This idea

If I were a superhero, I would be a wonderous badass with a scrip pad. My nom de hero would be Psych Man and I would have the power to manipulate every neurotransmitter and receptor within 100 feet.  My tag line would be "I just psyched you out."  I would use it whenever I crushed evildoers by upping their guilt transmitters.  They would crumble into tears and beg their victims for forgiveness and the judges to convict them.  And the victims would have all their narsty PTSD chemicals erased and I could make people super smart and reverse brain damage. I probably wouldn't even need the scrip pad.  Somebody get on this.

Born this way

Recently I found myself in a conversation with my boyfriend regarding some of My Issues. Apparently I have a tendency towards more than just John Cusack-esque self deprecatory witticisms.  No, I have a tendency towards full on bad-poetry-by-black-candles type self abasement.  Who knew.  So the boyfriend asserts that this is not in fact hard to comprehend, because each instance of said abasement can be traced back to- oh come on sing it with me you know the words- my mother.

Yes we understand, Mr Freud, siddown. In fact, as it turns out, I can indeed recall such sterling gems as "oh my gawd don't brush your hair back your forehead is showing it looks ridiculous" and "holycrap do you have big saddlebags" and of course who could forget the iconic "what are you wearing?"  I've recently been made aware that this is not in fact the way all parents speak to their pre-adolescent offspring. This is fascinating information.  Further, it has been revealed that when you do talk to your pre-adolescent of choice like that, it can, and stay with me here I know this is a complex equation, affect them.  It seems that when you're constantly ragged about your appearance as a youngster you tend to integrate that kind of thinking as an adult. Again, who knew. Certainly not myself, a trained psychiatric specialist. No really, it never occurred to me to connect these two facts.  It just goes to show you. What it shows you or where it goes I am not entirely certain and I hate that saying but there you have it.  I'm guessing it goes to therapy.

In any case. Herein I have compiled a completely non-exhaustive list of things I was gifted with at birth and would love to return rather than regift to anyone else.  I figure, I'd better start liking some of this stuff in order to  better recognize the hot melted butter that I apparently am according to the two experts I live with and regularly get to sleep nekkid next to:

A huge shnozz, like whoa.  Also it's been broken twice so it meanders. Check the silhouette before it wrecks you.
A hairline almost as high as Garfunkel's. When I'm sweaty you can check your makeup.
Lumpy thighs. Which taper so fast on the way to Ankletown that when I look down at my legs when I'm sitting at my desk it looks like an M typed in Comic Sans.
An appendix scar that has puckered to the point of being able to hide things in there. I could fool drug dogs.
I have muscular forearms, but once again, the taper in my upper arms is so extreme I bork BP cuffs.
I have feet that are about as wide as they are long and they don't make shoes shaped like squares.
I have no torso or neck. These are facts.
Ever since my sweaterpuppy redux surgery my shirtfruit are strangely pyramid shaped. I think my black cat Isis feels at home sleeping on my chest as it recalls her to her native land where she was properly worshiped.

I think that's all that comes to mind plus I should probably like, work to help underserved people achieve mental wellness or something.

This admission

I don't think I've told this to anybody.  You see, there are two kinds of people in this world: Those who clean their ears daily with q-tips, and those who do not.  I am the former of the two. Every day, without fail, a cotton swab and I go at it and it's a pleasurable experience for all involved. Or so I assume. But how does one begin such a lifetime of auricle servitude? I know just the moment when it happened. Perhaps you've seen the quintessential 80's teen love ski movie Better Off Dead with the ever deadpan John Cusack.  Perhaps you haven't, and if that's the case, go rectify that shit right now.  He battles wills and wits with Blond Popular Hunk  Who We Swear Is 17 But Looks About 30 Because That's How We Rolled In Those Days on the slopes of some nameless midwestern town costarring an actress with the most hysterically horrendous French accent you've ever freaking heard.  In this movie, there's a fabulous bathroom scene wherein John starts stuffing q-tips in every orifice he has above the waist. I've used them ever since. My name is Jake, and I'm a swabber.

This job

For the love of Xanax, people, please, I beg you on my knees, take. Your damn. Medications. As ordered. Look, I know, you feel like you've gotten comfortable with that med I prescribed, you think, "hey, this is amazeballs! I shall take more!"  Because more is always better, as any crackhead will tell you.  And then you run out early. And then there are no refills left. And then you call me because suddenly you're not feeling so hot because you either a) overdosed yourself or b) ran out early and are going through withdrawals. And I gotta swoop in and pick up the pieces. Usually at 4:45 on a Friday, because I'm the only clinician fool-headed enough to actually work till 5 on Fridays.  

Allow me to make this as vodka-for-my-splitting-stress-headache-clear as I can: That shit written on the bottle? Those are called "orders" for a fucking reason and I didn't put them there just so that my stock in label-printer-ink would go up.  No, betchiz, I wrote those just for you and only you and they are not suggestions.  They are not meant for your buddy who is having "a rough day and just needs a little something to help him calm down."  No.  I decided on that dose based on your weight, physical health and health history, allergy history, possibly also on family history as well as on the severity of the symptoms I'm treating your I-didn't-go-to-3-years-of-psychopharmacology-classes-but-I-still-know-better-than-my-NP ass for.  I don't fucking know your buddy. I didn't spend an hour pounding his history into my keyboard for later reference. No. I did that for YOU.  Thus, that shit on that bottle, if I may be so bold as to reiterate, IS FOR YOU.  

