I make no apologies for yesterday's entry.
Matter of fact, I don't care. I TOLD you people not to look, and you did, and that is SO your fault.
And at the risk of losing anyone who DOES read this: this blog is, and always will be, first and foremost a diary for me. The useless facts in Prove Me Wrong? I would've just scratched them down on a scrap of paper if they weren't in here. The fact that I SOUND like I'm talking to other people? Yeah, I'll give you that. I am a press whore. I konw some of you read that last entry and lost your lunches, but hey I TOLD you, I think it's something that I should put in my diary. Lord knows I'll want to remember the pain and agony of this surgery, along with it's aftereffects, because this is sort of a turning point in my life for reasons I dare not explain.
So yeah, I write for you out there, but mainly? I'm writing for ME. SOrry if I pissed anybody off.
And to that guy who just happened to stumble upon my blog and read below the CAPITAL LETTERS his first time out? You're a jackass. No seriously, it's all your fault for wanting to go back in time and tear your eyeballs out. At least everyone else who reads me more than once knows they're taking their lives into their own hands. Sheesh.

Nothing to say, Not a Damn thing
Now Playing: Insensitive, Jann Arden
Did NOTHING.
NOTHING.
Want ta know why?
Because it's cold and rainy and windy and the weather in general just SUCKS right now.
However, I did get some positive feedback on the Book. The hub-unit's friend, we'll call him Batman, was given a copy purely for entertainment value, but I included a red pen just in case I missed something. So far, he had to say that he is absolutely in love with my main character. His only gripe, however, is that he would rather see her in a stand-alone story as opposed to being thrust into the middle of the Buffyverse. While I understand this, I must maintain that it was not my fault. These things pop up where they feel like it. I am merely a chronicler of these things, and they have a life of their own, as every writer knows, they tend to evolve on their own as they mature and develop as characters. But then, that's my ONLY defense.
AND SINCE THIS IS MY BLOG I MUST POST THIS AND IF YOU'RE SENSITIVE TO GROSSNESS YOU WILL NOT READ PAST THIS BIG SENTENCE OF CAPITAL LETTERS BECAUSE I ASSURE THIS IS BEYOND YAKNESS GROSS AND IF YOU READ IT IT'S YOUR OWN FUCKING FAULT.

I'm OOZING.
The doc said that there would be a sort-of smell and such while I was healing, but I'm not really one for listening to the doc (see previous entries). Unfortunately, as of Friday, he was right. See, my body is sloughing off the burnt coagulated tissue from my cervix while it's healing, plus the coagulant they used to bring about the non-bleedingness of my junk. So friday morning I wake up and OMYGOD I'M OOZING BLACK SHIT.
It looks like they gave me a charcoal douche, and it's not going away. And the SMELL? Like rotten burnt coagulated flesh. I am oozing burnt tissue and black clotted blood and BLACK SHIT and it smells like burnt tissue and black coagulated blood. It's like I have a walking dead pussy. Seriously. I have Night of the Living Dead Junk happening in my pants. It's so bad I have to take like three showers a day. I don't know how the hub-unit can come near me. I can barely stand myself. It's embarrassing. BLECH.
Right, I'm glad I got that out of my system. Jebus, I hope I heal soon. SOON.

Prove Me Wrong 4 Answers
Now Playing: Hold Me Down, Gin Blossoms
Topic: Prove Me Wrong
Bastardized Heathen made a good point, for half a point. While conventional ovens cannot reach 600-800 degrees centigrade, this is also probably why most manufacturers don't worry about people dying when they start to heat up a teflon pan. Why the fuck would you put a teflon pan in the oven in the first place?
But yeah, that's about as close as any to finding a flaw for the last PMW.
And for those of yall that wrote about loving the pans, I feel ya. I don't know what I'd do without some nonstick in my life.

Prove Me Wrong 4
Topic: Prove Me Wrong
Teflon is a trafemark for polytetraflouroethylene. It is a polythylene plastic in which all the hydrogens have been replaced with flourine. It is a solid and ususually inert.
However, if Teflon is heated between 600 and 800 degrees centigrade, it depolymerizes inyo perflouro-isobutylene, a highly toxic gas.
There ya go kids. Prove Me Wrong.

