¿¿ʇɐɥʇ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ 'ʇıɐʍ

I'm taking less medication, which means I'm laying clutching my stomach for longer spells in the morning. I force my eyes to sleep through much of it. I get up and use the walls to balance as I walk to the kitchen for some early food when I give in to the pain and desire the "treat" from the orange pill bottle. Those plastic receptacles don't really seem much like bottles.

I think bottle has a few different nuances. I hear that Highwaymen song and I have no idea what "lost her bottles" means.

Today is sort of a TCB day. Business being hospital and school communications.

I just got off the phone with someone who is sending me a charity application to take care of my bill. I haven't even seen the dollar number attached to the doctor hospital business, and I'm certain it isn't going to be something that will please me or my empty pockets.

I'm kind of curious to know what the lab who analyzed the thing that was removed from my insides has to say about it. They said the results would be back in a week. Something wasn't supposed to be in there. It grew to the size of a goose egg and ruptured. I didn't care before, but now I really want to know why. I called the doctor and jussohappens that he'll be gone for a week. His assistant too. "Oh." I said and accepted another week of wonder. I know they said it wasn't cancer. But there is that little voice that sounds like "whatif." They didn't think the minor abnormality that appeared in my mom's mammogram was cancer until after they removed it and found out it was.

People keep asking me what I want to eat. I have no preference. My preference, actually, is to not let the pills make me throw up. As long as you present me with a meal, I don't really care. Wait, I DO care. And I really appreciate it. It can just be anything.

I feel a little out of it now, but it is apparently nothing in contrast to how I was when I took the nighttime doses. I fell asleep while continuing to communicate with my scientist friend, Lisa. I have the chat transcript to prove it:

me: My legs keep tripping

Lisa: ha

me: I'M not even walking

Lisa: literally or metaphorically?

me: I rolled my ankle
Like when you feel like you've been falling

me: Who Ii ty yyyy

Lisa: who what?

me: F ty u rob fu

Lisa: oh boy

me: I'm keeping the poltergeist

Lisa: sounds scary!

me: j can see him
They pullout pillow is texting

me: I have ny hand on my phone I keep squeezing a hand
But is the phone t

Lisa: hmm

me: It isn't.
Too far.
AND then they'd pull you t h chat records (like i did, i was onto my future self)
This phone turns into a tricky machine
Its ny brain.

[2:06 AM]
me: Don language, is eat

Lisa: hmm

me: I think I have small jerky seizures

Lisa: they're probz not for reals seizures
just little pilly blips
that happens

Clearly, I cut out most of the chatter, but for the most of it, Lisa was talking about real things and I was just mashing my keyboard in response. Actually, swyping on my smartphone. Same thing.

So that is my proof that I am still being medicated and it does nothing to contribute to my thinking brain.

I have been drawing. I stopped drawing pathetic self portraits and moved on to portraits of better looking people that I know. Also, each of them are awesome.

There's the aforementioned scientist. Who does not have an eye patch, but I couldn't help but take the Jeff's advice when he said, "have her wearing an eye patch that has an eye crudely painted on it."


The vintage clothier. Carmen, outfitter to the stars. I drew the logo for her brand, Closet Case Vintage.



And the musician. Caitlin Rose. She's on her way to being a really big deal. She has a unique sound and serious songwriting skillz. Go buy her new record. It's better than yours.



I'd like to do better drawings of all those folks and their interesting faces, but I think getting those out in my sickness ain't so bad. In the meantime, I'm going to try to get as much homework in as I can. Today has already exhausted me.