Poppy Z. Brite's Blog, page 71
January 23, 2011
Woe Is Me
I just wrote a long, personal entry about agoraphobia, the gist of which was my depressing realization that my life when I'm sick isn't all that much different than my life when I'm well, except that I feel worse. Livejournal ate it, though, and I don't have the energy to reconstruct. Instead, I'll leave you with this, which pretty much sums it up.
January 22, 2011
Dusty Bootheels Clocking Down the Highway
... and a crow on the telephone wire, casting a red-flecked eye upon me. Next thing I know there'll be weasels in the corn. Sick again (could you guess?). Cotton-headed, lung-burning, short-of-breath, coughing-all-night sick. And snot. And snot. And more snot. Which is why I think of it as Captain Trips. I said so on Twitter, and someone called me "Patient Zero," which reminded me that I sometimes annoy Chris by singing "WEEEEEE are the CAMPIONS, my friiiee-ends ... and WE'LL keep on DRIVING till ARNETTE, TEXAS ... where we'll crash into the GAS PUMPS and spread the SUPERFLU to all of the PEOPLE and everybody ... IN THE WORRRRRRRRLLLLLLD." To the tune of the Queen song, you know. Yeah, it doesn't really scan that well. I'm delirious, OK? I don't know if I have a fever, but I can't think straight with a head that's all snot and no pot.
Hey, that wasn't half bad.
Less appetite than ever. I'll be subsisting all day on a rusk again soon.
I'm holed up in the little bedroom I call the annex, because our bedroom is the coldest room in the house. Gotta do something about insulation before next winter, if they're going to keep being this cold. All my non-hardy container plants will probably die tonight. It's supposed to freeze, but I simply did not have the strength to bring them in.
Oh, and my car is broken. Not that I feel like going anywhere.
This is a bunch of disjointed rambling, but y'all say you like that, so what the hell. Here's a dream I had last night. I dream about Amsterdam most nights, but this was the first time I'd dreamed of being in an Albert Heijn (ubiquitous grocery store chain). I was trying to check out, but somehow everything kept going wrong. The cashier and other customers around me were being nice, but kind of doing so with their teeth gritted, if you know what I mean. I could almost hear them thinking, "Stupid, stoned American! Doesn't even know how to pay for a few groceries!"
Now I wish I had a chocowaffel. Why bother, though? I wouldn't be able to taste it.
Lately, I've also had a lot of nightmares where I'm out in public and suddenly realize that I'm -- no, not naked, I never did have those dreams -- dressed in women's clothes. I've been wondering if other trans folk in the early stages of transitioning have similar dreams.
OK, that's it, I'm too tired to type any more.
Hey, that wasn't half bad.
Less appetite than ever. I'll be subsisting all day on a rusk again soon.
I'm holed up in the little bedroom I call the annex, because our bedroom is the coldest room in the house. Gotta do something about insulation before next winter, if they're going to keep being this cold. All my non-hardy container plants will probably die tonight. It's supposed to freeze, but I simply did not have the strength to bring them in.
Oh, and my car is broken. Not that I feel like going anywhere.
This is a bunch of disjointed rambling, but y'all say you like that, so what the hell. Here's a dream I had last night. I dream about Amsterdam most nights, but this was the first time I'd dreamed of being in an Albert Heijn (ubiquitous grocery store chain). I was trying to check out, but somehow everything kept going wrong. The cashier and other customers around me were being nice, but kind of doing so with their teeth gritted, if you know what I mean. I could almost hear them thinking, "Stupid, stoned American! Doesn't even know how to pay for a few groceries!"
Now I wish I had a chocowaffel. Why bother, though? I wouldn't be able to taste it.
Lately, I've also had a lot of nightmares where I'm out in public and suddenly realize that I'm -- no, not naked, I never did have those dreams -- dressed in women's clothes. I've been wondering if other trans folk in the early stages of transitioning have similar dreams.
OK, that's it, I'm too tired to type any more.
January 17, 2011
Boring
Activity level: not too shabby. Laundered bedding, fed snakes, ridded up dishes, cleaned and rearranged countertop to make room for the toaster-oven my dad and stepmother gave us for Christmas. Our old toaster oven (which was seriously almost as old as me) died a couple of years ago, and I don't know why I never got another. Wasn't I just whining the other night about having to heat up the whole oven to toast hot dog buns? Well, there you go.
