frisbee this week with T$, but no way I'm gonna go running around and having it bouncing up and down like a tit or a scrot without a cup. Just raising my arm from my side to the keyboard always hurts, sometimes enough that I groan. I'm getting better at keeping my arm above my head and under the pillow all night long though, so that I'm able to sleep around 6 hours straight w/ this cyst, which's better than the maybe 2-3 hours with the last one this size. It's fucking HUGE. Bleh. Have you ever tried making dinner while holding a golf ball --ooh, or an egg , yeah an egg-- under your armpit? Try it some time. It's really awkward, and it'd make a great game for kids. Now imagine that every time you move that arm, even when you don't drop or break the egg, it feels like someone's taking a serrated steak knife and slashing through your armpit. This is why I haven't been eating. Or doing laundry.
Aren't you glad you aren't me? And don't forget, this wonderful sensation is the way that I've learned that my miracle cure isn't, I'm going to continue having these THE REST OF MY LIFE, taking levoquin (did you know that if I don't drink enough water with it, I'll get levoquin crystals in my PISS?!), evolving more wonderful superbugs that Al Queda would love to get their hands on to use as a weapon, and on top of that I read that having chronic pain diseases (even when intermittent) SHORTENS YOUR FUCKING LIFE SPAN.
What were those stages of grief again? Bargaining (trying Remicade, check), Despair (cried two nights in a row, check), Anger (see current post, check), what came next?
Y'know, I think I'd be more coherent if I'd had dinner this week. But then I'd be FAT!!!! :-P Seriously, I haven't really had dinner all week, I had a half a dinner yesterday.
Insert nasty HS (skin) stuff. You don't want to read this, I mean it.
Well, it's your funeral.
I haven't been eating much because I've got a stupid fucking CYST in my left armpit AGAIN. :'( All that bitchassfucking effort with getting Remicade approval, all for nothing. [Newer readers, read this entry on my old blog for a quick intro to my skin condition, and this one here about failed treatments. If you still want more torture, see tag "skin".] It's bigger than a golf ball, and my dermatologist hasn't gotten back to me after three days (it usually takes him less than 24 hours), so I decided to start the levoquin (antibiotics) anyway.
It hurts like a mofo, including having a hard time sleeping and harder time cleaning out the stupid lab. Good thing it's ibuprofen (Advil) I've been taking and not Tylenol, b/c the latter you can OD on easily while Advil you supposedly can't. "No more than 6 within 24 hours" my ass. It's horrible to look at in the mirror, I just realized this afternoon while trying on clothes that it actually *sags* from gravity. And those stupid cutsie T-shirts with short cropped sleeves, yeah, they're just short enough to let my pus-bag cyst peek-a-boo out at the bottom.
Argh! And I was so looking forward to frisbee this week with T$, but no way I'm gonna go running around and having it bouncing up and down like a tit or a scrot without a cup. Just raising my arm from my side to the keyboard always hurts, sometimes enough that I groan. I'm getting better at keeping my arm above my head and under the pillow all night long though, so that I'm able to sleep around 6 hours straight w/ this cyst, which's better than the maybe 2-3 hours with the last one this size. It's fucking HUGE. Bleh. Have you ever tried making dinner while holding a golf ball --ooh, or an egg , yeah an egg-- under your armpit? Try it some time. It's really awkward, and it'd make a great game for kids. Now imagine that every time you move that arm, even when you don't drop or break the egg, it feels like someone's taking a serrated steak knife and slashing through your armpit. This is why I haven't been eating. Or doing laundry.
Aren't you glad you aren't me? And don't forget, this wonderful sensation is the way that I've learned that my miracle cure isn't, I'm going to continue having these THE REST OF MY LIFE, taking levoquin (did you know that if I don't drink enough water with it, I'll get levoquin crystals in my PISS?!), evolving more wonderful superbugs that Al Queda would love to get their hands on to use as a weapon, and on top of that I read that having chronic pain diseases (even when intermittent) SHORTENS YOUR FUCKING LIFE SPAN.
What were those stages of grief again? Bargaining (trying Remicade, check), Despair (cried two nights in a row, check), Anger (see current post, check), what came next?