If I tell you to take one of those every day and they work well and you end up having a fight with your baby daddy at the Burger Barn and then decide to power down 5 of those bad boys with your Mountain Dew to "take the edge off" and also as it happens your ability to be conscious, well that's just Darwin proving himself right one more damn time. You may think that calling me after the fact and saying "Now I didn't want to lie about it so here's what I did what do I do now?" is going to make us all good. No, idjit.  Wanna know how to make me happy? It's easy. Take your damn meds as I damned well prescribe them, and then tell me all about how they did or did not work and then fucking well wait for further fucking advice. That simple.

I'm not trying to go all Jack "I won't take criticism from a person who rises and sleeps under the very umbrella of protection I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it" Nicholson on you, really I'm not, I work for you, you pay me to give you options and you pay me to be sure the options you get are safe ones tailored to your needs.  You're welcome. Now go take your meds.

This conversation

In a lunchroom full of punchy, slightly bitter, highly snarky, community health workers:

Coworker #1: Hey Coworker #2, do you mind if I ask you how much you spent on your wedding? Because this couple spent 17 million bucks on theirs. (Brandishes cover of People magazine.)

Coworker #2: Oh, sure, I don't mind. I only spent 10, because I needed the other 7 milly for a downposit on that little Caribbean island we had our eye on.

Me: Well, sure, that's just good fiscal planning.

CW #3: Pardon me please, but just how does one make a "downposit?"  When I buy my island I'll need to know.

CW#2: Well, you need a good Realtor for one thing. I use Bob, you know, in Miami beach. Knows his stuff.

Me: Oh yeah, Bob, he's good. Sold me a little Isthmus last year.

(Much slightly hysterical laughter ensues.)

This guy

I work in community health. Which means that there are a lot of people with a lot of problems and not a lot of money coming in for mental and physical health care, usually the acute kind.  Some folks are more acute than others.  My first week at this gig, I was a bit overwhelmed by the pace of the work and the sheer magnitude of the illness of the patients.  As my office is the first you pass once you get past the lobby, a lot of them would pop their heads in or look in as they passed to mutter alternately bizarre, hilarious, and threatening things.  One gentleman in particular made a point of stopping as he passed, raising his hand high in the air as if to wave to someone across the street though my door is a few small feet from where I sit, pause for a few moments with a somewhat vacant smile while he marshaled his resources, and then let fly with a hearty, "Hi!"  I blinked a few times, wondering if more was coming, but no, he stood frozen with the hand in the air and the toothless grin.  I took the cautious route. "Er, hello?"  Gratified, he walked away with an even wider grin.  Hmm. Well, that was an awkward encounter but painless I guess if not distracting. Oh well. Back to work.

He came back the next day. He stayed all day this time, about 6 hours, and every time he walked past my door he went through the same ritual: Pause. Smile. Raise hand and wave. "Hi!" Wait for response. Shamble off. He did it no matter how busy I looked, how bored I looked, if I was on the phone or talking with a staff member. If my door was open, the ritual occurred. I didn't know him, he wasn't my patient, I didn't know what kind of cognitive delays he might be living with, but after 4 repetitions in the same day it was getting annoying.  What the fuck dude, I'm working.

Days passed. Turns out he comes back to spend long days at the clinic about 3 or 4 days a week.  He's always hanging around. I started keeping my door closed more often so that I wouldn't have to deal with the distraction.  Every time we had what I refer to now as the wazzup interaction, I got a little more aggravated by the break in my flow. I mean, he never wanted to talk about anything, he just seemed to enjoy interrupting me interminably. WHAT DO YOU WANT RANDOM MAN AT MY PLACE OF WORK?? YOU'RE DRIVING ME MAD!

And then I had A Moment. My door was closed, and I had just had a rough few clients in a row.  I was in the kind of mood that would sour milk.  I noticed his legs pass by my window without stopping, which usually filled me with a bit of relief. But this time, I had that vague angsty feeling of missing something.  Shit. Wait.  Where the merry hell was my effer-fucking-vescent smile and greeting??  I don't get a lot of people smiling at me in my work day, and I was wasting one I could really depend on.  I opened my door and kept it open from there on out unless I was on the phone.  I realized that I was becoming dangerously close to aggregating that kind of jaded bitterness that you see in some community health workers.  Those ones who don't seem to actually like people. Well fuck that. I refuse to go down like that. I got into this biz directly because I liked interacting with people, thrive on it in fact, and so just why was a cheerful salutation getting my panties all bunched up my ass. Good question. So I proceeded with  a proctological panty extraction procedure and completed a high attitudinal enema. Done.

Now, I look forward to my daily dose of cheerful, no strings attached wazzup as much as I do my morning coffee.  He never wants more than a second of my time, and it's inexplicable but every time we wazzup I feel a bit better about the universe in general.  And when you work with the kind of population and burned out staffers I do, that's gold bankable right there.

This message brought to you by...

