Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Saturday, February 23, 2002

Pretending to be

Just me, Pretending To Be.

Well. Nothing has really changed. Really.

I didn't just find out that I have something terminal, that I'll finally get lucky and the miserable pain will actually get to end -- how's that for a silver lining, but no.

I finally have a diagnosis that EVERYONE will take seriously on top of other Bad Things. The words "possible remission if we've reached it in time" are scary.

BUT Talk about no bloody respect. No, it can't be nifty and KILL me or anything, no, it's happy with just MAIMING my fat white ass and letting me go. Like branding a fucking cow, here's your wheelchair, mooooooooove along.

"Might as well put a potato on a string and drag it through South Boston ..."

Nothing has changed. I'm still in the same pain I was. I'm not any more fragile, I'm not going to suddenly crack and go climb a clock tower (face it, I couldn't make it up ten steps) or drop dead.

I'm still me, for whatever that's worth.

God has seen fit to once again prove to me, however, that not only does he have a really really sadistic sense of humour, but he really likes to draaaaaaag the joke out.

I have Four, count them, Four conditions that will not just up and vanish. Asthma is fickle. Fibro has No Cure. Raynaud's has no cure, plus the groovy possibility of bodily dismemberment -- call the gang, green is here. RSD can take all four of my limbs away from me, eat away at my brain and leave me as some sarcastic fat chick in a wheelchair with cybernetic drug pumps stashed in her body.

They'll push me and stab me and burn me and scar me until something ELSE finally makes me drop dead. How @$&*#$ ironic.

Who the @#$*& comes up with this? What do they do, have some sort of Predestination Bingo Night, Winner #$#*& takes all?

Coldsmoke also wants to know why the same doofus that cooked up these hairbrained plot twists of mayhem had to sink the final nail in the coffin with blue balls.


Because you don't even get a coffin, in fact, you just might live forever (or at least it will seem that way) because you're going to 112, tooling around in your little wheelchair cybercoach, and some fat bastard in a bus is going to run your ass down just as you finally beat that very boss in ....

Aw, game over.

Uh. Shit. This was not where this post was meant to go, but there it is.

I never really contacted with the denial stage here. I went from relieved to stunned, to borderline panic to bloody annoyance and finally to generally taking the whole thing in with the same sarcastic crap that's seen me through the last thirty years and seems determined to drag me kicking and screaming through the next thirty more.

If you got to laugh -- or at least crack a grin, yes, you the Doo of Voo -- then I guess my real work here is done.

And until that time when the thundering grey dog comes bearing down on your ass with all the forces of heaven and hell behind it and you're looking for a port in any storm and not even God appears to be listening, you just keep your hand on the grip because when you're facing The Man at last, you'll know he's finally played his last card. You just do what old Jack Burton does ...

Oh come on, what? Do you want to live forever?

I'm Channeling Me, Pretending To Be
pooka who would like to point out to the world at large that SHE IS STILL FREAKING AWAKE!

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