By Way of Explanation...

This post purports to be about why I have not been posting and how I swear (I swear!) that this lax state of affairs will soon be changing.  But first, this unnecessary remark! --->


It's scary when Karl Rove sounds like the voice of reason.  Apparently, nothing makes right wing assholes drop their feigned rube twang like a bunch of cartoonish evangelical Tea-Partiers making inroads into what had been considered proprietary holdings in bigotry and Social Darwinism.


HALT!  I can't just go around calling people assholes, no matter how much it relieves the crick in my neck, no matter how high, how unerring the degree of my accuracy.  Ever since pronouncing my first ever "fucktard" over the weekend, awareness of my penchant for words best detailed by online Urban Dictionaries in lieu of staid Oxford English ones, has grown.


It's grown uncomfortable.  My speech, my pronouncements, my general demeanor -- all unseemly. In fact, I unleashed what apparently can only be called a Can of Whoop Ass on a tweeting con artist yesterday.  @GR8Vibrations may never be the same.  He'll certainly never claim that Vibration Exercise is a match made 
in heaven for CRPS-sufferers again.  I mean, really, what a stupid claim, given the degree of allodynia and hyperalgesia with which we deal. Nonstop.  All the time.  Every God-damned minute of every freaking day. 
I know that on a good day there is nothing I'd rather do than purposely inflict vibration on the ice cold, edematous, 9-out-of-10-on-the-pain-scale pieces of raw meat that extend from the nubs of my former fine, fine legs.


@GR*Vibrations:  We see this condition a lot have been successful treating it with Physical Therapy and Vibration Exercise.


What a goober. "We see this condition a lot," my sweet ass.  It's a phrase he tweets throughout the day to a selected group of sufferers. Before turning it on the wife of a man with CRPS who was "out of treatment options," this Pimple on the Butt of Humanity was working the Parkinson's Disease Twitter lunch crowd.


"Now Serving 2 Locations! Whole Body Vibration As Seen on 'The Doctors' with Fran Drescher!!!"


Well, this heightened, tightened insensitivity just isn't going to work, is it?  Not on Strategists, Ad Men and Women, ConPersons, Theoreticians, Kingmakers, Queenmakers, Lying Liars, Birthers, Gomers, Policy Wonks, Assholes... whatever the taxonomic home in which you wish to lodge them, these folks are spinning their realities as fast as they can, and who am I to interfere?


I mean, what pleasure do I get from seeing a Bush-era POS like Karl Rove squirm midst the threat of tea-partier spoilers?  Am I so sadistic as to enjoy the reflexive twitches of a fat and dying political breed animal, peering out at the world from behind Waldo geek chic eyeglasses?


I guess I am even more of sicko than anyone knew.  Except Fred.  And Bianca.  Plus a certain wise-acre faction within the Domestic Staff.  


Anyway (my favorite segue!) -- I am sorry not to have posted much of late.  I'm in horrible pain and spend lots of time dealing with spasms -- by screaming, mostly.  And attacking indiscriminately, via handy social media, the type of people who usually target me.  It looks like the infection in my left shoulder prosthesis is back with vengeance, and that, coupled with the failure of my recent flirtation with subanesthetic ketamine infusions to cure or even lower my pain levels from CRPS, has me in something of a personal crisis.


You know, I ask myself questions like:  "Why do you keep trying, when everything is screaming at you to give up, to lay down and die?  Hmmm? Why?"


I have started asking myself, as well, "Whycome?  Whycome?" I think that "whycome" sounds cute.  It's kind of tsunami code for "cute disaster," or  美しい災害-


My legs are so swollen that lymphatic fluid is being squeezed out of my famous third spaces.  My vision is changing so rapidly from uncontrolled glaucoma that I frequently scream when my eyes pop open in the dark and the ceiling fan appears to be 6 inches from my face... and Karl Rove.  That's right, my ceiling fan, fat and round and spinning, appears to me at night as a menacing Karl Rove.'


I suspect that I'm also flirting with kidney failure -- No, that's way too dramatic! It is technically renal insufficiency.  My doctor worries about it, I know, especially since I have become addicted to ibuprofen.  It's the only thing that will break my daily fevers.  I alternate between low-dose methadone (only 10 mg a day now, ever since the great Jump Off experiment in May/June), Percocet (with acetaminophen), and ibuprofen. At least now I stay under 1600 mg a day.


I have the beginnings of 12 good posts in my Draft file.  Some are actually within shouting distance of a refined finish.  In each and every instance, a fierce attack of spasticity murdered the writing impulse and the resultant high doses of Baclofen and tizanidine left me without any discernible muscle tone.


That's what I said -- no discernible muscle town.  Wanna make something of it?  Wanna poke fun at my essential amoeba-ness?


I did not think so.


I also have in mind, Dear Reader, essays about things that speak to our common human condition.


Like the silliness of crossword puzzles.  I mean, is "a college in North Carolina" ever anything but Elon?  Is a literary monogram, or literary initials, ever anything but either TSE or EAP?  It's silly.  I do about three short puzzles a day and these two examples are but the tip of my iceberg.


Like more observations on what it is like to be the spouse of someone with a severe case of ADHD, with a side serving of PTSD.  Even just a list of the things that he claims he will do "tomorrow" would relieve some of the pressure and hammering in mine brain.


Like detailing the contents of the last Gift Box I received from Brother-Unit Tumbleweed. Full of music and some guides to the Canyon.  (He finally wrote me a few days back, which was a relief.  If you are following that saga...)


And more cats.  Always more cats.  Buddy the Kitten has learned how to turn door knobs, Marmy is pooping outside the litter boxes, and Dobby now delivers well-timed bites to Buddy's ears, in a valiant effort to appear stronger, smarter, faster.


"Go, Dobby, Go," we cry!


There are also some vaguely political posts in the works, and I am really sorry about that.


Well, there goes my right foot, and since the scream is about to climb backwards out of my mouth, leading with a wide open vowel, I'll leave you now, hungry and aching for more.  You, I mean.  You're hungry and aching for more.


Jeez.