Direct Donation


Thank you for your support!

The Armed Traveler


Click above to purchase!
Discount Code for $2 off: SQWTN2013

Want to Advertise?

Please email me for pricing and terms!

Gun Blog Black List

This has been a wild ride.

 

Pertussis -> bronchitis -> allergies = still coughing. It’s quite bad in the mornings and at night. I’m already on a bunch of allergy medications, and in addition, I’m taking Sudafed and Mucinex to try to keep things cleared up, because drainage is causing a significant part of the current problem.

Spring can eat a dick, is what I’m saying.

Tonsillectomy is still on for the 11th.

I did call my ENT to see if maybe I should put it off, but they seemed to think that my cough wouldn’t be an issue. I’m supposed to call if it gets down to the wire and my cough is still bad enough that I’m worried, so there’s that, but yeah. One week.

I just realized I have a neurologist appointment 2 days after my tonsillectomy, so that should be amusing.

This is the kind of thing that just shouldn’t happen.

I said something a couple of posts ago about having a cough.

Then I talked in my last post about being concerned, and having people dismiss those concerns.

I am simultaneously vindicated and horrified, right now.

Let me tell you about the past 4 weeks of my life:

Week 1 (February 21-26): I had a bit of a cough and low-grade fever, but it was late February, and the weather was being weird, so I thought it was probably nothing. I was seeing my doctor for something unrelated, brought it up, and she agreed that it was probably the weather, and that I should just rest and drink fluids.

She did listen to my chest, and didn’t hear anything. I was reassured, and went about my life.

 

Week 2 (February 28 – March 5): My cough got much, much worse. I wasn’t sleeping. My boyfriend began to insist, only 3 days after I’d been to my doctor for the mild cough, that I go to the doctor again to deal with something that seemed to be getting out of control. I finally agreed five days later (because I’ve become accustomed to being told I was worrying too much about my health), and we went to a minor medical center. I was swabbed for the flu (“negative…”), given some antibiotics and Norco cough syrup, and a steroid shot. She also listened to my chest and heard nothing – my chest was beginning to hurt from the effort of coughing.

Despite there being no evidence of sinus pressure or ear pressure, I was being treated for a sinus infection.

I was okay with that. I mean, at least I should feel better soon, anyway, right?

 

Week 3 (March 6-12: I felt better for a few days. The steroids reduced some of the swelling in my chest and throat, and I felt a bit better able to breathe. The cough syrup did little more than relieve the pain that the coughing had caused, but all things considered, I was pretty happy about that. I finished my antibiotics toward the end of this week, and was beginning to feel like a lingering, occasional cough would be all I’d have to deal with for maybe one more week, and I’d be okay.

I went to my ENT for a follow-up on an ear infection, and scheduled a tonsillectomy (my tonsils have completely given up, you guys – I’ve had tonsillitis for over a month, now, and they don’t even hurt because they have ceased to give a single fuck). He expressed happiness that I was getting treated for my cough, and that things would be okay in time for me to have my minor surgery.

My cough was still rattly, but was infrequent enough that I was okay with the occasional bark (my coughs usually sound pretty dramatic, because of frequent URIs growing up).

 

Week 4 (March 12-19): Everything went sideways pretty quickly. My cough began getting progressively worse, with sleep becoming more difficult, again. I had no drainage, and no sinus pressure. I’d just been cleared of having ear fluid by my ENT a few days prior, yet my ears began hurting from the pressure of coughing.

My chest began to hurt, again, and I had several nights of waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. I took my temperature on two of these nights, and discovered that I was apparently getting fevers in the middle of my sleep cycle. 100.7F at 4am, then down to 96.7F by 10am. My body was doing some weird stuff. I vomited after a couple of coughing fits.

I was only sleeping 3 hours at a time toward the end of the week, randomly falling asleep in the middle of the day while working on something at my computer. I finally called my doctor’s office that Friday morning to see if they could squeeze me in, or at least give me some idea of what to do. They scheduled me for an appointment on March 21, which was yesterday, with the new CNP. I was a bit nervous, because new doctor, but whatever, I’m sick.

