So I've been up for about 40 hours now... Ok, I'm lying. I took some naps here and there to keep myself from going crazy. I'd love to say that I've been up partying on some crazy meth binge with some members from Celebrity Rehab but life is never that good.
My vagina pee hole has been inflamed since last night, and if you've ever had the joyous experience of a UTI/bladder infection/cystitis, then you know what an awesome day I've had.
I blame myself... kinda. First, I think it started with the Carl's Jr Famous Star meal that I scarfed down. It gave me heartburn and a gassy feeling although I regret to say that I wasn't farting my ass off all night. It was more like trapped gas and I sat up most of last night trying to burp or fart or sneeze or queef, or anything to relieve the pain. This is how it started, I believe. After all, I do have access to WebMD.com and therefore I can self diagnose. Anywho, I think this trapped gas thing started the pressure on my bladder.
Secondly, my period had been lingering around for a while now. Since I don't use tampons and instead use 'Insteads' (they're kinda like plastic diaphragm cups that hold your menstrual flow and you change 1-2 times a day), I think this was the second factor. The Instead is hard around the circular base, and with the gas pushing down on my bladder, my insides were feeling pretty tight and cramped (it usually gets like that during my period anyway). I knew that the Instead was pushing on my urinal tract, but as usual, it was just easier to ignore it and hope for the best. I mean, who wants to wear a pad? Ew.
I was feeling a bit of tightness down there by this point... so of course, it was my duty to put it over the edge for a full blown UTI. The gas was driving me nuts by 4am, so I thought maybe if I sat on the toilet for a while, something would happen and everything would be better.
I sat on the toilet, waiting for a miracle to transpose, but no such luck. I decided to take matters into my own hands, and started pushing a little bit. You know, just to give my ass a little nudge and a wink... nothing happened. So I pushed some more, and here and there, I managed to muster out a little bit of flatulence here and there. Victory! So I decide to go for it and try to make myself actually 'go'. So I'm trying to make myself poop, even though my body was saying nope. This goes on for an hour or so.
Meanwhile, all of this pushing is smashing my Instead into my urinal tract, and every couple of minutes, a few drops of pee are leaking out as I am having my push session. Towards the end, I notice that my bladder is starting to burn, and nothing more than a few drops here and there are vacating my vagina.
After I get off the toilet to go to bed, my bladder, now fully irritated, is burning, and my urethra is aching to pee more. Finally, I've realized what I've brought on myself.
For the next few hours, I writhe around my bed in pain, unable to rest or do anything but think about peeing. At around 9am, I get in my shower and blast my abdomen with hot water hoping that some relief would come. I popped out my Instead, and let myself bleed out in the shower until the hot water runs out, and then go back to bed. I decide to not wear my Instead at this point because I'd much rather bleed all over my bed than be in the pain I am in.
The freezing cold of my room isn't helping much at this point, either. I turn up my heating blanket, and finally give in and set up my space heater. I watch HGTV for a few hours, hoping that I might be so interested that maybe I forget that I have to pee but the only word on my mind is PEE PEE PEE PEE PEE.
This is serious torture. I start downing bottles of water hoping that my bladder can fill up quickly so that I can get a good pee in, but for some reason, once your urinal tract is swollen inside, the most you can squeeze out is a trickle anyway.
Around noon, I suddenly realize that I had some Uristat that I had bought at Kaiser a year ago, so I dug it up, ate some stale bread, and popped my pills. Finally, relief. I laid down, and nodded in and out of sleep until 4pm, then got up and had a good long piss. This felt amazing for maybe 15 seconds, and then the burning resumed.
For the rest of my day, I continued downing water, and watched episode after episode of Design on A Dime and House Hunters. I kind of nodded in and out of sleep, while Josephine slept on my feet since I hadn't yet made the bed after her pee incident from the previous night.
I ordered in chicken fried rice from a chinese restaurant and took more Uristat, watched 'The Savages', and just now, ate some tortilla chips so that I could down a couple more Uristat.
I'm starting to feel better now, I'm hoping that I can sleep for a good 4 hours, and wake up without a throbbing vagina. Let this be a lesson to you... never take your piss for granted.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
fisrt post biznatchez
So here I am at Creative Writing Night... I'm typing with one hand (hunt and peck, hunt and peck), and with the other, I am lovingly scratching Ron's grey furry feline ass. My phone is vibrating in my lap, and I ignore it because tonight, I have much more important things to ponder.
1. What can I possibly write about? I mean, there is plenty to write about. But nothing that I feel inspired to rant about just yet.
2. What am I doing with the rest of my life? I love writing, I love art, I love expressing myself through these mediums. I just need to be pragmatic for once and decide, "where is the goddamned money?". Life is too short to live in a shithole studio guesthouse for the rest of my pathetic life. I need to be objective and actually do something with my life. I mean, I AM thirty years old now. THIRTY YEARS OLD. I never thought I'd ever live to say that.
Honestly. I was that much of an asshole.
Any way, thirty is that grown up age. My mother had me by the time that she was thirty. She was married, with 2 kids, paying bills, being a housewife. 6 years later, she'd be a widow, with a third child, a second house to sell, making funeral arrangements for her husband of 12 years. Wow. That really helps me put my life in perspective.
I always make the excuse that times are different now, that I need to take my time and make the right decisions in life, but in reality I know there are no right decisions... just varying degrees of wrong.
I digress.
Ultimately, what I'd like to do is create a journal retelling my experiences in life, from childhood, adulthood, and whatever other hood I can fit in. Part of me says that I'm out of my mind to believe that my life is so interesting that anyone else would give a shit what I have to say, or what boring pompous stories I can tell. Another side of me says that I've read books that were less eventful, that have opened my eyes and made me see, feel, smell, experience what that author was going through.