Yes. This is what we need. Definitely. We need wise and genuine guidance. We need a dose of almost visceral motivation to recognize and seize those precious and oft overlooked opportunities handed us so infrequently by cruel fate. We need that swift spiritual boot to the head that brings enlightenment and changes our world forever.
We need it.  And we need Levi Strauss & Co to give it to us.
Yes, "Go Forth," Levi's newest ad campaign, has finally come to save us all.  This commercial, of course you realize, is why Rome fell.  Touting "Love Is a Battlefield"-like sentiments, it encourages one to live a strong, independent life, with integrity.  By wearing the same jeans everyone else is wearing, made by a sweatshop worker getting five cents an hour who got the job when the company moved all their production overseas firing oodles of factory workers who'd been serving the company for decades.  (Fun fact: Levi's at one time in the 90's led the industry in fines related to labor law infringement overseas! Integrity! You're wearing it!)  So. To sum up:
When you're setting your spiritual compass by a monster corporation frequently found en flagrante delecto with Wal-Mart (union busting sack-cheeses that they are, and no, I won't link that for you, FLUID) and known for anally raping their employees to keep their coffers up, you know it's time to start waving that thing in a figure 8 motion to re-calibrate.

This vacation

I want. To go. To Disney World. SO. FLIPPING. BAD. Why is this. I grew up in Florida, I had my fill, I knew people who worked there, I saw the grimy underbelly of the beast, but this only makes me crave the shiny bits all the more. I want to ride the teacups. I want to ride in the Haunted House. I want to go on Pirates of the Caribbean and squeal like a five year old at the sudden drop. I want to walk those freakishly well manicured cobble pathways, letting their silent message of unattainable perfection seep up through my shoes. I want to be lulled by the piped-in ambients from the embedded speakers in the bushes, whispering faintly of birds and crickets and frogs, such as have never seen the human-made creeks and scrupulously chlorined ponds of that magical land. I want to pay ten dollars for an ice cream pop shaped like Mickey's head. I want to bite the ears. I want a lollypop bigger than my face and a Mickey Ears hat with my name emblazoned upon it as if to say to the world "YES, I HAVE BEEN THERE, YOU CAN COME WITH ME FRIENDS if you have a few hundred dollars." I want to throw up on the Dumbo ride. I want to sing along with the Carousel of Progress, that bastion of white Christian meat-eating heterosexuality, and laugh when the animatronic uncle in the bathroom grumbles about his privacy.  I want all of it. PANDER TO ME YOU BEAUTIFUL DEAD RACIST BASTARD, PANDER TO ME!!! I'll eat it all up and swallow it whole every time. Am I ashamed of this slavish obsession? Yes. Of course I am.  Am I even now pricing off season tickets? Fuck yes I am.

This aside

I just crammed my gut full of basmati rice, kashmir spinach paneer, and cut up kofta ball. That's right. My gut is not discriminatory. It's multifunctional. And now it's gurgling loudly. This has been a special belly report.

These borders

Oh lordy.  I head for northern climes sooner than I realized.  It crept up on me.  In a week I will be getting ready, packing up, and preparing to see my mom once again as we Amtrak it to Vancouver.

In an odd twist of fate, I'll be seeing the boyfriend's dad Friday for dinner. I love that guy. Geeky gamer, wise old railroader, staunch unionizer.  Seemingly completely physically devoid of any judgmental tissues in his entire body.

The up-to-max contrast between boyfriend's dad and my own mater, I thought, would make the trip to BC harder, but, knowing there are people out there with real life functionality in their parent-offspring relationship, functionality, mutual respect, sensitivity, all that, well, it gives me a corny kind of hope for my own. Shut up. I like corn.

This pretentiousness

HAHAHAHAHAHA

Ok I was in SUCH a ridiculously self involved mood when I wrote my last post I had to comment on it. It's one of the things I actually love about documentation, you can see progressions and identify patterns as well as large piles of steaming poop when they smack the sidewalk. ::snicker::

I eye the eye whose compass come
While tempest lie beneath
I moon at the moon whose terror come
To woo, entrance, ensheathe
I rock the rock with rhythm as may
Become the throbbing heart
I knife the knife with pardon as may
The raging rend and part
The tempest has no strength within
The terror none without
While the ragged beat of sap begin
On winged forgiving shout.

Clinical Derpage

It has been requested that I write a simple but badly needed disease monograph regarding something we've all seen but rarely talk about: Derpression. This disease is staggeringly under-reported and under-diagnosed in our country and abroad. Significant examples of derpression sufferers, who continue to be untreated, can be seen in any region, here for example in a member of a popular French Electronic Dance Music band (identity protected to preserve anonymity):

Presentation: Derpression can present at any age, thus it must be vigilantly assessed for at all times.  Common symptoms include dry mouth due to derpthymic breathing, from which this horrifying affliction gets its name, as well as chronic herping. (See above image for example of chronic derp.)  Other symptoms include vision occlusion related to squinting, drooling, delusions of grandeur in severe cases and an inability to have anything you say taken seriously as well as an increased risk of unflattering captions being affixed to still images of your face. Diagnostic modifiers for Major Derpressive Disorder include: Recurrent, single Derp episode, poor interderp recovery, mild moderate or severe derpage with or without delusional features, and full or partial remission.  In some cases of low level derps over the lifespan with no Major Derpressive episodes, a diagnosis of Derpthymic Disorder may be considered.

Risk factors: Mechanism of action of Derpression is as of yet unknown, though it seems that it can be communicable in some cases. Approach those with obvious signs of derp with caution, as they may not be aware of their condition.

Treatment: With therapy and vocational rehabilitation, those suffering from derpression can find their symptoms resolving. However, studies of patients with recurrent, severe Major Derpressive Disorder frequently will not respond to therapy alone and may require treatment with antiderpressants.  