My boyfriend, meanwhile, is watching all of this in discomfort, knowing that I’m sick, but, like me, not really knowing what the hell to do about it.

 

So, that brings us up to Week 5.

For the sake of disclosure, and because at this point I’ve given up any illusion of medical problems causing me shame, I actually coughed so hard that I peed a little twice while in the hospital for the visit – once on the way into the office, and again on the way out. It wasn’t enough to cause a serious issue, but I had to utilize the old “make a toilet paper pad” method commonly used by desperate women caught without menstrual products. I told the doctor about the one that happened while headed into the office. He seemed concerned.

Everything else that could cause a cough was ruled out, again.

He said he wanted to take some blood to check my WBC, and also ordered a chest X-ray to check for anything that might be causing an issue, because my chest has been clear throughout this entire journey – he didn’t hear anything except the rattle when I coughed.

I got my X-ray, and he came back into the room with a strange look on his face that I immediately recognized.

“So the X-ray was clear, then?”

He threw his hands up and kind of laughed, in a very “WELP” kind of gesture, which is how I operate when things are messed up with no clear answer. I started getting really nervous, because at that point we’d exhausted all of the usual suspects.

I’d mentioned getting my pertussis booster (whooping cough), because my cough had gotten so bad that I was reminded that I hadn’t had my booster in a while, and I didn’t really want to go through anything more miserable than what I already have been.

I found out when he came back after the X-ray that I was going to be treated for pertussis.

I’m going to show you the look on my face once I realized that this was actually happening.

fucking whooping cough motherfucking antivaxxer pieces of shit

Now, yesterday, on Facebook, I said that I was being treated “as though” I had pertussis. I looked at my medical records online, this morning (they stick them up there so that the patient and the doctors at that office are all on the same page,” and haha, no, the official diagnosis is whooping cough.

I am 32 years old. I had my vaccines. I also happen to have a weakened immune system, but I had my vaccines, dammit.

Well, thanks to a desperate group of people who don’t understand the difference between a disease and a neurological condition, I now have a disease that should have been eradicated, or that I should at least be able to use herd immunity to avoid.

I am relieved that I got those antibiotics during Week 2. They very likely hastened the progression from “contagious” to “you’re just going to be miserable for a couple of months.”

It’s 2016. I am an adult. What the actual fuck. I’m probably going to have to reschedule my tonsillectomy, because can you imagine having an awful cough while the back of your throat is basically a scab?

I am never going to second-guess my own health concerns, again.

So I need permission to be concerned, now?

I have had people tell me to stop being dramatic, and stop being paranoid, when it comes to the weird-ass ways in which I get sick.

Over the past month, I’ve had a random cough that was only sometimes accompanied by a low-grade fever, and symptoms of the flu. The cough got bad enough over two weeks that I had to go to minor med. It didn’t really improve despite cough syrup, and despite antibiotics, my tonsils have shown signs of strep without a sore throat (white spots, swelling, the whole shebang).

My tonsils are actually separating into separate pieces. They still don’t hurt – I have three pieces on the left side, now, and the right side is about to split in half. I’m having an adenotonsillectomy next month. (It only took 20 years of intermittent tonsillitis and strep. “Your tonsils look funny.” – direct quote at Shea Clinic last week.)

My ears have felt like they’re full of fluid for a couple of months, now, but there has been no fluid in them. I get dizzy for absolutely no reason (yes, I’m taking all of my meds properly and on time – it’s not migraine resurgence) – this can be partly explained by adenoid swelling, but why is the swelling happening now? Obviously because of the tonsils, but why are the tonsils acting like they’re infected, without the usual symptoms of tonsillitis?