More cleaning and tidying must occur before Wednesday, when my mom is coming to visit and look at the house next door. I've been trying to convince her to let me rent it and move her back to New Orleans even though she has a house to sell in Mississippi, and I think I'm almost there. I don't know why she ever thought she wanted to live in rural Mississippi, and she's bored to death, plus it would be nice for me having her right next door. I doubt I would have thought so when I was younger, but my life is a lot more sedate now. And being a hermit doesn't keep one from getting lonely.
Obviously she knows I'll be going through some transition-related stuff in the next few years. The situation wouldn't really be feasible if she didn't. She's not a hundred percent comfortable with it (I'd be surprised if parents ever are), but she's really, really trying.
Anybody want to buy a house in rural Mississippi (but within an hour's drive of New Orleans)? Nice Acadian cottage, 4 acres including woodland, great birdwatching!
I'm suddenly sleepy, which is not allowed; I still have litterboxes to scoop. Can't decide whether to lie down and rest my back for a little while first or just go ahead and do it while I'm still (more or less) ambulatory. I didn't get Chris to bring in any God damn jugs of litter from the trunk of my God damn car, so I'll have to go get them my God damn self, and those God damn things kill my back. This is boring. I know it's boring. It's boring to have to think through the steps of every action before you do it and decide whether you're capable of them. Boring.
More cleaning and tidying must occur before Wednesday, when my mom is coming to visit and look at the house next door. I've been trying to convince her to let me rent it and move her back to New Orleans even though she has a house to sell in Mississippi, and I think I'm almost there. I don't know why she ever thought she wanted to live in rural Mississippi, and she's bored to death, plus it would be nice for me having her right next door. I doubt I would have thought so when I was younger, but my life is a lot more sedate now. And being a hermit doesn't keep one from getting lonely.
Obviously she knows I'll be going through some transition-related stuff in the next few years. The situation wouldn't really be feasible if she didn't. She's not a hundred percent comfortable with it (I'd be surprised if parents ever are), but she's really, really trying.
Anybody want to buy a house in rural Mississippi (but within an hour's drive of New Orleans)? Nice Acadian cottage, 4 acres including woodland, great birdwatching!
I'm suddenly sleepy, which is not allowed; I still have litterboxes to scoop. Can't decide whether to lie down and rest my back for a little while first or just go ahead and do it while I'm still (more or less) ambulatory. I didn't get Chris to bring in any God damn jugs of litter from the trunk of my God damn car, so I'll have to go get them my God damn self, and those God damn things kill my back. This is boring. I know it's boring. It's boring to have to think through the steps of every action before you do it and decide whether you're capable of them. Boring.
January 15, 2011
The Worst Thing I've Seen A Cat Do
I've had my property peed, shat, and puked upon, clawed, shredded, chewed, eaten, smashed, spilled, stolen, and otherwise destroyed by cats. The first two kittens Chris and I ever had together, left alone in my tiny apartment for less than thirty minutes, created such a jaw-dropping mess of dry lentils, split peas, sugar, oil, various spices, and coffee-grounds-laced garbage that we were compelled to photograph it before cleaning it up. (I still have those pictures somewhere.) I've had to refinish floors and scrub baseboards down with toothbrushes. In other words, I've seen pretty much every facet of feline destruction and disgustingness. Tonight, though, I am here to tell you about the single most horrible thing I ever knew a cat to do.
Colm (see icon) had been one of those two little bitty kittens who made that amazing mess. Thirteen years later, he was an elder statesman of the house. He'd always had a tendency toward crankiness. As a youth, he could be a savage biter. I don't always discourage this as strictly as one should, and I probably still bear his scars somewhere. In his advancing age, though, he lost his taste for human flesh and began developing subtler ways to torture us. Not just the usual breakage and such, but imaginative ways. Witness:
I had fixed a meal of oven-roasted chicken parts (bone-in, skin-on, lots of fat -- this is important) and vegetables on a big, foil-lined sheet pan. The food was drained on paper towels, the dinner was consumed, and I somewhat negligently left the sheet pan (covered in at least a quarter-inch of liquid chicken fat) sitting out on the stovetop to deal with later. It crossed my mind that somebody might lap at the chicken fat, but the cats didn't usually get on the stove, and surely no one would do any worse than that.