2:39 AM
Am bored.
Am bored because sleep is elusive.
<---- Am jackass for sleeping all day while hub unit was at work.
However? Am LOVING the Mows. Why, you ask? Because if you're a cat owner, you will want to read all of them and then sign up to read them in your email.
Which leads me to a random muse thing...
I wish I were a dog person. Dog people are very nurturing, because dogs need lots of love and attention and vet visits and toys and belly scratches. Dog people have the makings of fine parents and babysitters. Cat people do not.
Why am I saying this?
Because it's very early (or very late), and I have idiot cats that have taken over my house and are running things the way they like it. Let me re-introduce you to my own mows:
Pigwidgeon: The first cat. My cat. Had her since (literally) birth. I was there when she was born. She traveled with me all the way to Florida and back, s you'd think she would be the alpha. She's not. She's dainty and she makes this dainty little rolling purr-squeak noise all the time, and she's a dirty slut for a belly rub. If you're anywhere near, she just falls over and purr-squeaks until you bend over and give her some lovin. If you don't, she will get up and follow you the three steps away that you took and fall over again. Also, she like shiny things. She will steal your pretty shiny things and stash them somewhere that I have yet to find.
CASE IN POINT: She saw me leave the bedroom to make hot cocoa, she SAW me. That does not stop her from running into the bedroom, flying onto the bed and trouncing the hub-unit, all the while purr-squeaking and getting a freak attack because I'm not there and she was a nap. But she SAW me leave. Even followed me into the kitchen.
Hobbes: The second cat. Got her at four weeks old out in front of WalMart on a rainy day while the hub-unit was in Japan. Thought she was a boy and that the hub-unit would enjoy another boy in the house. I was wrong, but it was too late to rename her. She is the youngest, but she is the head kitty honcho. Refuses to be touched unless it is one AM and she damn well feels like it. Also, has pathetic hollow mrowr thing she does when frustrated. Also? Is a bitch to other kitties unless she damn well feels like it.
CASE IN POINT: Pig steals fuzzy mouse from string in cat's room (YES, they have their own room). Takes it up onto daddy's side of the bed and sits on it to see if more mice will hatch. Hobbes jumps up on the bed, growls at Pig with all the force of a fucking mountain lion and waking up BOTH of us with a jump, and steals the mouse back. What does she do with the mouse? She drags it to her special hiding place, which is actually behind the water bowl and not really a hiding place at all even though she thinks it is, and guards it all night like some fuzzy gray leprechaun.
Augustus: Our newest member of the family, and the oldest cat at two years. Has a funky tattoo of a three in his ear from the pound, and he's white so it really stands out and makes him really butch. Like twinkies, and shares them with daddy every chance he gets. Eats french fries like they're special treats from kitty heaven. Matter of fact, he just noses up to the table and steal things with his lightning-paw, which was apparently bestowed upon him by the feline gods, along with his noxious gas. He jumps in your lap, gets all relaxed and noodly, then he farts. Gas-fabulous. It's really funny, unless you're the one getting butt-dusted, believe me.
CASE IN POINT: Actually, there are none for Augie. He just sleeps and cuddles with you and farts and steals stuff from the table. Not much else; he's pretty nutshelled for a cat.
Right now they're all running around like chickens with no heads, and in aobut five more minutes they'll all be passed out in their respective nappy-places until I go to bed, and then they will follow me in and spread out all over on top of me.
Why? Because I'm the mommy, that's why.
I'll be back in five with a new Prove Me Wrong.

Listen to your Doctor
The doc said "take it easy".
No standing for long periods of time.
No sitting for long periods of time.
Avoid strenuous exercise.
Try to eat bland foods for a least one day after the procedure.
Take food with your painkillers.

Did I listen? OF OCURSE NOT! I am SuperTwit!

So I felt GREAT yesterday afternoon, and the hub-unit and I went to Walmart to buy padding for our couch (long story), and afterwards we went out to lunch. I had two eggs over easy, hashbrowns, and corned beef hash which is my favorite stuff freeking EVER.
HOWEVER, after walking around for several hours and then sitting down for two more, I was feeling kinda icky. SO I ate my eggs and got ready to go pay the check when...
RUMBLE. RUMBLE RUMBLE OMG RUMBLE.

See, it's not that I didn't follow the doctor's orders and I wa suffering for it, it was more of a KARMIC punishment.

You guessed it. I got food poisoning from my eggs.
Why? Because I had them over easy when I should have had them scrambled and WITHOUT tabasco sauce. Because I should have stayed in bed and NOT gone shopping because I felt okay.

I didn't listen to the doc, and now I have diarrhea and stomach cramps, which pretty much guarantees me not doing too much.

Fucking should have listened.
I want my mom...

Pain from the Hole of the Donut
Agony.
Pain.
Something feels wrong.

Well, of COURSE it should feel wrong, I just had surgery.

So yesterday I went in for my minor surgery, and for someone of my distinctive metal defects, it was a moment of pure terror.

I hate doctors. I hate hospitals more. Even more than that, I hate the gynecologist.

