I don't know. I like the faded yellow and neon-turquoise house. The dead grass is what dreams are made of.
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
Today in (Un)Real Estate
I don't know. I like the faded yellow and neon-turquoise house. The dead grass is what dreams are made of.
Monday, August 28, 2017
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Today in (Un)Real Estate News
This home is in a borderline frightening neighborhood in Oakland. It's $3700/mo. There's linoleum in the bedroom and it's climbing the walls.
Thursday, June 15, 2017
What It Looks Like
My Serious Medical Condition is difficult for most to understand. Like my mom. So, I made a picture.
What's Wrong With Me?
(how to adjust seat just right while driving Rx to camp) (how to place pillows on sofa just right) (how to get out of bed without pressure or movement of right hip/pelvis) (seriously, don't smoke or eat pot until contact with the days' official government agent has been made) (how to descend steep basement stairs with a low ceiling) (what cushion configuration I can get away with on the outside furniture: a thick, oblong back pillow that moves? the oblong with the lumbar, but the lumbar is too big? do I prop my legs, is the table they're propped on just the right distance from the chair edge? or should I stay 90-degrees by 90-degrees?
I've stopped getting mad about my condition. I'm starting to adjust and not see it as the alternate reality, but the absolute and all-encompassing present one. I guess. I've never done this before. In fact few have. The geniuses in the City kind-of know what it is, but certainly don't know how to fix it, and barely know how to treat it.
Stupid, so stupid. I was already stupid from bi-polar meds. As of last January, add triple-stupid drugs, making me a possible 72 IQ, but with a memory of being much much smarter, therefore mistakenly continuing to talk, only to say something on a 72 IQ-scale of embarrassing. And then doing it again because I don't remember that it has happened exactly this way before a thousand-five times.
Leaving work became a matter of attempting to save my reputation in what is actually a pretty small metro area. My industry is specific and this area excels at it, but all the same people work in it and move around through it and know all the same people, and kiss the ass of all the same people, and look how dumb I was getting in front of them all. Racking up mistakes. Humiliated.
Apparently the sofa looked to me like a fine place to put my fresh-poured sparkling watermelon water while I moved my laptop to an adjacent spot. Who thinks the sofa is a good table? Someone on 225mg of Lamictal; 60mg Baclofen; 2mg Klonopin; 4500mg Neurontin; 25mg Ristoril; 6 bowls of 24% THC Marijuana and/or 45mg Marijuana edible. Per day.
Probably.
I asked Guy, as he passed by, to hand me a towel, a good one, from the kitchen, because I just poured a bell jar of water and ice cubes on the sofa.
Afterward, I take the towels to the laundry area and return, pausing on the stairs to scream FUUUCK!! I tell Guy, "I just need to say that." Then I scream it again, then feel a little better, then cry, then sob.
This "serious medical condition of five tumors/not tumors on and in the spinal cord, or a malacic cavity spinal cord injury" isn't going away. It isn't going away. Ever.
Surviving myself means not screaming FUUUCK! and crying, anymore. My self wants to kill this condition, which ultimately would mean killing me and that's not an option. So.
Here we are.
Saturday, April 29, 2017
If My Favorite Music Was Brutalist Architecture
This would be Devo:
This would be Radiohead:
David Bowie:
The Grateful Dead:
This would be the Butthole Surfers:
If my favorite music was brutalist architecture, this would be the Eels:
This would be Patti Smith:
Miles Davis:
This would be Bikini Kill:
and this would be Le Tigre:
Wilco:
Iggy Pop:
This would be Death in Vegas:
and this would be Leonard Cohen:
This would be Radiohead:
David Bowie:
The Grateful Dead:
This would be the Butthole Surfers:
If my favorite music was brutalist architecture, this would be the Eels:
This would be Patti Smith:
Ween:
Miles Davis:
This would be LCD Soundsystem:
This would be Bikini Kill:
and this would be Le Tigre:
Wilco:
Iggy Pop:
This would be Death in Vegas:
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Today in (Un)Real Estate News
This million-dollar 1800 sq. ft. house is a couple blocks from me. They hear gunshots at night just like I do. Do they tell their kids it's fireworks, or do they tell them the truth?
