I am so Goddamned sick of our doughy acceptance of vivisection on television and in film and in print. What is the matter with us? I blame myself and my friends for being the first people to put those images out there. Who fucking knew it would bounce back against us, or not us, who cares about us, but against animals? That the evil fucking vivisectors would think, "Hunh, they've seen the photos and they're not really revolting, let's subtly turn this around and use this in our favor." And now we get it on the nightly bullshit newsmagazine shows and everyone thinks this is just fine and normal.
Then there's the fact that I've had diarrhea pretty much non stop since Friday, have had fevers off and on, can't eat anything except ice chips, and a few sips of an occasional protein drink so I can get some meds down without barfing them back up, my dogs are barking like crazy, my son refuses to bond with or even try to like the little dog he begged me to buy for him, I know I have an extremely limited amount of time here at the computer before the nausea takes me down again, and I'm only able to sit here right now because I am taking Tigan for the nausea, Immodium for the horribly painful never ending diarrhea, and Half of a Vicodin for the pain and the headache. Oh and to top that all off I had to go and watch Georgia, the film, which while I think it's a really honest film, well acted, and very real, is one of the most depressing movies in all the world, I've seen it twice already but I chose to watch it again. I'm a glutton for pain and misery, which is really a big part of what the movie is all about. And BTW how do actors stay or get so thin? Is it because they never let themselves get fat in the first place, is it constant vigilant watchfulness and deprivation, is it that they have fast burning metabolism, or are they anorexic, bulimic, some combination of the two, or all of the above?
You can see the state I'm in. I'm so weak I can't exercise, I hate my boyfriend for not really getting how very sick I am, and not volunteering to bring the one thing I think I can eat over tonight, so I can eat something, anything, and for wanting to have sex with me when we do get together. Do you guys feel like having sex when your asses are on fire, and your stomachs are rumbling with pain? And while I'm at it, I hate my doctor for not calling me back, and myself for not knowing where I put the business cards with his and the nurses pagers on it, and for not even having the energy to check my answering machine to see if they called while I was talking to someone else. The only good thing about the sickness part of this is that I've lost another nine pounds.
Oh and Lucilla scratched up my arm really badly, Priscilla keeps scratching my hand, and the kittens (the moms) can't figure out where to put their kittens and the poor helpless kittens mew plaintively while their mama's (I call them the kittens because they've been our kittens for the last two years), carry them around by their heads. Just when we think we've worked something out and got everyone settled, then the mewing starts and it's Sparkle bringing me kittens to take care of. I don't know why he would bring them to me. Is it because he thinks I'm the Mom of everyone? Is it because they're the cool new thing and he wants to get in on the stealing them and moving them around business? Or could it be as horrible as my biggest fear -- that he wants me to toss them for him to fetch? That's his favorite thing to do with me, and whenever he drops something near my hand it generally means, "Please throw this for me Mama."
Well, maybe life would look shitty and grim to you too if you hadn't eaten in four weeks. I'll try to think of flowers and bees and streams and things, I promise, but sometimes it just feels good to swear and complain and let it all hang out.
I'll end with something friendlier. Last night, when I was being the queen of diarrhea, as usual, I was stuck, in pain in the bathroom. Picture my bathroom like a big square room with a line down the middle. On the right side is the bath area with a spa tub, the two glass sinks, and the mirrors and shelves. If you take the other half of the bathroom and split that in two, the top square is the toilet, and the bottom square is the shower, where we have one of the new mama cats quarantined so the other cats won't keep stealing her babies. Between the toilet and the main bath area, there is a glass panel. I designed this originally so I could put a TV there on a swivel table so I could watch TV from the tub or the toilet. I figured, with my bladder ravaging disease, and it being my supposed dream house that I was building, why not? But in the end the whole TV near the bath seemed too dangerous, so I put it somewhere else and put glass shelves and perfume bottles where the TV would have gone.
Anyway all of this bathroom description was just to tell you that sometimes, my super smart cats, like to peek in at me through this glass covered opening between the two rooms. They'll jump to the ledge of the tub, and then jump up to a kind of standing position and try to peer in at me around the bottles to see what I'm doing, or to hurry me up. Usually it's to hurry me up, or with Spooky it's to be let in. She'll rake her paws back and forth against the glass until I open the door and include her, or leave and then she can follow me to the bed. Last night I was feeling just awful, sitting there holding my stomach and moaning and my favorite cat Jake peeked his head up into the little window. He can't steady himself long enough to stand up and peer in for any length of time. Plus he's pirate cat anyway and only has one semi-good eye. But that little bobbing head of his last night, made me feel so loved and cared for because of the effort it was taking him to try to look in at me. I just know he was worried about me and wanting me to come back to bed to snuggle with him.
Thanks for allowing me to be angry and raw and still being my friends.