Imagine my horror when I came back into the kitchen perhaps thirty minutes later and found Colm lying on his side in the congealing but still warm pan of chicken fat, looking absolutely blissful. He loved any warm surface -- a heating pad, a spot of sun -- but never in a thousand years had I imagined that he would do such a thing as this. His fur had soaked up the chicken fat and his entire left side was absolutely sopping with it. I called for Chris to verify that I was actually seeing this hideous vision, and he came and looked and shook his head in disbelief that mirrored my own. As for cleaning up, all I could think to do was scoop Colm up in a big towel -- he didn't want to go; he liked his nice warm fat-bath -- take him in the bathroom, get in the tub with him, sprinkle him down with baby powder, and comb it out of his fur. The first few applications just made a horrible paste I had to kind of scrape off him. Eventually it soaked up enough of the grease that I could wipe him down without him dripping everywhere, then give him a quick bath with a shower attachment and baby shampoo, which he didn't like either. Even after that, he felt faintly greasy for days, and the other cats kept wanting to lick him.
And that, my friends, is the worst thing I've ever seen a cat do ... so far.
(R.I.P. Colm, 1990-2007)
Colm (see icon) had been one of those two little bitty kittens who made that amazing mess. Thirteen years later, he was an elder statesman of the house. He'd always had a tendency toward crankiness. As a youth, he could be a savage biter. I don't always discourage this as strictly as one should, and I probably still bear his scars somewhere. In his advancing age, though, he lost his taste for human flesh and began developing subtler ways to torture us. Not just the usual breakage and such, but imaginative ways. Witness:
I had fixed a meal of oven-roasted chicken parts (bone-in, skin-on, lots of fat -- this is important) and vegetables on a big, foil-lined sheet pan. The food was drained on paper towels, the dinner was consumed, and I somewhat negligently left the sheet pan (covered in at least a quarter-inch of liquid chicken fat) sitting out on the stovetop to deal with later. It crossed my mind that somebody might lap at the chicken fat, but the cats didn't usually get on the stove, and surely no one would do any worse than that.
Imagine my horror when I came back into the kitchen perhaps thirty minutes later and found Colm lying on his side in the congealing but still warm pan of chicken fat, looking absolutely blissful. He loved any warm surface -- a heating pad, a spot of sun -- but never in a thousand years had I imagined that he would do such a thing as this. His fur had soaked up the chicken fat and his entire left side was absolutely sopping with it. I called for Chris to verify that I was actually seeing this hideous vision, and he came and looked and shook his head in disbelief that mirrored my own. As for cleaning up, all I could think to do was scoop Colm up in a big towel -- he didn't want to go; he liked his nice warm fat-bath -- take him in the bathroom, get in the tub with him, sprinkle him down with baby powder, and comb it out of his fur. The first few applications just made a horrible paste I had to kind of scrape off him. Eventually it soaked up enough of the grease that I could wipe him down without him dripping everywhere, then give him a quick bath with a shower attachment and baby shampoo, which he didn't like either. Even after that, he felt faintly greasy for days, and the other cats kept wanting to lick him.
And that, my friends, is the worst thing I've ever seen a cat do ... so far.
(R.I.P. Colm, 1990-2007)
January 10, 2011
Also
I'm going to keep this default icon until after the Super Bowl, since WE ARE STILL THE REIGNING WORLD CHAMPIONS. After that, though, I might get a new one. How much would y'all hate me if you had to look at this on your FL every day, with maybe a little Trollface shopped in behind him?
With Relish!
One of my recent really bad habits is just not wanting to bother to eat. Sometimes I do the right thing and have an Ensure or a smoothie. Sometimes, though, I do the Very Wrong Thing and look at disgusting material to kill my appetite entirely. Blood and guts don't do it for me; they're interesting but not sickening. What grosses me out most is bodily secretions, so imagine my joy when I found this seemingly endless "Tell us about your most disgusting experience" thread on a nurse's forum. (No pictures, but DO NOT CLICK unless you want to find out what makes my gorge rise, and I have a strong gorge. Nurses are hardcore, man.)
Anyway, I was sitting here moping around the Internet, and my train of thought went something like this: ... Kinda hungry ... think there might still be a couple of hot dogs in the fridge ... maybe I should fix myself a hot dog ... but I'd have to dig my way out from under this pile of cats and heat up the oven to crisp the bun and waaaah waaaah waaaah ... say, maybe I'll take a look at that nurses' forum.