Are you worried that you may be suffering from derpression? See your Derpetologist and ask them about whether Derpac(tm) (generic name: derpaline) may be right for you.  Side effects of derpaline may include: the inability to breath through your mouth repeatedly and an increase in instances of thoughtful expressions, as well as a resolution of facial captioning.  Ask your Derpetologist for details.

MDD doesn't just affect you, it affects everyone who takes a picture of you and everyone who sees that picture. Get help today.  Goodnight and good social skills.

Stolen, warped.

Sometimes I dream of dying
I depart as air
While shaking air departs
I bequeath myself to whatever air will have me
And hardly know who I was
Or what I meant
But the stolen parts of vanity.
They grind the grist of guilt
Into Winter that is perhaps hand
On a deadbolt, they move old and new
Until both have warped and skewed.
So I will drink my fill of dusty moonlight
While, intertwined with grace,
I swallow both faith and pride.

This HMO

Dear The Insurance Companies, and Dear the Managed Care Agencies, and dear all the people who work for them, yes you, the CEO's and the share holders, the drones on the phones and the schmucks cleaning out their garbage cans at night, and while we're talking, dear all the people that THOSE people hire personally, their housekeepers and gardeners and tax attorneys and pro-doms. This one, this is for ALL of you. To whit,
understand the following: You are all, each and every one of you, and there are absolutely, definitely, NO exceptions here I am so very sorry to say, pure and unadulterated evil.  The kind of evil that causes crops caught in its shadow to wither and crumble, the kind of evil that begets only further and further evil, the kind of viscous, insidious evil that erodes and decays whatever it touches, penetrating it fully until any possible good that could have come out of it is forever imbrued with its horrific taint. (Huhuhuh, 'taint.' But seriously.)

"But JAKE!" I hear you cry. "Most of those people are just trying to get by! They're just making a living as best they can for crying out loud!  They clean the toilets fuck, and you're calling that minimum wage earner evil?? WTF!?"

Yes. When you see evil, real evil, not just your standard every day asshole kind of grossness, but TRUE evil, the kind of autonomic, headless, impersonal, cold evil that will, without any speck of sympathy or mercy, sooner wipe your existence off the face of the earth rather than put your existence above its own gains, you must label it as such. Worse, it will do all of this without even any malice, that's the truly horrific part, its simple and whole and completely personified self interest.

When we speak of an industry whose sole job it is to deny people access to health care in favor of their own profit margin, we cannot call it anything other than what it is. Old school, pure evil. Classical definitions of "evil" usually include some type of knowing breach of a moral code to the detriment of others. I have to wonder, if your job is to make access to health care more difficult and, for example, make a person choose which finger they can afford to have reattached because they cannot afford to have both procedures completed, what kind of moral code would you say that breaches?  If I went to a person and did the same thing, looked into their eyes and said, "You just lost two fingers in an accident. I have the power to give both of them back, but I won't. I will make you choose which one, because you can only afford one and that is not my problem, so choose." Well. I imagine I'd be labeled as evil faster than you can say "heartless cruelty."  Another example: As a health care provider, I know that the weight you are gaining as a side effect of the medication I'm giving you could be avoided if I gave you a newer, different medication, but I won't do it because I'm being paid more by the other drug company and that would eat into my profits if I switched you. Am I evil now?

Of course I would be. Of course it is. Withholding healthcare as a right for the privileged and the lucky is the system we've created.  It positively identifies people who are worth more than others.  It quantifies life, a proposition so ludicrous as to be sickening and yet so many believe in it I wonder if we're of the same species.     But we're digressing. The managed care companies feed off of and support this system. Aggressively lobby against and fight any alternative system.  And anyone who supports that system by working for its supportive agencies is evil by proxy.  I'm guilty too, I pay into the system because I have no other choice, but that's the elegant ubiquitous insidiousness of evil at work again, it makes itself the only option, and makes everything it touches part of its machinations. I'm a part of it, I'm responsible, as is every healthcare provider who has ever charged an insurance company.

So here we are. "So what, Jake, we're all evil. Fine. Thanks for the fucking PSA. I signed the petition for ObamaCare, ok? So now what?"  So now you get your ass to the nearest person who thinks this system makes sense and you make it your job to convince them otherwise.  Try to understand where they're coming from and appeal to their humanity.  If they're not human, help them remember that they were once.  It'll probably have to involve maps, good luck with that.  I've turned a fair few people in my time, but I know a lot more I've failed to touch. One of them, a libertarian I went to school with, horrified me so completely I never touched the subject again. She was a fellow NP. Is a fellow NP. In Texas or some other place that supports those views.  I poked her social network recently. I'm waiting to hear back.  I'm going to try.  Every little speck of sludge I'm able to scrape off of myself makes me feel a little bit better about my own associative culpability.  Try it.

This hypocrisy

You know, it's funny. I've spent most of my life lambasting diets.  I watched my pops take suicidal plunges and soaring leaps on the scale, his weight over time a personification of Tiny Wings (play it if you haven't already). Now, however, I sit before my keyboard 25 lbs lighter in 3 months, singing the praises of Weight Watchers. I make all the usual rationalizations, "It's not a diet though! Really! It's like, this whole new thing, man. This whole new way of thinking about food!" But really, yes, it is kinda a diet.