Let's get one thing straight here, before I go on: I am, unfortunately, a victim of rape. These things happen, and I have moved on, but the lingering shadow will follow me for the rest of my life. Now, a trip to the OBGYN, for me, is me being forced to lay on my back and have some guy I DON'T know fingering around in my junk.
See the parallel my brain draws? It sucks.
And when they tell me that they are going to have to knock me out and cut a HUGE ginormous chucnk from cervix, I start having issues.
Big issues. HUGE. Bigger than ginormous.
Put me to SLEEP? So you can root around in MY SHIT and cut CHUNKS OUT OF ME?!?!?!?
As far as I was concerned, their ass hurt from pulling that idea out of it so fast.
And so then I had my first massive panic attack in about three years, and I mean I LOST it. No sleeping, I was shaking and twitching and freaking out and OH MY GOD THEY WERE GOING TO PUT ME TO SLEEP AND CUT ME.

Yesterday morning, I went into the doc's office and didn't speak. I almost reminded myself of a concentration camp survivor, or a POW just getting let out; head down, eyes staring, all hunched up as I trudged from place to place getting prepped for what could ostensibly be the worst day of my LIFE. When it came time to talk to the anesthesia person, I told them: no SLEEPY. I explained that chemically-induced sleep would give me nightmares and flashbacks and that NO MINOR SURGERY is worth my brain being fucked for at least another six months. No sirree.

SO THEY GAVE ME A SPINAL TAP.

After amking me take out my contacts (so now I'm BLIND), they shot me full of sedative and proceeded to punch a hole in my spine. Pumped full of happy juice even BEFORE the procedure, what do I do?

I fall asleep. Naturally. And wake up an hour after the cutting was done, feeling like an ass because I fell asleep after begging them with tears in my eyes not to make me go to sleep.
I can take comfort in this fact, however: Because I did it of my own free sleepiness due to the fact that I hadn't slept in three days, I didn't have any nightmares. Or flashbacks. Then came the funny part.

My ass was asleep.

Basically, the epidural is a local that knocks out you lower nerve system via the spinal fluid. So I couldn't move my legs. I sat for THREE hours, doing that one scene from Kill Bill:
"Wiggle your big toe."
At this point the hub-unit was in there with me in the recovery room, and he was laughing his ass off. I was somewhat amused also, unitl they told me that I couldn't leave until I was able to stand and pivot on my own, and after I had peed.
Because they had given me two IV bags full of liquid, and I hadn't peed. They were freaking out about a distended bladder or some such baloney.
Please let me go home it's cold and it's sterile and I can't feel my ANYTHING and I just want some chicken an stars soup and a bagel with cream cheese and my husband please please please LET ME GO HOME.

They finally conceded defeat and let me leave while my ass and heels were still numb (try sitting with a numb ass. I DARE YOU), because apparently they are attached to the same nerve cluster or something. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? But I digress. They let me go home under the promise that if I didn't pee by three PM, I had to come back in and get a catheter. We left a one PM. I had been there since seven thirty AM.
I won't get into my fear of catheters, because that's a whole nother thing that I shouldn't write about, but I wanted to get home and pee. Have you ever tried to pee with a numb ass? It feels like you're sitting on the world's warmest jello mold and you actually slide all over the place trying to find your ass even though you're sitting on it. It's a very strange, very MEMORABLE situation.
SO I went home. I took a vicodin (bless the doc for that at least), and started drinking shitloads of liquid. If my bladder had been distended, that was probably not the smartest idea. However, the loomning ickyness of a catheter was foremost in my mind.
I've already typed enough. Suffice to say, I finally peed without help of a catheter, I took my pills like a good little smurf, and now I'm sitting here with a HUGE puncture mark in my spine and a bellyful of cramps that just won't go away, barely.
For all that, I hope to god that they found something of interest. Because right now, I'm still shaking.

11:16 PM, Oak Harbor, Wa
Christopher Reeve is dead.
DEAD.
Superman doesn't DIE, you bastards!
I'm the first one to know, since I'm the only one awake right now. So ha ha, you fuckers.
But Superman is dead.
And an era has passed.

Props to my Peeps in the Bloggersphere
Actually, I was thinkming about putting in "Boogersphere" instead, but that would only be funny to me.
So today I feel the need to put out props to all those FABULOUS people out there whose blogs I read every day (and sometimes two or three times). Obviously no one is reading my side links, so today my sweeties you get the ACTUAL ENTRY!!!
The Nut House: Oh Chinq, where have you been these last few days? I love the drinks, and the conversation...
The Colonel's Mustard: How I love thee, CM! He was one of the first peeps to start posting on thisyere blog, and I was one of his first. He's come a long way, and I LOVE his insight. I wish I had insight. Or just better sight.
Actually, my computer's acting fuzzy. I'll prop yall out later. But you'll get it, I swear...

Prove Me Wrong 3 Answers
Now Playing: Welcome To The Jungle, same shit GNR
I won't go into the breakdown of it, but it's pretty much verbatim.
And NO, I won't tell you where I found how to dispose of a body with sulphuric acid. Weirdos.