And the first story I came across was THIS:
It had to be TODAY! I had a patient who had a FB [foreign body, not Facebook -- PZB] up his rectum. Surgeon tried to get it out from below because she did not want to open his belly. It was a glass jar and we could see the gold metal cap when she spread open his rectum. She tried prying it only to have the top come off and what came out was------------------ SWEET RELISH! The place smelled like a hot dog stand. She managed to get the jar out while doing no damage. The guy was very lucky, but some of us are going to have a hard time eating any hot dogs in the future. Mike
Now as you might guess, things up asses aren't one of my big squicks, but I could just about smell that lovely blend of relish and rectum. Couldn't you?
So maybe I won't have a hot dog.
Hey, the Saints are out of the playoffs and it's threatening to sleet. DON'T JUDGE ME OK.
Anyway, I was sitting here moping around the Internet, and my train of thought went something like this: ... Kinda hungry ... think there might still be a couple of hot dogs in the fridge ... maybe I should fix myself a hot dog ... but I'd have to dig my way out from under this pile of cats and heat up the oven to crisp the bun and waaaah waaaah waaaah ... say, maybe I'll take a look at that nurses' forum.
And the first story I came across was THIS:
It had to be TODAY! I had a patient who had a FB [foreign body, not Facebook -- PZB] up his rectum. Surgeon tried to get it out from below because she did not want to open his belly. It was a glass jar and we could see the gold metal cap when she spread open his rectum. She tried prying it only to have the top come off and what came out was------------------ SWEET RELISH! The place smelled like a hot dog stand. She managed to get the jar out while doing no damage. The guy was very lucky, but some of us are going to have a hard time eating any hot dogs in the future. Mike
Now as you might guess, things up asses aren't one of my big squicks, but I could just about smell that lovely blend of relish and rectum. Couldn't you?
So maybe I won't have a hot dog.
Hey, the Saints are out of the playoffs and it's threatening to sleet. DON'T JUDGE ME OK.
January 8, 2011
"He looked like a man who had once made a living selling brute force."
Chef Pete is back in town!
We haven't been out to Mimi's yet, but if anything will get me out of the damn house, this should do it.
We haven't been out to Mimi's yet, but if anything will get me out of the damn house, this should do it.
January 7, 2011
The Evolution of a Box Office Smash
I have the best text exchanges with
![[info]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380442897i/1319734.gif)
marquisdd
. Somehow a discussion of Stephen King's Full Dark, No Stars turned into this:
PZB: I've long been in favor of tarring, feathering, & dumping at city limits people who have lived here a year or more & haven't read A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES.
MDD: You're onto something there! Serial killer who murders from outrage in victims' taste in literature. I'll be your sidekick. J.J. [Jennifer Jason] Leigh can play you in the movie. I've already got a call in to Crispin Glover for my role.
PZB: SUCK IT
SAMUEL L. JACKSON PLAYS ME OR NO DEAL
MDD: He's method. He shouldn't balk at having 47" of shin removed to get him to the right height for the role.
PZB: He will play the real me, the one only Chris & a few other very special people see.
PZB: Not that I think I'm black, but I can't think of any white actors I like since Dennis Hopper died. Alan Alda just wouldn't be right.
PZB: Maybe Johnny Depp?
MDD: "Get these MUTHAFUCKIN' illiterates off my MUTHAFUCKIN' levees!"
MDD: James Spader?
PZB: See. I hardly know who that is - I never see movies. Anyway, I think I want Johnny Depp. With C. Glover as you, we'll be a box office hit.
MDD: All right. I'll concede. YOU can have C. Glover, and JJ Leigh will play me. (Unless Parker Posey's available.)
PZB: Did I SAY I wanted C. Glover? Read my fingers: JOHNNY. DEPP. In his HST mode.
MDD: Can I talk the producers into Faye Dunaway dressed as me doing Faye Dunaway doing Joan Crawford?
PZB: O god now my head hurts.
PZB: Now what are we again? Serial killers?
MDD: Casting agents, I think.
PZB: I hate the movies anyway.
marquisdd
. Somehow a discussion of Stephen King's Full Dark, No Stars turned into this:PZB: I've long been in favor of tarring, feathering, & dumping at city limits people who have lived here a year or more & haven't read A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES.
MDD: You're onto something there! Serial killer who murders from outrage in victims' taste in literature. I'll be your sidekick. J.J. [Jennifer Jason] Leigh can play you in the movie. I've already got a call in to Crispin Glover for my role.
PZB: SUCK IT
SAMUEL L. JACKSON PLAYS ME OR NO DEAL
MDD: He's method. He shouldn't balk at having 47" of shin removed to get him to the right height for the role.
PZB: He will play the real me, the one only Chris & a few other very special people see.