Not that that changes the fact that I'll be counting points for some time yet, so yeah.

This fat. IN WHICH THERE ARE STRONG OPINIONS YOU MAY WISH TO WIPE YOUR ARSEHOLE WITH AND THAT'S JUST FINE BUT I'M JUST SAYING. OPINIONS. THEY'RE IN THERE.

Ok. Srsly. Let's talk about it. Allow me, if you will, to put down my diet Orange Crush and my lowfat high fiber cereal snack bar and fresh fruit so that we may have a frank, earnest discussion about what one artist notably referred to as "this jelly." I just watched a Colbert Report with a guest who wrote a book about issues surrounding the more bootylicious among us.  I was right with her, I really was. Right up until the end, where she likened fat oppression to racism and inferred that fat people have better health outcomes than thin people. Let's address these two statements one by one:
First, about how fatphobia=racism. No. Just, no. I'm certainly not invalidating in any way the fact that this is a significant social problem that can affect income, what jobs you do and don't get, social standing, etc etc up to and including the fat tax one must pay to get extra large clothes. However, can we please, for the love all things battered and deepfried, at least agree that we as fat people were not, as a rule, summarily stripped of any and all civil liberties and freedoms and forced into slavery for generations? And that we can not, in point of fact, point to a relative who remembers when they had to avoid the Thin fountains and only drink from the fat ones? Can we do that? Also, while we're at it, can we pretty fucking please stop comparing oppressive states and trying to out-oppress each other like two snotnosed kindergarteners comparing scabs for two fucking minutes  so we can spend that energy focusing on larger problems? That'd be great, thanks so much.  Just because we're both struggling with a society slanted against us, that doesn't mean that that slanting looks the same for both of us, and it doesn't mean we understand each other's journeys or could possibly comprehend what it means for each other's cultures. It DOES mean we should be way more fucking motivated to join the other and lock arms when one of us is trying to stage a protest or sign a petition or embetter things in general.  Recognize that we're fighting the same beast, but respect that we are most certainly not fighting the same fight, and understand that in the end that really shouldn't make a damn difference in how we support one another. Ok. So once again, to sum up: NO.
Second:  Better health outcomes? Alright. I'm a nurse, betches. I give risk factors reach-arounds every damn day, massaging and cajoling cost/benefit analyses to give my clients the best care possible. And you know what? I am just as damn tired of the fat-power morons who scream that morbid obesity means nothing for health risk factors as I am of the brainless, hyperreactive PCP's who insist on testing a fatty's thyroid and blood sugar levels every frigging month which comes alongside a lecture about how someday soon as you lie asleep your fat is going to gang up on you in the night, kick your ass, steal your wallet, give you dick cancer and a heart attack, eat all your Pringles and rape your dog. That's right. It's climbing in yo window, it's drivin yo lipids up, and tryin to rape your dog so y'all better hide yo chips, hide yo wine, etc etc etc. So let me make this as monosyllabic as I can: If you's fat, it don't mean you are sick any more than it means you're healthy.

This meltdown

I finally had a huge bloody meltdown of galactic proportions about this ANCC exam.  The precursor to this was taking their overwhelmingly ridiculous, maddeningly poorly worded and designed practice test. Several typos. More grammatical errors than I care to recall.  And one of the 25 actually had two correct answers, I confirmed this in several places.  I got into such a state that I started second guessing every answer I chose.  The degree of that much wutdefuckitude, especially when my livelihood depends on such a monumental, blazing turd in test form.
I actually broke down in furious bottomless tears by the end of it, and then started reviewing with such fervor that my very patient boyfriend had to physically wrestle my study materials away from me when it came time to put it all away and wind down for the night.  I have developed such a frothing, lathered panic about passing this exam the first time I take it, that I'm beginning to worry about my ability to competently sit for it without losing my shit.  I have always been a great test taker, these bitches never got to me, but right now I must be in something of a vulnerable state and projecting or some Freudian shit, because I'm so petrified that I'll be told I'm incompetent by this evil little pop quiz that I'm letting it get into my head.

This test

I have the ANCC exam scheduled for this. Fucking. Sunday. I'm studying so hard a fine steam vapor has taken to coming out of my ears in a regular stream.  Synapses, overtaxed and underpaid, have begun protesting and picketing, demanding shorter hours and more sugar for myelin sheaths. Arg. I have dates and statutes and treatment modalities and mechanisms of action sparkling in my peripheral vision at all times.  I'm quite glad this counts as CME credits at the end of the day, because owch.  But, it will be worth it to make myself that much more marketable.  I have to admit it pisses me off that this exam is considered a valid test of proficiency and competence.  Poorly worded questions designed to be misleading, I wouldn't even use that phrase to describe the SAT's.