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
A Plea, Straight Up
I don't know who she voted for, but she volunteered that it wasn't Hillary.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Today in (Un)Real Estate News
Weird and Wonderful Things: A Pictorial 1988–2017
 |
| my first boyfriend had this on the bumper of his 1982 Chrysler LeBaron convertible. we thought we were more enlightened than anyone else on the 805. |
 |
| history. |
 |
| Deepak Chopra has never had to sink low enough to call someone retarded until now. |
| ||
| Michelle Obama, thank you for explaining why some of us aren't just "being aggressive" and we do deserve love, motherfuckers. |
 |
| lock box for marijuana chocolate and other pain relievers. too hard to open, but it sure is cute, and it supports breast cancer. |
 |
| Great picture choice. |
 |
| exquisite design from miu miu. i want to fuck this bottle i love it so much. |
 |
| what might be used to remove my tumors. rad. |
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
Today on Jeopardy
Answer:
Grrrr. Ech. Ew. Gross. Throw up. Vomit. Wretch. Bile. Shite. Bleach. Nauseous. Stomach acid. Wall-eyed vision. Toenail fungi. Old yellow crank from the ‘90s.
Question:
What does reading our president-elect's name inspire?
Grrrr. Ech. Ew. Gross. Throw up. Vomit. Wretch. Bile. Shite. Bleach. Nauseous. Stomach acid. Wall-eyed vision. Toenail fungi. Old yellow crank from the ‘90s.
Question:
What does reading our president-elect's name inspire?
No, I'm not riding the Bipolar Bullet Train, not at all
Today at 4:20, I'll find out what kind of tumors I have.
But, that's not what's on my mind right now. In recent days, I've been trying very hard to say out loud that I'm bipolar. It's something I've rarely said, because when you let people know, it becomes the reason for everything.
"Lou got very upset last night."
"Well, she tends to do that. Don't forget she's bipolar."
"Lou wants a divorce."
"Well, I'm sorry, honey, but you tried. She's sick and that's got to have been very hard on you."
"Hey, have you heard of Lou Jones? She seems really qualified."
"Yeah, and she's fun to work with...but she's a total bipolar."
"Oh. Bummer...ok, who's next?"
Carrie Fisher, bless her, yeah, she was brave and she let everyone know she had the disease, but she was also secure as hell. Yes, she had to concentrate and watch herself so she wouldn't lose her friends or isolate her child, or die, but she didn't need to care outside of that. And that's not totally fair to those of us who weren't born to Debbie Reynolds and later became Princess Leia. We can be brave, but then we better be an author or an acclaimed artist or a working actor or a successful musician or a brilliant mathematician for it to be ok, maybe even a gift.
Bipolars are almost always one of those things. Unless we're struggling, then we're a secret, known as "a little off", but also known as "worth it" if we use wonder woman strength and successfully keep it together enough to not exhaust anyone.
If bipolars had a mark on their forehead—maybe an emoji of Comedy/Tragedy—how many people would want to be our friend? Cruising through life with only a vague memory of hearing the word once or twice, they'd likely say, "Oh...um, that's ok, but thank you!"
And if they befriend you, that's only because they don't know about the Bipolar Bullet Train, or because they love confusion, or have giant balls.
"My psychologist says I'm High Functioning Bipolar." I was so embarrassed to tell my spine surgeon that. Please don't be horrified, I'll fall over. His face went professionally blank.
Upon hearing the word "bipolar" spoken softly and with great trepidation, some have said, "Oh, that's not true. You're not bipolar! You need to exercise! Stretch! Take nature walks."
And how does that feel.