PZB: Not that I think I'm black, but I can't think of any white actors I like since Dennis Hopper died. Alan Alda just wouldn't be right.
PZB: Maybe Johnny Depp?
MDD: "Get these MUTHAFUCKIN' illiterates off my MUTHAFUCKIN' levees!"
MDD: James Spader?
PZB: See. I hardly know who that is - I never see movies. Anyway, I think I want Johnny Depp. With C. Glover as you, we'll be a box office hit.
MDD: All right. I'll concede. YOU can have C. Glover, and JJ Leigh will play me. (Unless Parker Posey's available.)
PZB: Did I SAY I wanted C. Glover? Read my fingers: JOHNNY. DEPP. In his HST mode.
MDD: Can I talk the producers into Faye Dunaway dressed as me doing Faye Dunaway doing Joan Crawford?
PZB: O god now my head hurts.
PZB: Now what are we again? Serial killers?
MDD: Casting agents, I think.
PZB: I hate the movies anyway.
January 6, 2011
Dreams'n'Shit
I am at a remarkably low ebb.
I like the cats, especially getting to know the newly arrived, formerly abused older gray cat, Tristan, who's starting to come out of his shell and be less scared of the other cats. I like my iPod, my new ear buds, and my stupid fantasy of going on the boat with B & T. I like Klonopin. That's about it right now.
Since my early twenties, I've had intermittently recurring dreams of having to go back to school. Not any school I actually went to, but some never-ending school where math class always seems to be going on. These have been showing up lately, along with dreams of being stranded in places where I have nowhere to stay or feel unwelcome where I'm staying. In these latter dreams, I often see unfamiliar birds and wish I could stop to get a better look at them, but I'm always being rushed off somewhere.
If I just say to myself before I go to sleep, "Now remember, you don't ever have to go to school again, and no matter where you travel or what you carry in your dreams, all your shit will be right here when you wake up" (I also have recurring nightmares about packing, traveling with pets, and various other logistics), then I usually don't have the dreams. Lately, though, I haven't been remembering to say it. Anyway, I'm sure it's all very symbolic, blah blah blah, verrrry interessssting, Watney's Red Barrel, let me tell you more until I start foaming at the mouth and falling over backwards WRRRRAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH
I like the cats, especially getting to know the newly arrived, formerly abused older gray cat, Tristan, who's starting to come out of his shell and be less scared of the other cats. I like my iPod, my new ear buds, and my stupid fantasy of going on the boat with B & T. I like Klonopin. That's about it right now.
Since my early twenties, I've had intermittently recurring dreams of having to go back to school. Not any school I actually went to, but some never-ending school where math class always seems to be going on. These have been showing up lately, along with dreams of being stranded in places where I have nowhere to stay or feel unwelcome where I'm staying. In these latter dreams, I often see unfamiliar birds and wish I could stop to get a better look at them, but I'm always being rushed off somewhere.
If I just say to myself before I go to sleep, "Now remember, you don't ever have to go to school again, and no matter where you travel or what you carry in your dreams, all your shit will be right here when you wake up" (I also have recurring nightmares about packing, traveling with pets, and various other logistics), then I usually don't have the dreams. Lately, though, I haven't been remembering to say it. Anyway, I'm sure it's all very symbolic, blah blah blah, verrrry interessssting, Watney's Red Barrel, let me tell you more until I start foaming at the mouth and falling over backwards WRRRRAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH
January 5, 2011
B.J. Request
Get your mind out of the gutter. Or leave it there if you like -- I was just wondering whether, on very short notice, someone could record/copy this for me:
Billy Joel documentary, Tuesday, Janurary 4th, the Biography channel, 9pm Central.
As in, tonight, like twenty minutes from now. Chris is watching the Sugar Bowl, and I suppose I could sweet-talk him into changing channels, but he gets so little time to relax ... so I thought I'd put out this request and hope!
[ETA: Someone on Twitter said I'd probably be able to watch it here in a day or so. I'm still not used to how nobody watches TV on TV anymore.]
Billy Joel documentary, Tuesday, Janurary 4th, the Biography channel, 9pm Central.
As in, tonight, like twenty minutes from now. Chris is watching the Sugar Bowl, and I suppose I could sweet-talk him into changing channels, but he gets so little time to relax ... so I thought I'd put out this request and hope!
[ETA: Someone on Twitter said I'd probably be able to watch it here in a day or so. I'm still not used to how nobody watches TV on TV anymore.]