This temptation

"Sesame Donuts, bitches."  That's all my coworker said as he walked into the big meeting room and thunked down not one but two brimming boxes full of what I refer to as The White Death, right in front of me.  "I couldn't let you leave us on a sour note, after all."  Now in fairness, I have never ever turned down treats he's brought in in the past.  But this, this was my first real impromptu temptation since I began this saga of crankiness and glycemic indexes.  My eyes widened as I took in the cornucopia, veritably sparkling with confectioners sugar and glaze.  I don't really care much about sweets typically, but Sesame, well, that's a whole other kettle of horses of a different color.  I started babbling. "B-but, 19 p-pounds, almost 20...the points... the POINTS!"  Luckily one or two coworkers knew I was dieting and patted my shoulder as I slurped my tea to steady my nerves and to give myself a moment to think: Just this morning I had seen yet another week of adipose cells crying out as they languished away, almost 2 lbs worth of languishing in all.  I have been working HARD for this shit.  But I becalmed myself enough to realize that no, really,  you don't have to live in black and whites, one either full of donuts or none at all, I mean, come on man, pull it together, you live in the middle in ALL other things in your life, many that are way harder.  Gender, sexuality, prescribing practices, I am medial and flexible and adaptable in almost all areas and domains, so fuck this donut.  And fuck deprivation.  Moderation is harder, but sweeter when you make it your bitch.  That's right, say it with me: Respect the cruller, and TAME THE DONUT.  Thank you Joss, for your wisdom in this matter.  I tore a chocolate glazed into quarters and took one of them, amid jeers and misplaced encouragements to "just have the whole donut for the love of Pete, it's your last week here Jake!"  At first I expected to get pissed about that, but a strange serenity came over me.  I turned and held up the small serving of deliciousness, pointed to my shrinking gut and replied, "19 pounds, my babies. And THAT is how you do that."

This chemical journey

I have officially been deemed unsuccessful at my current dose of Hormone Fueled Emotional Lability.  My crotch doctor tested my iron levels (low, but I ain't dying just yet) and next week I begin a HNL of hormone therapy.  Apparently my mighty ovaries simply can't be beaten into complacence by the low dose shit.  I've been leaking hemoglobins for about 2 weeks solid at this point, and you know what? I have to admit that the luster has begun to wear thin.  I just can't get as excited as I was when this chemical journal began to enjoy fully the constant cramping, craving for meat to replenish my rapidly tanking hematocrit levels, and the constant feeling of always and forever needing a shower. They just don't make water, um, watery enough to make you feel clean during this level of rampant utero-spasm.

This transition

This is officially the last week at the toxic cesspool that constitutes my old job.  I've been just about conscripted to come in once a week to take care of things as best I can, on the weekend, for about 8 hrs, for a ridiculous amount of money.  It'll pay for COBRA at least.  I'm excited beyond all reason to get the fuck out of Dodge.

In a bizarre twist of fate, I'll be sitting for the ANCC exam the day before I start work at the new digs.  No pressure.  I have a lusty, spirited hatred for this exam and the entire process therein which transcends my ability to express it.  Never have I felt so thoroughly, professionally insulted in every way.  This level of hoop jumping should be reserved for skateboarding.

Let's get physical. Physical.

Why oh why for the love of all that is sexy am I becoming more and more concerned with every gurgle and blurp emanating from the teeming mass that is my body.  I'm doing regular BP checks and really REALLY thinking about and analyzing the consistency, frequency, and chemical makeup of every waste matter I produce, liquid or otherwise.  Seriously. If I become my uncle Tardy, Imma be pissed.  He'd spend hours regaling us with the inner workings of his guts.  I defy my genetics in this respect, I refuse to go down that road.  If this is an age thing, I hereby resolve to go to more concerts and start doing some bouldering, because eff that noise.

Buh-bah

I made the formal announcement that I'm leaving my current job today, and got a surprising outpouring of luvvins from the staffers, from "I'm crying at my desk now" to "I'm so happy for you, congratulations!" Officially lame duck NP now. So. Happy.  This is what heaven feels like. I haven't had my first chance to say "Leave that to the next NP, sucka" yet, but it's comin'. I can feel it.

In other news I'm still losing weight, or whatever. I lost the motivation to work out, and had to have my buddy come over and kick my ass around the living room, using those evil little personal trainer tricks they love so much.  "Just one more! That's it! You can do it! Ok, now just one more, last one, I swear! Great! Now just one more..."  I may have told her to eat shit and die, I can't be certain, it's all a blur.

The only major complaint I have right now is that my PVC's are driving me up one wall and down the other.  I think stress management techniques may require honing.  I'll go ready a few panes of glass.

Because Pt 2.

Isn't this fun? Enjoy.

Because after 2 years I still think your jokes are fucking hilarious.
Because you drive me absolutely nuts in new and exciting ways. Daily. And that is rare and awesome.
Because you always, ALWAYS keep me on my toes, more than anyone I've ever met.
Because you kick my ass at Scrabble. Every. Damn. Time.
Because your brain is so sexy it should be a controlled substance, sold on the black market with MDMA.
Because you think my physical exams are hot.
Because you listen as hard as most people talk, but you talk even harder.
Because whenever I make you laugh I can't help but feel a little proud of myself.
Because of your knack for seeing right through any defense mechanism I can muster.
Because I STILL get a schoolboy thrill whenever you refer to me as your boyfriend.
Because you don't mind my horrific table manners.
Because every day I'm with you it becomes quite clear I'm the luckiest asshole on earth.

That's why.

Because: Pt 1

Ok, I decided that instead of fighting the emotional rollercoaster, I said fuggit, might as well try to enjoy the ride. Embrace the crazy. So I am currently on a chemical upswing, enjoy the results:


Because after 11 years you STILL fucking think my lamest jokes are hilarious.
Because I never get tired of counting your freckles.
Because you think it's endearing rather than creepy that I cry at Muppet movies.
Because even when we are having the hardest times imaginable, there's still not one moment of it I'd trade away, for any price, because it's with you.
Because there simply does not exist a more enticing butt in the known universe.
Because the worst nightmare my subconscious ever cooked up to make me wake up in sheer terrified flopsweat was the one in which you didn't want to be mine anymore.
Because nobody ever has long enough to listen to how much I love you.
Because, when confronted with how savagely I am still enamored with you, language still comes up short and must beg for mercy and pardon because of its shortcomings.