"So, all this time, while I'm banging my head against the tile wall of my shower, and my screams are spiraling up from a pit so deep no one's ever seen it, or when I'm crying until my eyes swell shut or I never feel tired, not for a year and that's an illusion, what's really happening is I'm barely sleeping for a year, and my body is under no illusion, in fact it's dying, and I just can't feel it...
You're saying that all this time...through all this hell I'm talking about...all I needed to do was take a nature walk?!"
"Well, yeah, and stretch."
Carrie Fisher, bless her, could admit to being ill for another 40 years—and I truly wish she could—but her being a poster child for bipolar is barely helpful to the rest of us. We'd lose our jobs and some friends, maybe even family, and most definitely, absolutely, our credibility for all the rest of our days if the public at large found out. We might even become homeless, because if we lose our jobs and insurance, which means meds and therapy, we'll suddenly find ourselves the most popular kids in the encampment, looking forward to death with a vengeance.
But, that's not what's on my mind right now. In recent days, I've been trying very hard to say out loud that I'm bipolar. It's something I've rarely said, because when you let people know, it becomes the reason for everything.
"Lou got very upset last night."
"Well, she tends to do that. Don't forget she's bipolar."
"Lou wants a divorce."
"Well, I'm sorry, honey, but you tried. She's sick and that's got to have been very hard on you."
"Hey, have you heard of Lou Jones? She seems really qualified."
"Yeah, and she's fun to work with...but she's a total bipolar."
"Oh. Bummer...ok, who's next?"
Carrie Fisher, bless her, yeah, she was brave and she let everyone know she had the disease, but she was also secure as hell. Yes, she had to concentrate and watch herself so she wouldn't lose her friends or isolate her child, or die, but she didn't need to care outside of that. And that's not totally fair to those of us who weren't born to Debbie Reynolds and later became Princess Leia. We can be brave, but then we better be an author or an acclaimed artist or a working actor or a successful musician or a brilliant mathematician for it to be ok, maybe even a gift.
Bipolars are almost always one of those things. Unless we're struggling, then we're a secret, known as "a little off", but also known as "worth it" if we use wonder woman strength and successfully keep it together enough to not exhaust anyone.
If bipolars had a mark on their forehead—maybe an emoji of Comedy/Tragedy—how many people would want to be our friend? Cruising through life with only a vague memory of hearing the word once or twice, they'd likely say, "Oh...um, that's ok, but thank you!"
And if they befriend you, that's only because they don't know about the Bipolar Bullet Train, or because they love confusion, or have giant balls.
"My psychologist says I'm High Functioning Bipolar." I was so embarrassed to tell my spine surgeon that. Please don't be horrified, I'll fall over. His face went professionally blank.
Upon hearing the word "bipolar" spoken softly and with great trepidation, some have said, "Oh, that's not true. You're not bipolar! You need to exercise! Stretch! Take nature walks."
And how does that feel.
"So, all this time, while I'm banging my head against the tile wall of my shower, and my screams are spiraling up from a pit so deep no one's ever seen it, or when I'm crying until my eyes swell shut or I never feel tired, not for a year and that's an illusion, what's really happening is I'm barely sleeping for a year, and my body is under no illusion, in fact it's dying, and I just can't feel it...
You're saying that all this time...through all this hell I'm talking about...all I needed to do was take a nature walk?!"
"Well, yeah, and stretch."
Carrie Fisher, bless her, could admit to being ill for another 40 years—and I truly wish she could—but her being a poster child for bipolar is barely helpful to the rest of us. We'd lose our jobs and some friends, maybe even family, and most definitely, absolutely, our credibility for all the rest of our days if the public at large found out. We might even become homeless, because if we lose our jobs and insurance, which means meds and therapy, we'll suddenly find ourselves the most popular kids in the encampment, looking forward to death with a vengeance.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Ween: "all goofy smiles and buttoned up shirts covering up layers and layers of fucked up rage"
That's hot.
Saw them in October in SF and they blew the crowd's goddamn socks off.. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jgd8UER2AqU
Bow down to godweensatan this very instant.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)