Wall Time

I've hit a wall – a giant, fat, hulking monster of morbid melancholia. Last night I was struggling with my mother’s chiding ghost – don’t be a burden, don’t ask for favors, expect nothing and be grateful when that’s all you get.

Why's this vile mood a thing? Well, fuck me mes amis:

• We’re in the middle of plague which the Oafish Twatling in Chief has, by turns, ignored, called a hoax and/or had Jar-Jar and the Dense One perform their usual banjaxerific incompetent fuckery.
• This coming Friday at 6 AM I’m going under the sharp pointy thing AGAIN. Hells bells, I’ve just built my motherfucking strength back up and I gotta be sliced open a-fucking-gain! NO FUCKING FAIRS!
• Fecal Face von Treasonweasel is pulling 12,000 troops out of Germany at his lord and master’s request .
• Moscow Mitch makes sure, in this crazy scary time of double digit unemployment, that the rich get richer and…well, if we plebes suffer and die so’s we can pay the rent/mortgage, grocery and electric bills…them’s the breaks.

OF BLOODY COURSE I'm mega sad and I need an assist. Capisce?

I found myself wondering if I should move into an assisted living joint. Jen and Oni could rent out my cottage and would no longer need to take care of me. By “take care of me” I’m referring to:

• Cooking. Really though, that I don’t cook is about my extra special kitchen incompetence and sloth rather than physical disability.
• Cleaning. I DO clean and tidy but not as much as is needed. This is half laziness and low standards, half lack of physical effervescence and a propensity for headaches from bending and lifting.
• Fixing shit around the house. I am NOT a knowledgeable or skilled shit-fixer. It’s also about me being shamelessly dilatory.
• Jen does all my phone work – anything that absolutely MUST be done by phone, she’s on it. Luckily, more and more companies, docs and nurses are cool with and set up for email correspondence.
• She takes me to my myriad appointments, tests and other MGH shit.
• Jen and Oni watch over me post surgeries AND help me regain strength and ability. Mind you, I used to go years and years between procedures – it’s only been since The Amazing Bob shuffled off this mortal coil that I’m racking up the big frequent flyer (slicer) OR hours.

An aside: TAB and I always took turns being ill. Was my broken bod holding its breath, waiting for TAB’s sweet skinsuit to turn the corner, before it fell apart? This would go aways toward explaining why I will have had three huge neurosurgeries within the space of 18 months (and another in the wings this coming winter). I had a backlog.

OK, now that I look at the list, I see that I really don’t need to be in assisted living yet. I’m just a lazy twat. I could maybe hire a cleaner to come in once every couple weeks, buy prepared foods OR learn how to fucking cook some simple goddamn meals (meh) and find a general handy man/woman. The rest of the list – all the med crap – is just what friends/family do for each other.

That is, family who aren’t like my mother and her you’re-bothering-people-by-being-human/needing-help attitude.