My major joints have started their “eh, not sure I want to move, right now, thanks” games, again. Old injuries are beginning to hurt more. My right hip is getting “stuck” again. I’m more tired, and even crocheting wears me out, and the tendons around my elbows are preventing me from working very fast, despite stretching and going out of my way to make sure my arms have proper support. I’ve begun wearing socks with the feet cut off around my arms to keep pressure on the joint, and to keep them warm.

Last night, I was so exhausted that I crashed out just after 11pm (this is unusual for me, lately, and I’d only been up for about 10 hours, at that point). I kept sweating, but when I pulled the covers off, I started shivering. I took my temperature early this morning, and it was just below 101F. Not much I could do, so I just went back to sleep (would have to eat to take Tylenol, and it was probably around 4am, so no).

I woke up at 10:30am, and my temperature was just under 97F. So my fever broke, but where the hell did it come from?

As soon as my breakfast settles, I’m going back to sleep. I still feel awful and exhausted.

All of this has been going on for a full month. No one consistent illness type.

So at what point am I “allowed” to be paranoid? At what point am I “allowed” to freak out a little bit at the clearly messed up symptoms?

You can’t explain everything away by the weather. We’ve had plenty of messed up weather patterns without me dealing with this level of crap.

So tell me, Oh Wise Internet: when am I “allowed” to suspect a relapse? Clearly I no longer know my own body, so I guess I have to rely on people who either don’t see me often, or those I have never even met.

If I sound immature and petulant, just imagine what it feels like to have people talk down to you about something you’ve been fighting for 18 years, already. Imagine what it’s like for the person I live with.

I’d rather be paranoid and wrong than shrug it off and be wrong.

If you disagree, and you think I’m worrying over nothing, why don’t you just go worry about yourself for a while, and stay out of my business.

Permalink

I’m just not feelin’ the blog, lately. I’m leaving it here just in case, and because I know there are people who check up on it, but I’m finding that the more time goes on, the less I feel like writing.

I’m crocheting a lot, I have a terrible cough right now, and I’ve been playing Diablo III for a bit. That’s it. You’re caught up. Congratulations.

 

On Etiquette and Autonomy

I’m going to state some obvious things, here, but bear with me.

The past few days have been like a roller coaster that has one drop, and then just kind of goes on a straightaway before running out of inertia and just sitting there, while I’ve been unable to exit the ride because the bar is still secured across my lap, and there’s no platform.

I started Thursday evening with happy news – news comparable to finally having an answer re: Lyme, and comparable to finally being able to have a much-needed hysterectomy. I said that on Facebook, already, but it bears repeating. This process I’m currently going through is just as important for my health, both physical and mental.

I had people use close relationships with me as an excuse to exempt themselves from my one request in announcing this process: not making jokes. They not only made jokes, but some of them straight-out told me that I was selfish for wanting this surgery, and that I should take not only my boyfriend’s feelings into consideration, but also other men. (For the record, my boyfriend is completely on-board because me not feeling well stresses both of us out, and to him, this is just as much a medical problem as it is to me.)

Others requested before and after photos, with one person stated that they were “for posterity.”

All of this happened within 24 hours of me announcing what was, to me, amazing news.

I could see hope on the horizon, and then I quickly descended. I spent hours on Friday night crying, at times unable to close my mouth, but unable to make any sounds but the rasping as my throat became more dry with every breath.

I did makeup in an attempt to feel better (it usually helps), took a photo, posted it to seem as though I was being tough, but as soon as I posted the photo, I cried the makeup off. I was up until 5:30am the following morning because my muscles ached with the effort and exhaustion that so much emotion can cause.

I spent Saturday with very little motivation, only eating because I had to in order to take my medication (to avoid a migraine). I occasionally broke down in tears, but they were more the “normal” type, and larger and larger periods of time passed without crying

There are more terrible things that have happened to people. There are more terrible things that have happened to me.

The thing is – this echoes one of those terrible things. I’ve had someone else in my past claim my body, repeatedly, for his own ends. I was unable to escape this person I trusted, because I was financially stuck, and physically cut off from my support system (as well as any means of transportation). Those who knew something was wrong felt helpless to do anything about it, and acted awkwardly around me, trying to fix anything else that they felt they could control (and I don’t blame them for it).

