Hello, it's me...

I am still short on sleep. In reply to the comment I cannot get to on this app, it's true; no revisions is a total rarity. Further distancing the event from any semblance of normality is that the paper has no faculty advisor; although two of us are ABD, it is still wholly student-written. As if that weren't enough, we are not a member of the 'in' group, research-wise. The 'in' group I worked tangentially with from '06 - '08, but as these were anonymously submitted, even that bought us no gain. Our Gang of Three are slightly walking on clouds, needless to say.

I meet with my brother (and family) tomorrow; he's in town for a week, and I've been trying to get all the time with him that I can. I have a ton of stuff to finish, helped out not at all by having to give in and back up my full-to-the-brim laptop HD. That took an entire day. Boo.

I am going to try to sleep...I'm reading serial murder books that I have already read to bore myself to sleep. I know: it's a sick hobby. But in fairness, I am not a SK groupie, or a skip-to-the-salacious-part reader; I am insanely envious of the pre-VICAP generation of detectives, and would love to have been a part of something so...engrossing. Trying to out-think someone who has the upper hand in what is basically a life or death game of chess.

I'd have fucking LOVED it.

Many of the books touch upon how some detectives' health suffered, and so forth; I love research. I love stress, pressure, puzzles. For me, the hardest part would be having to safely turn them over to the state; I'm more the type to want to drive up to the police station with a killer's carcass strapped across my hood like a deer. Fuck that 'guilty until proven innocent' shit; if you hunt, you get hunted. It's that simple.

Well, in my world.




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This was a triumph...

We got word just a little bit ago that a paper I have killed myself over has been accepted for publication with -- check this out -- no revisions. This is awesome.

I have to go back to sleep; I woke up just a little bit ago with a headache from sleeping in a weird position and forgetting to take my blood pressure pill. My brother and family are in town, and I am still drowning in work. I'll write more later.







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I'm cured...and overtired.

Well, one week later, and I still have fang marks, but I am off antibiotics for my Squoosh bite. Everyone thinks I should be hating him now; is there something wrong with me that I don't? To my mind, that's like getting angry at a two year-old for wetting the bed when they're upset. Sure, it's not *desirable*, but animals and tiny humans have very limited ways to express themselves. I think of how I would feel if I couldn't get the aliens who kidnapped me to understand that I said 'NO!'. The same goes for not getting why few understand that cats and dogs down at the City Pound on Death Row may *look* hateful, but they are fucking TERRIFIED. Wouldn't you be? They aren't so stupid that they can't smell Death. If any of this happened to us, we'd be sad, scared, hostile... It makes my heart hurt, because it sometimes seems like most of the world couldn't care less about the suffering of another. I cried over a Death Row cat who a rescue group was trying to find a foster home for was about six, and he had a hernia. And that gets labelled 'bad temperament'. He has lost probably the only home he has ever known, he misses his family, he is surrounded by scary animals, and he is in pain. What in the fuck kind of inhumane asshats are we?

I am upsetting myself. I need sleep. Love you, mean it.


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Ow.

It's been a busy week. Last Sunday, Squoosh bit me. No, really. On my arm. He caught a vein somehow; there was blood everywhere. Well, I stopped the bleeding and found my doctor (on a Sunday, which was no small feat) so the bite didn't get reported, and am now finishing up a week of doxycycline and cefalexin. Squoosh bit me because he is very unhappy these days; he doesn't like the packing and constant commotion.

I've had a paper due with Karen all week, and we suck; we are such procrastinators. I have to go in a sec, but I'll be back.




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Ready, set, panic!

I have all the stimuli (mostly) I will be using, my meetings with my advisor are going swell, and I need to step up my packing behaviour.

That being said...

I am having to sneak and feed the Eviljob colony; the old property manager moved to Tahiti to find himself, and Management took the opportunity to become asshats over tending the colony. So I have to get with the new property manager and re-get permission to feed and trap. Sigh. Always something.

I had surgery on Friday morning to de-endometriosis me again; I'm on Roxicet which I am supplementing with Tramadol, Cataflam, and wine. Meg drove me to and from, and I already feel better, though the damned Roxicet is wreaking havoc on my sleep schedule. Worse, over this long weekend, I have to tidy up a ten-page conference submission and prep a poster for a different conference. And my washing machine ate my favourite patchwork blanket. Boo.

This Guy is turning out to be a lump. When I was first scheduled for surgery, I offered to discuss what was going on -- asked him if he wanted to know -- and was met with a lightning-quick 'no'. Seems he's a little squeamish over surgeries and the like. He is really ringing all of my 'flake' bells; I am trying to not be harsh and negative, but his ex-wife is a nurse, and some fifteen years ago, he was in school with her to do the same, and working as a nursing aide (or so he claims). How in the crap can you be squeamish? I'm not even in the damned field, never worked a DAY as a medical anything (taking care of Mummers doesn't count), and just growing up as a doctor's daughter (and granddaughter) has ushered me into a life of bluntness and inappropriate dinner conversation. People barf, people shit, people have sucking chest wounds, eye trauma, DIC, and viscera that needs to be put back where they came from...that's Life.

This isn't the first time that I have questioned the veracity of some things. On the other hand, I have had the feeling that many people I have known throughout my life say more than their prayers, which has led me to wonder why I find all the looneybirds. I have seriously thought about this. Thoughte the Firste is that I somehow attract them...I wish I knew how. Other options I find less probable, such as the proposition that *everyone* has just as many nuts and liars in their life, I just notice it more. Since I have a hard time believing that, I'm going with the simplest explanation -- I attract them.

Butsoanyway.

I am drifting off to sleep again; I will have to finish later. For now, let's just say that I am hurt. He hasn't even asked me how the surgery went. He doesn't even know what it was for.

Oh, I'll vent later. Right now, I am falling asleep.









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