And...surgery number three is over. Actually I had it on the 31st, and to be completely honest with my completely nonexistent readers, I thought I'd die. My family (or at least the ones who give or pretend to give a shit) feared I might, too. I probably waited longer than most people, because I've seen people with kidney stones and they didn't have the white and slimy mouth. They weren't vomiting, their eyes weren't dark. If I'd gone in sooner, I probably wouldn't have needed so many surgeries.
That's not pleasant; I'm just going to breeze past it. Shit, what did I used to talk about? I know, garbage, right? Dreams this, spiders that. But we do have a growing bear problem that's pretty bad. Apparently I missed a bear fight not too far from home. I'm told we have three different types of bear in just this town; the lesser-seen brown bear, of a temperament I wasn't taught, the super-aggressive "brown-nosed bear," whatever my rednecked source meant by that, and the more docile black bear, which can apparently be scared away by kittens.
The hell's a brown-nosed bear, anyway? Do they socialize the same way dogs do?
The past two times I've gone to the hospital―which, yes, have been the only times I've been out since the 17th―I heard the bears in the ditch that's right beside the bus stop. Time before last, my brother woke up early enough to escort me there, and he saw it. I was close to the ditch with my back to it, had no idea the bear was there, and he warned me to go closer to the road.
So that's three times now I could have been bear food. Time before last was when my mother had to go to the hospital, and when I got back home it was dark; I did not see the bear just feet away from me. Luckily he had already eaten. Well, lucky for me, not so lucky for his meal. And the time before that, my family and I were walking around Rolley Lake, and a bear was definitely interested in us. He was creeping up on us, and we just kept walking. I don't even know why he didn't attack.
My tongue still looks white, but at least the slime, nausea, pain and discomfort are gone. My lips aren't gross, and now that the stent is out (for which I was not anesthetized, or even numbed up) I can pee and just be done with it, I'm not questioning if I have to go while washing my hands. Nor am I tempted to live on the toilet. It's good! I didn't realize that feeling several hundred years old is so much more refreshing than feeling like a mummy. I even had tape on my belly because the last stent had a string; he just grabbed it and yanked. Oof, that was awkward. But I'm glad he didn't go slowly, because that would have been torture. I said the worst part was the anxiety, but it's not. The worst part is knowing it can happen again. And again.
I was also tempted to tell my family every time they visited me at the hospital to just leave me there. I was so sure I wouldn't get home. And I was kind of okay with that. I went to the hospital in my own town to get the stent removed, and I couldn't do it because they wouldn't put me under. I didn't realize my surgeon in the next town would also refuse, because I was put under every other time. But apparently, sedating me opens them up to investigation. I guess putting it in is so much worse than taking it out, so whatever. Yay drugs.
But I now want to live in the next town, because their hospital is so much better than the one here. The doctors and nurses are kinder, and better equipped. The hospital here doesn't have complete roofing, and it's got a lot of areas that are just plastic―the walls and the ceiling, too. It's ugly. This hospital seriously needs money.
Not to mention getting to the hospital one town over is a bitch. Three, four buses. 7 AM going there, 3 PM coming home, and that's for day surgery. Taking that thing out was a procedure that took five seconds. Five minutes talking me off the ledge, one minute to lay down, five minutes to pee and get dressed, and the rest was all travel. I mean, I did have to wait around a little, but that's fine, that's nothing. I'm pissed about having to stand so close to the bears waiting for a bus that will take an hour and a half to get me there. Don't ask me how the entire day gets gobbled up; it just does.
Oh, man. I really thought that whole thing would kill me. I wasn't strong enough to do anything, I couldn't get comfortable at all, I didn't even have an indoor voice. All I could do was whisper. I was this pathetic, shriveled creature that couldn't stop vomiting long enough to take her pills. You know the worst choice to give someone? "Should I give you the medicine for your pain, or the medicine for your nausea?"
Because that's when you know―you don't so much mind the puke. That was the most intense pain ever. I was going to die. I was going to make absolutely sure of it. If that happens again...
Well, whatever. Happy thoughts, right? Suppose my book is going okay; kind of rocky at times, I know. But I have an excuse; it's just me. I don't have any help. What's the excuse for all the horrible movies and TV shows out there? Shrek The Third, what the hell was that? Anyway, in my current story, which took a backseat for a story that took me a year, I am writing the 58th chapter. Since that chapter is incomplete, I count it when I say that all I need is seven more chapters for it to be the longest book I ever published.
And in my original story, I'm working on the 33rd chapter and estimate over 1,000 pages. How come I don't know for sure? Wordpad. Where do I get my estimate? Microsoft. I'd have kept my story there, but it's so big that it crashes the app. So proud! Of my terrible story. That no one will read.
I guess I am prouder of my fan fiction. It doesn't get a lot of attention. When it does, it's either negative or the person has only come to say, "Interesting." I hate that. My last comment was, "I'm not complaining..."
Wow. That was over a year ago, July 18th. It may be glaringly obvious that I am a struggling author, but at least I post original pieces of crap. I've come across the transcript of the movie on that site, and it's got hundreds of reviews giving it praise. I mean, if you don't watch the show, don't read about it. It's insulting to the people who wrote the original transcript.
And yes, I publish AI pictures. Stop bitching. I'm not selling it. I'm not saying, "This is me!" so just piss off. I am happy with the result, I enjoy looking at it, and I'll lose it if I don't save it somewhere. You don't have a problem with AI; you have a problem with people calling it art. If your problem was with AI, you wouldn't own technology. You wouldn't play games with AI characters and you wouldn't watch movies with AI characters. You'd ban it all, not just the websites.
The people who sell their AI image piss me off, too. They don't deserve a profit. The people claiming to be the person in an AI-generated photo, or the parent of the child in an AI-generated photo, are just creepy. Be mad at them. That makes sense.
Well, I think I've said all I need to. I may not be able to escape―ugh―people, but I can definitely say it's bedtime. You know, when I had my first stent put in and I woke up feeling healthy, I was elated. I experienced happiness for an entire week. Then the depression hit me again. Now I have to dwell on how bad it was if I want to feel good again.
Being depressed is making me depressed.
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