To have others that I trusted, particularly men, turn around and, under the guise of joking, display that same feeling of entitlement toward the very same body parts that were repeatedly abused, is bad enough.

What’s worse is that every single one of them knew that part of my past, because I trusted them enough to tell them. I’ve known every one of them for longer than a decade.

They felt entitled to put their amusement above my wishes.

That is a serious violation.

I hate it when people say something “triggered” them. The term has lost all meaning, because there are precious, special snowflakes who feel that any mention of something that upsets them is a “trigger.” They’ve taken a serious term that is meant to protect those with actual traumatic pasts, and turned it into a way of covering themselves with increasing layers of bubble wrap.

So I, instead, have to say that I had some pretty severe flashbacks, which I’d hoped to avoid by explicitly stating that jokes were not welcome. I am more than happy to discuss the particulars of the situation, from a clinical standpoint. You all know this from my experiences with Lyme, and with my hysterectomy. The latter, in particular, invoked some pretty strong personal feelings, because while I always said I didn’t want kids, occasionally I get this pang of knowing that I never will have kids of my own. Rationality has nothing to do with it – it’s just a thing that’s there, and that still happens from time to time.

I am more than happy to talk to someone who is curious, for their sake, about the process. And I will very likely diligently record this process, as I have for everything else (though with the Lyme it became more of the same, so I just stopped).

If you want photos of a breast reduction before/after, the internet exists, and there are plastic surgeons who’ve gotten express permission from clients to post photos of their bodies online, in order to let potential clients see their work.

If you want to ask me questions as to why I need the procedure, I am happy to oblige. But the only person who will see before/after photos is my surgeon, and I’ll go ahead and tell you right now that the prospect of having my upper body clinically inspected, and photos taken of it, even for medical purposes, is causing no small amount of anxiety.

Today, I’ve lifted the bar off of my lap, but I’m still without a platform. I’m looking for ways to exit the roller coaster, and I’ll find one, some foothold to help me jump down without too much trouble, but for now, I’ll sit here until I’m good and ready to leave.

And you don’t get to tell me when I should exit for your comfort.

I’d like to end this by thanking those who’ve been supportive, both of the procedure, and of me when I was dealing very suddenly with such a large amount of unpleasantness in a small period of time.

Starship Troopers was Livetweeted…

…and this is my favorite takeaway, upon reviewing everything a day later:

 

 

If you want to be present the next time I decide to livetweet a movie I’ve never seen before, follow @squeakyblive.

Everyone’s Posting New Year’s Reflections

Mine is full of mixed things, as is everyone else’s. I met my deductible AND my out-of-pocket this year for health insurance…and I didn’t have surgery or go to the ER. I just saw a lot of specialists…but I’m getting to the root of my health problems and addressing them directly. I can’t begin to express how much of a relief it is to have a migraine medication that works, or a psychologist who isn’t a jerk.

I’m walking without my cane more and more, thanks to a friend who came into my life this summer, and then left. I got out, I learned a new craft that relaxes me, and I’m with someone who is continuously supportive and has stuck by me through all of the crazy stuff that’s been happening.

My instagram account gives a pretty good account of my year, honestly:

Click the pic to be taken to my instagram.

Click the pic to be taken to my instagram.

I have friends who have shown me, time and again, how much they care. I have a means of worst-case-scenario transportation that I know is going to help me as I continue to go through difficult health situations. Treatment will continue, my hips will continue to be temperamental, but I’m not going to miss out on stuff, and it’s thanks to you guys.

I quit a job that was draining my soul, and got one that’s a little more sporadic, but also way more enjoyable…and it pays (as soon as I send an invoice on the correct date – I haven’t had to deal with them bi-weekly in a long time).