That's why.

Aaaahh.

Ok that was cool. Just got a thank you note from a client and his lawyer, who I was working closely with to get the client some sorely needed benefits.  Now and again, just occasionally, you get to score a win. And on those days, I remember just why the hell I do this.

Stuff

I'll carry this around

I promise I won't put it down

You carry this too

Heavy, groaning truth

But we don't have to swallow all of it

And I know I should have the sense to spit

But I'm so thirsty now

Even mud feels good going down

And if I could get these ends to fuse

It might shut out my blackest views

That texture was so good

But I'd forget it if I could.

Winter.

I remember the sound
Of your November downtown.
And I remember the truth,
A warm December with you.
But I don't have to make this mistake.
And I don't have to live this way.
If only I would wait.

(It ain't mine, but this is the piece I always think of when I'm missing my pops.  This unprovoked emotional morning brought to you by Ortho Novum, the most complete estrogen fueled roller coaster available today. Ortho Novum: Go Fuck Yourself.)

IT'S ALL HAPPENING.

I've got the official job offer letter, to the tune of a bazillion more dollars a month than I'm making now. Score. I'm nervous, yeah, but really ready to move on. The only thing in my way: ANCC certification. I need to get through this process and the exam. Without destroying myself or others. Tricksy, considering I'm having trouble controlling my ire when it comes to this beaurocratic nonsense.  They offer no support, do not really prove competence, and basically just exist to feed itself and keep itself alive off of the quan of the working people in the field, like a nasty, malignant parasite up the ass of the nursing community.  But I fucking digress.

Still losing poundage and inches steadily.  There have been some, ah, challenging moments, but that's what gawd made heavy sedatives for.  I'm a bit nervous about this, honestly, because in order to lose at a steady, ongoing rate, I've had to reduce the amount I eat every week, at a rate faster than the program is telling me to do so. If I ate all that the program said I could, I'd be going backwards.  Instead I'm focusing on just exercising as much as I can, which for the last 3 days was a little tough for some reason.  But, new week, new day, new chance to get sweaty and disgusting. I can do about 50 pushups in a session now. I'm almost seeing some definition in my upper arms.  And today I got the first honest-to-monkeyballs unprovoked "Hey man, have you lost weight?" since beginning this process. That, I have to fucking admit, felt really good.  Also got a "Jake, your shirts are getting baggy, have you noticed?" from a colleague who did know I've been getting healthy on a program, but still, that was cool.

In which poo is flung.

It finally fucking happened. I hit my plateau.  No weight change at all this week, despite working out more frequently and more vigorously than ever before.  I was ready to defenestrate the whole damn program this morning.  I'm working harder and eating less than everyone around me it seems sometimes, and threw a right tantrum about it. It took longer than I would have expected to calm the fuck down again and grudgingly remove my considerable arse from my pity pot and re-enter reality. I think I may be having some mild hormonal help in my most righteous fit-throwing, given my estrogen therapy. The road to irritability is considerably shorter these days. I apparently look like I'm close to tears a helluva lot more frequently, even when I don't realize it/feel like it.  I may not be able to tolerate this therapy, if that keeps up. I'll give it a full month, see how it all pans out. It could also just be the fact that I'M FUCKING HUNGRY.  Recently, I seem to have regressed close to my first week on this horrific journey, wanting to punch a lot of faces in only after eating my computer screen.  My resiliency is definitely reduced a bit.  I hope this is just a temporary response to my hormone therapy, because if it's not, I either need to change it or prepare for the inevitable murder trials I'll have to endure.

ROBOTS ARE EROTIC

Saw I'm Here, a short film with Andrew Garfiled whom I've been devouring the last few weeks.  He's a robot who falls in love with a newer model.  The love interest keeps getting damaged so he keeps giving it pieces of himself.  Not sure why I've assigned Andrew's character male pronouns but seem to be reluctant to give the love interest gendered pronouns, hmm.  Anyhow. It reminded me of the giving tree, except that in the end both parties appeared to be happy with how things turned out.

Ow, my privacies.

Alternate title: In which Jake learns that while his poo may smell sweeter than some, that doesn't mean that it should be easy to sniff out.

I find that I have zero common sense when it comes to appropriately censoring my online self.  For the most part, I'm comfortable with that.  However thank Ah Puk that I have people who care about me enough to be concerned when I do something completely fucktarded.  So yeah, some editing of my posts has commenced, so that nobody comes in the night to arrest me or burn my license or something, just in case anyone other than my family ever read this.

Also I keep shedding fat, it seems, at a freakishly steady clip.  Some of my shirts are getting a bit baggy in some areas.   My tailored jeans, which we just bought a few weeks ago, are feeling very roomy if you will..  I have a "tough guy workout" that my buddy (mayshebreakoutinboils) inflicted on me at my request, and it's definitely having an effect.  Affect? No, effect. Fuck you grammar. And I'll put as many spaces after the period as a feel like, suck it APA manual.