Anyway, I'm rambling again!
I'll start with a story.
As a child, I'd always expected that I'd do something boring and meaningful with myself, as far as a career goes. I'd imagined I'd become a doctor, a veterinarian, a lawyer, a psychiatrist, anything that is boring and requires lots of schooling. On career day, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my usual reply was, "an astronaut." I always thought that answer required the least explanation, and was an indication that I was aspiring to do the impossible (something that seems to be really important in public schooling to keep the poor folk down). I also thought that "astronaut" was one of those really typical answers like, "firefighter" or, "President of The United States," that teachers expected dumb school children to say. To me, it was much easier than saying, "I don't know" (requires explanation and prodding from the teachers because God forbid an 8 year old not know what to do with the rest of her life) or "housewife" (hey, just following by example).
My answer was usually received with a pat on the back, and a patronizing smile, followed with some "follow your dreams" speech. I usually anticipated these things, and I would smile and nod my head quickly in agreement, anything to get the spotlight off of me. The teacher would move on to Billy or Bobby (this is just a stereotype, if I was being accurate, it'd be Jose or Julio), who would give some lame unrealistic answer, and she'd smile and praise the child and say some lame words of encouragement. It kind of bothered me to hear the teacher tell useless, illiterate children that they could do anything with their lives. I felt like it was invalidating what she was just saying to me. Sure, I did answer some ridiculous answer like "astronaut," but still. I think I still had more chance of becoming an astronaut than this retarded kid Billy did of becoming President of The United States. I call bullshit on that lying whore.
Which brings me to my point... why the fuck didn't I just stick to the plan and become an astronaut?! My decision making skills infuriate me. Okay, sure, I would've probably never become an actual astronaut, but maybe I'd have gone to a good college (or a college at all, for starters) and I would've maybe studied physics and whatever other stuff they make astronauts study, and maybe I'd be a scientist or something. Anything that pays actual money. At least I wouldn't be living in a studio guest house in North Hollywood with a cat that pees on my bed and a stack of bills that just stare me down on a daily basis saying, "FEEEED MEEEEE".
Ah. Life is good, brother. Life is good...
1. What can I possibly write about? I mean, there is plenty to write about. But nothing that I feel inspired to rant about just yet.
2. What am I doing with the rest of my life? I love writing, I love art, I love expressing myself through these mediums. I just need to be pragmatic for once and decide, "where is the goddamned money?". Life is too short to live in a shithole studio guesthouse for the rest of my pathetic life. I need to be objective and actually do something with my life. I mean, I AM thirty years old now. THIRTY YEARS OLD. I never thought I'd ever live to say that.
Honestly. I was that much of an asshole.
Any way, thirty is that grown up age. My mother had me by the time that she was thirty. She was married, with 2 kids, paying bills, being a housewife. 6 years later, she'd be a widow, with a third child, a second house to sell, making funeral arrangements for her husband of 12 years. Wow. That really helps me put my life in perspective.
I always make the excuse that times are different now, that I need to take my time and make the right decisions in life, but in reality I know there are no right decisions... just varying degrees of wrong.
I digress.
Ultimately, what I'd like to do is create a journal retelling my experiences in life, from childhood, adulthood, and whatever other hood I can fit in. Part of me says that I'm out of my mind to believe that my life is so interesting that anyone else would give a shit what I have to say, or what boring pompous stories I can tell. Another side of me says that I've read books that were less eventful, that have opened my eyes and made me see, feel, smell, experience what that author was going through.
Anyway, I'm rambling again!
I'll start with a story.
As a child, I'd always expected that I'd do something boring and meaningful with myself, as far as a career goes. I'd imagined I'd become a doctor, a veterinarian, a lawyer, a psychiatrist, anything that is boring and requires lots of schooling. On career day, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my usual reply was, "an astronaut." I always thought that answer required the least explanation, and was an indication that I was aspiring to do the impossible (something that seems to be really important in public schooling to keep the poor folk down). I also thought that "astronaut" was one of those really typical answers like, "firefighter" or, "President of The United States," that teachers expected dumb school children to say. To me, it was much easier than saying, "I don't know" (requires explanation and prodding from the teachers because God forbid an 8 year old not know what to do with the rest of her life) or "housewife" (hey, just following by example).
My answer was usually received with a pat on the back, and a patronizing smile, followed with some "follow your dreams" speech. I usually anticipated these things, and I would smile and nod my head quickly in agreement, anything to get the spotlight off of me. The teacher would move on to Billy or Bobby (this is just a stereotype, if I was being accurate, it'd be Jose or Julio), who would give some lame unrealistic answer, and she'd smile and praise the child and say some lame words of encouragement. It kind of bothered me to hear the teacher tell useless, illiterate children that they could do anything with their lives. I felt like it was invalidating what she was just saying to me. Sure, I did answer some ridiculous answer like "astronaut," but still. I think I still had more chance of becoming an astronaut than this retarded kid Billy did of becoming President of The United States. I call bullshit on that lying whore.
Which brings me to my point... why the fuck didn't I just stick to the plan and become an astronaut?! My decision making skills infuriate me. Okay, sure, I would've probably never become an actual astronaut, but maybe I'd have gone to a good college (or a college at all, for starters) and I would've maybe studied physics and whatever other stuff they make astronauts study, and maybe I'd be a scientist or something. Anything that pays actual money. At least I wouldn't be living in a studio guest house in North Hollywood with a cat that pees on my bed and a stack of bills that just stare me down on a daily basis saying, "FEEEED MEEEEE".
Ah. Life is good, brother. Life is good...
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