smothered hope

I'm running a Windows search for a particular document right now, so I'll treat this entry as a justified distraction while I wait for that stupid little puppy to dig up the PDF I need.

Mr. Knowitall, as you may or may not have surmised, is back in my "good books" for the time being. He was the boy I made cry last month, and I must say, it was the first time I got to tell someone just how much they'd hurt me and see them genuinely repent. I felt sort of guilty at first, for feeling satisfied about it, but then I realized that a) I deserved the opportunity to make someone understand how I'd felt, and b) I certainly didn't set out to upset him; I'm pretty used to people making me feel like shit without remorse. It's just the way most people are, and we do it to each other constantly.

But Mr. Knowitall and I had some drinks and discussed it at length, and I think it's ok, except he has this habit of talking like he's a Tony Robbins manual, and it just fucks with me. I know that I complain rather often. (I'm in physical pain literally half the time, just for those of you who are uninformed or if I've not been clear enough about it. Most days I can handle it just fine, but it has peaks and changes which mess with my general mood; I am a bitter person for valid reasons.) I blow off steam in the form of hating on little, stupid things. You know, like saying some hipster's asymmetrical haircut makes him look like a defctive monkey with thalydimide poisoning. Or making some generic bitchery about my job being boring, such as I did just earlier with Mr. Knowitall. But apparently, he has no sense of humour, so I was subject to a tonne of bullshit about following my dreams and how he'd never encourage me to do something so soul-sucking, blah blah blah. How sweet. But for fuck's sake, just take a joke when it's been very clearly pointed out to you that it's a joke. ARGH!

I mentioned in an aside earlier the pain which I do my best not to commit sepukku over. Well, I went for an ultrasound last week, and the technician found nothing. Let me state now that this was an endovaginal ultrasound, which means that I got to have what felt like a basic plastic wand dildo inserted and toglled around as though I were a human joystick controller. (Not really anything special; not terribly painful, though not fun, either. I felt kinda bruised afterward, like I'd just finished a date with Tyler Durden or something.) I wasn't able to view the montior while it was being conducted, but I'm guessing that this thing can only see what's going on in the canal, not necessarilly what's up with the womb or eggy-weggs and neighbours. Perhaps it does, but I wasn't told so much, only that everything looked normal. Not even a tilted uterus! I'm more than surprised, to say the least.

Of course, now I have to see an infection specialist, who I'm cynically expecting to tell me I have a yeast infection without ever looking at more than my face. In all fairness, I have yet to see this docotr, and he may wind up being very helpful, though I doubt he'll see anything the nine thousand, four hundred and seventy two billion other doctors and nurses who've examined me failed to catch. I know there has to be something wrong in there. This cannot possibly be in my mind. I am going to push so hard for the laporoscopy, you have no clue. I'm gonna be like Chuck Norris, Mr. T AND Yul Brynner, all at once. A king-fu cowboy of fool-pitying.

More updates as the day progresses.

back | forth

listening:
reading:
ingesting:
(see entries before 20.11.05)

previously on Smothered Hope:

unreal - 20.05.08
in which our narrator kinda just babbles on a bit - 15.05.08
drank several margaritas last night. they were great. - 04.05.08
spacey - 29.04.08
i will most definitely regret posting this in public - 28.04.08