So yeah. that's going well.  I have to keep reducing how much I eat every week a bit because my body keeps trying to adapt.  A normal person my size wouldn't have to reduce intake at the rate I'll have to in order to keep losing adipose babies, which makes me wish for a flamethrower, but no point pissing against the wind. I'm not feeling psycho any longer, that's what's important, and I never was into golden showers anyhow.

I also started low dose estradiol tabs this week as my uterus and I have not been on speaking terms lately.  I seem to be jerking off at the same rate and have not had any weird urges to punch walls, so I suppose at least that part's a success.  Lots of folks get moody or unhorny on this regimen, I just want to quit needing heavy drugs every month.  The medical community, in it's infinite wisdom, has decided that it is not at all necessary  to menstruate every month, so I can take it nonstop. (Way to catch up with what people have been doing with their pills for years, geniuses.)

In conclusion, a bird just flew headlong into my window and stunned itself for a few moments before flitting off. I fucking hate portents.

This is heavy.

I'm not wanting to cutabetch right now. Things that are not currently pissing me off:

1) Lost six lbs thus far. My jeans are looser and I'm fitting into shirts I haven't fit into in months.

2) Looks like I may be getting this job with the pharm company as a speaker. Beau-coup munnies, and I like the product. And I get to travel. Ka ching.

3) Looks also like I may be getting this new regular gig as well at a new agency. More pay. Better support and people. Awesome.

4) TAX. REBATE. Whoa. Lots more than I expected.

So yeah. None of that sucks.

--
Jake

Video Killed the Radio Star.

Pictures came and broke your heart. But that's ok, because I may possibly be contemplating having a show once more, on KBOO.  They are looking for hosts and shows and I'm struggling with significant temptation.

The boyfriend and I went on their weekly Out Loud queer show to tout the genderqueer night at the hot tubs yesterday, went really well. I'm going to be going to their volunteer orientation this weekend. I've got trepidations, but I miss performing.  A lot. It's either this or hit community theater again, and I'm over greasepaint acne.

Week 1 done.

Well shit. First week is over, thank fuck. I lost some poundage, and can fit into some shirts that were too snug a week ago.  During this time, I also got an interview at a new/old job, at an agency I interned at many mango seasons ago. They remembered me, even. Well, the HR betch did. I don't remember her in the slightest, but meh.  She sounded nice on the phone.

So, Things Are Happening.

In other news: Did you know that losing weight increases sex drive? Yeah. I didn't need the help, but, there it is.

CORRECTION

Yeah I know I said no deaths yet, I lied.  It's half an hour post lunch and I'm feeling the need to draw some blood. I made popcorn with brewer's yeast for this kind of problem, problem being it's the powder kind, and every bite I take makes me cough because the powder is so fine I'm inhaling it.  It's a bit better than yesterday, but I'm concerned that I may not get through my afternoon without my irritability leaking.

Day 2. No deaths yet.

In my ongoing quest to not die at 50, I find myself on my second day of equating food to points (surreal) and trying to think of points as golf swings. To be fair, it's definitely helping me think more about the various fuels I ingest. To be completely frakking unfair, I'm already getting tired of mainlining applesauce when I'm hungry and have already swung par. I keep eying the Aciphex bottle I keep on my desk (acid reflux/ulcer med) and thinking, "Yeah, I don't need you anymore, bitch. Howya like me now." It helps sometimes. I note with interest that anger is the primary outlet of choice for my fud blueballs.  First world problems.

Rattling the cage.

Blogging.  Cripes.  I wish I could have restrained myself to be content with 140 characters of expression, but sometimes you just have to whine into the void.  I think I'm going to maintain this as a place to simply download my brain (the Singularity is coming soon anyhow, right?) whenever it needs defragging or rebooting.  Yes. Geek humor. A good place to jump from.

So. My cage, and how it's being rattled. I started, Arcadion help me, Weight Watchers today. After only two meals I'm already down the rabbit hole as far as food goes, I mean, dude, did you know that food can be, like, an EMOTIONAL thing?  Shocking, I know.  What's weird is even with all the foreknowledge that came with growing up with a dad with a binge eating disorder that eventually killed him young and living with a slave with a similar disorder for 11 years, and watching her do all the Beck based CBT work she can get her hands on to deal with it, I was still unprepared.  I was unprepared for the utter panic that came with the thought that FUCK, I can't eat that right now.  She made a good point today, as I threw a minor temper tantrum after a very well balanced (fuckme) lunch, saying, "Railing against this isn't going to make it go away you know. But it's ok to recognize that this is totally fucking unfair." This was unexpected enough to stop my grumbling and make me think a damn minute. Unfair? "Yes, unfair. You see people who can eat anything and not have to think about it because by sheer luck their metabolisms are on crack. You were born with a thyroid disorder. You have to monitor everything you eat or else you could end up dying early just like your dad. That's not fair. But it is what it is, it's what your life is. Might as well not fight it."  Fucking zen fucking thoughtful reasonableness. Just like the shit I pelt at my clients day in and out. But as she said, doesn't make it any less true, howsoever much I may hate it.  So I nibbled  a very carefully portioned number of pretzel sticks, drank my big-ass glass of water, and ate as many apple slices as I could stand to fill in the corners, (fruit is encouraged).  I then went back to work, reluctantly recognizing that my indigestion, which had become a mainstay of daily life, was nonexistent and my heart murmurs had abated entirely. (Fuck.)