I’m DRIVING again. The car works. It got me to St. Louis (there’s a story, there, but it mostly involves me having to take a nap in my car after 4 hours on the road, and barely making it into the city before the highway was closed down). Though there’s flooding, my family is all okay. I’m currently sitting with my nephew and grandmother (we’re all just doing our own thing, as you do), and my sister is in the other room playing Skyrim (as you do).

three cats in the sun
Even though I fight with them, I’m on good terms with everyone in my family, currently. That’s HUGE. This time last year, three of us weren’t talking to each other due to a stupid misunderstanding.

My boyfriend got a job at the end of 2014 that he’s been with for a year, and he’s doing well. He’s got a schedule he can work with (overnights – that’s just how he operates), and for the most part, he leaves his stress at work. That’s awesome, because it means less stress at home.

I watched one of my best friends marry an amazing person, and got to witness one of the weirdest family dynamics I’ve ever seen…a dynamic that works so well it’s insane. (She got married in her ex-mother-in-law’s backyard – seriously, it’s amazing.)

We added a new member to our family in Leo, the noodle-y Maine coon. Casey hates him, Merlin tolerates him, and Sophie thinks he’s a demon. But we love him, because he’s a cuddle monster.

Sophie had a health scare, but she’s good, and she continues to fart on me daily, walk on my head while I sleep, and cuddle between us on the bed. She’s adorable and cranky and SO ANGRY and I am really happy she’s still around.

Again, I learned how to crochet, and it’s been so great for me, because it helps my dexterity, relaxes me, and gives me something to do when I’m fidgety from pain and inability to concentrate. It helps me focus. The results are less one-trick-pony than the rice bags, and the supplies can be carried in a tiny pouch. I was able to make everyone’s Christmas gifts (around 16 people) for less than $40. Y’all, that’s $2.50 per person. It took me several weeks, but again, it was so helpful in other ways.

For nearly every negative I have, there’s a positive. I like to think I’m entering 2016 in neutral territory.

I hope everyone else is able to at least break even in their lives this year…and that we can all have a positive balance at some point.

Happy New Year!

...condensed Sophie hatred notwithstanding.

…condensed Sophie hatred notwithstanding.

Thanks, doofus, I didn’t think of that. (Post-endocrinologist post.)

I went to the new endocrinologist yesterday, got a bunch of blood drawn, and got the results, today.

For the record, I’ve gained nearly 15 pounds since October. I’d just quit Cytomel, a thyroid medication for hypothyroidism, and had my Lamictal increased (it can cause water retention – this is a thing I was aware of, but thought the Cytomel being gone could have contributed).

Thyroid levels are normal (yay!), but despite other abnormal test results, endocrinologist said, “I’d be happy to refer you to a weight loss specialist, if you want.”

…I cried repeatedly after they weighed me, yesterday, and told him part of why it was freaking me out was because of my history with eating disorders. And this is his suggestion.

In reverse order:

-I lost a bunch of weight before my hysterectomy, in part due to the painkillers I was on. I was ECSTATIC, despite the pain I was still in, because it meant I wouldn’t be fat on the operating table. (Think about how fucked up that is.)

-The first thing I did after my divorce was restrict my eating to fewer than 1000 calories a day, and lost 30 pounds in about 2 months. (I’m about 10 pounds below what I was after that weight loss, to show you how fat I still was). Part of it was depression, but most of it was because I felt like I was losing control, and I wanted some of it back.

-Before my wedding, I went on a starvation diet masquerading as a healthy weight-loss mail-order diet. I lost 15 pounds in a little over a month.

-While in college, I ate around 1200 calories a day while working out quite a bit. I was STILL heavier than I’d been in high school, when I lost weight from being sick (pneumonia’s a great weight loss tool, apparently). Larger in size, too. The muscles under the remaining fat irritated me because they were making me bigger, but they were also helping me burn the fat, so I placated.

