In the butt, butt, butt

Here's the last thing the poor gerbils I buy every week from the pet store see:

Tonight the stars revolt

I joked that tornadoes were headed to my apartment last night to murder me.  I did not know this was pretty close to the truth.  Although they weren't really close... it was about 40 minutes away... but they were F3's, which are pretty fucking mean and scary.

Here in south Dayton, it was just a big, loud, calming thunderstorm.  I do not know why I like thunderstorms.  I'd like to say something artsy, like they represent change and eventual growth, you know, hippie shit like that, but I'm pretty sure I just like the spectacle.  

Eventually I made a level in Titanfall and retired to the bedroom, opening the window to listen to the rain rather than a book on tape as is the norm nowadays.  The thunder kept me calm, but it did make that night's dreams discomforting.

I am finding that I'm being hit on a lot nowadays, but I do not really do anything with it.  Right now I just want to exist.  I do not need to be part of something else to be made whole.  That type of thinking is what has led me to make many bad decisions.  It encourages me to let something stay in my life when I should dispose of it, digging it up by the root so that it cannot find purchase again.  

One common mistake everybody makes is that they think everybody views the world just like they do.  This is especially bad for people suffering from depression.  When the people you care about can't understand why you act the way you act, as if you want those feelings (or, non-feelings), they write you off, as if you wouldn't change it even if you could.  It took losing the most important person in my life to get me to even try anti-depressants.  They didn't even work that well, but they did make some difference.  In the end, they were feeling like just another pill, and I've been off them for a while without any obvious consequences.

I have to wonder what life would have been like if I'd started them ten years ago.

Anyway.  I think I'm gonna play an early game of Titanfall and get in bed early.  Tomorrow is Godzilla.

The Book of Night With Moon

I think I may have had a seizure recently without realizing it.  In my sleep, as it were.  I say this because of two bits of evidence:  first, the right side of my body was sore like the dickens, and second, I had bitten my tongue severely on the side, just like the seizure in Dorothy Lane Market.  In fact I  only realized I had bitten it because of the small stream of blood trickling from my mouth when I got ready for work.  That's when I noticed the tenderness of the tongue... on the right side of the tongue, as you'd expect from my case, and it looks like it must have hurt something awful.  I believe I heard once that human saliva (many forms of saliva actually) have certain healing properties.  Perhaps that's why a body part, such as the tongue, that is constantly immersed in it can heal with such rapidity.

Indeed even now the scar has subsided, although I am sure it will be a day or two before I break fast on anything more challenging than yogurt or perhaps a soft banana.  Not quite there yet.

I was all ready to post pictures of my colonoscopy, but it appears my printer's software was lost in The Great Wipe a few months ago, I'll have to look into that.  Pretty useful thing, a scanner, unless you want to instagram everything.

Still, the possible seizure worries me.  Why didn't I wet myself, like in Dorothy Lane?  That's what the girl in the gas station did, it was only after that that I found out it was common and many people having seizures do lose control of their bladder... or worse.  I should count my blessings that I didn't shit myself.  One good thing about anti-depressants, you can't take a dump if you don't have anything already.

I guess I'll make an appointment with my doctor and see if there's anything up I should prepare myself for.

**************

Re-reading some books I've always loved.  Neil Gaiman and P. Craig Russel wrote and drew an amazing short story about Creation's first murder, and not only who did it to whom, but why.   It casts Lucifer Morningstar as the ultimate anti-hero, which is somebody cast as the villain against his desires even when he was just doing his job.

I've also picked up the first of what would have been a trilogy of books from Diane Duane, The Book of Night With Moon.  The reason this book is special to me delves deeper than the story, and I guess it doesn't matter anymore, but it is still very satisfying to read about a coven of witch-cats who live in the New York subways and protect us from evil machinations.

There was a sequel, Off to London to Visit The Queen, which wasn't as good, and the planned self-published The Big Meow, which Duane was trying to get off the ground before self-publishing became as easy as it is, and it went tits up in a big messy way that I'm not going to recount here, because I contributed to its "kickstarter" in hopes of having the perfect birthday gift for somebody I cared about.

Things do not always turn out so kind.

Also I watched Penny Dreadful on Showtime tonight and they had two dicks in it.