-I didn’t eat much when I worked at MCI, instead drinking copious amounts of water. I’d eat breakfast, drink 32 ounces of water, have a snack from the vending machine instead of eating lunch, drink another 32 ounces of water, and then would snack for supper. I drank a lot of alcohol. I was down to my skinniest since 9th grade, which is when I initially “developed” and first started getting a complex about my weight/size (which was, hilariously, right before I gained 30 pounds from being on birth control for the first time in an attempt to help my cramps).

So pardon me if I don’t immediately take you up on your offer to go see someone who will have me obsessively record all of my intake, which feeds my OCD, which sets off my disordered eating. I can do that by myself, thanks (and am already sort of doing).

Other abnormal test results point to Celiac, which isn’t a big surprise, but now I have even more motivation to try harder. Celiac can cause weight gain, GERD, fatigue, and IBS, all of which I suffer from, in addition to anemia and B12 deficiency (both are being treated), and protein malabsorption (which was on the test result from yesterday). I also take 12,000IU of Vitamin D EVERY DAY, and my blood levels are normal (as are my calcium levels, and I take a supplement). Vitamin D deficiency is another symptom of Celiac.

Then there’s the Lamictal increase probably adding excess water.

I can fix those things without setting off anorexia. Healthily-restricted diet for Celiac (which I would see a medical nutritionist for, not a weight-loss specialist), and possible Lasix for water retention (I would stop taking my blood pressure medication, as well as my during-the-day muscle relaxers, to prevent low-blood-pressure issues).

For the record, again, most types of exercise are off the table, because of my hips, due to direct instructions from my neurologist not to engage in them, hence why I’m not saying “oh, I can just work out more.” I legitimately can’t. I need to lose weight, first, to reduce the strain on my arthritic hips in order to do most of even the low-impact exercises. You can see the irony here, can’t you?

*sigh*

I should probably also get re-tested for Lyme, because why the fuck not? It can set off Celiac due to it causing autoimmune reactions that attack all kinds of things, and it already killed my uterus, so the intestines aren’t exactly that far away.

“All the reading she had done had given her a view of life that they had never seen.”

I’d always been a voracious reader as a child. I failed English in 2nd grade not because I didn’t understand the material, but because I was so bored I couldn’t stand it, and would read whatever book I could hide in my lap. One memorable day, I was told to stay in during recess (unsupervised, hilariously) and copy the book I’d been reading, word-for-word, using the appropriate narrative writing style.

I actually did it, for the record. I was basically getting to read the book over again.

When I was in middle school, and I believe I’ve mentioned this, I was grounded from everything, and that included reading, because my dad knew that would hit me hardest. I had books stashed all over my room, and while he didn’t enforce the rule by throwing them out or going through my things, he would do random checks on me to make sure I wasn’t reading for anything but school. He even got my sisters to check up on me, though my oldest sister, upon catching me reading (she found one of my stashed books), simply advised me to hide my books better.

I was…wait for it…failing English in 6th grade, though this time it was because I didn’t want to learn parts of speech when I was already perfectly capable of parsing language and writing. Even though the reason was different this time, the 2nd-grade incident stuck out, so that’s what my dad reacted to. Not unreasonable, as far as trains of thought are concerned, just not pleasant.

I hid books in more places, but the lack of being able to freely read affected my attitude, and I started lying about pretty huge matters, causing a horrible situation that affected a great deal of people for quite some time (one of the folks involved still doesn’t trust me any further than she can throw me, and she was in her 40s when this event occurred, to give you some idea of how few fucks I gave).

In short, reading was my identity. It’s how I learned language, syntax, and correct usage, and how I got to be so bored in 2nd-grade English in the first place, which, in turn, led to me having my IQ tested so that I could enter APEX, and then the Honors programs, in school.

As I got older, and was able to afford to buy my own books, bookstores became like a drug. I would peruse dust jackets, combing a single section for hours in search of something that seemed interesting enough to justify a purchase…and then I would go ahead and buy 3 or 4 books based on their cover blurbs, anyway. I only found one or two books in that entire part of my life that I didn’t enjoy, and one of them was 1984, which is ironic considering my political leanings (even when I was basically a Democrat, my upbringing of being under close scrutiny caused me to abhor unwanted involvement in my life). I’m pretty sure the other one was a memoir that was so sensationalized that it was unbelievable and read like a tabloid.

I stopped my absolutely ridiculous reading rate when I began engaging in long-term relationships as an adult. I started reading the same books two or three times, but not getting into much that was new. As soon as a relationship ended, however, I would go into spirals of reading as much new-to-me material as I could get my hands on. New relationship? Reading stopped.

My last “book bender” was before I got married, back in 2009, when I moved from my own house and had to pack up my books. Now there’s no room in the place I currently live for any of them, or many new books.

Being sick didn’t help matters – not being able to drive, as well as not having a steady income…well, let’s face it, it’s not like I could concentrate on reading very much, anyway, which is when my gaming/internet use started to rise to, well, all day.

As a result of all of these factors, I haven’t utilized a library for something other than tutoring or studying since probably high school…9th grade, to be exact.

That was 18 years ago.

There’s a connected group of perfectly good libraries here in Memphis, and a library card is free. Forrest and I have different enough schedules (he works nights, I work from home) that me reading wouldn’t cut into our relationship time.

While I’m not going to make a resolution, I saw a friend talking about her goal of 200 books per year (she’s at 195, and has quite the full life), and it made me realize OH, I CAN DO THAT.

Maybe 200 books is a lofty goal, for me (that’s 3-4 books per week, and my “clear mind” hours allow for maybe 2), but a book a week is doable, even if that comes out to an average, for whatever reason. It took me a couple of weeks to get through the first Game of Thrones book, but…well, everyone who’s even just watched the shows has heard how those things are. (I have the second one, I haven’t even started it).

Anyway.

I can be poor and still read. Especially since I’m driving, again.

I think the hardest part, for me, will be returning the books. The reading was the fun part, but acquisition has always been a driving force in my more destructive habits (my collection of never-worn shoes lends credence).

Still…books. Reading.

Possibilities and potential for the range of emotion and exposure to information…I’m excited to try.

With that being said…I’d like some recommendations.

I like biographies, autobiographies, comedic memoirs, YA fiction (shut up, they’re fun), and if any of them have medical or scientific focuses, or feature fucked-up protagonists, even better.

I’m not a fan of military history…or much military-based stuff, honestly. Fantasy takes me a while to get into. Science fiction is fine. I know everyone is going to suggest Marko‘s books, and they’re already on the list (I haven’t read them, yet, because I’m poor, okay?).

BRING ME BOOK RECS, PLS.

[title is a quote from Roald Dahl’s Matilda]

The Fun Show Song Confirmation Post

I have a feeling the folks coming here from other places may be confused about the content of my blog, since by the company I keep I appear to be a gun blogger, but then they arrive to posts about poop and medical content.

I assure you, I am the singer of The Fun Show Song, lyrics originally written by Tam of View From The Porch in April 2014. The video was put together by Ambulance Driver. Some of the photos are by other gunbloggers, and I’m sure AD will be glad to post their links in comments, if necessary.

This was done as a Christmas present for Tam. :)

A post on my blog serves a few purposes, but it also serves as my word that I did this, so that if another assclown decides that they want to post something without attribution, I’m another voice added to the “that doesn’t belong to you, sir or madam.”

Here’s the video in a nice convenient location (you’ll have to go to Tam’s to read along with the lyrics, as I’m not one to post other people’s work on my blog *cough*TTAG*cough*):

So yep, that’s me singing. Anyone who wants to link to this work on their blogs, websites, Facebook pages, Twitter, whatever, go ahead and link to this post as my attribution, so that the poor souls who wander on here aren’t immediately accosted by what looks like the ramblings of an 80-year-old, arthritic, ornery TMI-spewer.

And hey, if you want to read some of my gunblogging, here. You can also check the tags on the right side and pick your poison. I’m pretty good about tagging my posts, and I sometimes get oddly specific.

Merry Christmas!