Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Hooray for My Head Not Feeling Like It's a Balloon Attached to the Rest of Me by Only the Thinnest of Threads! YAY.

Sooooo many levels. Source

Day 6 of withdrawal . . . and I may be approaching some semblance of normalcy.

Honestly? On Sunday I felt physically okay.  I'd stopped flip-flopping between burning up and freezing, I didn't want to hurl every half hour, and my head once again felt attached to my neck--there was still a bit of disconnect, but nothing like before.

Sunday just went to shit of its own accord and in combination with my remaining emotional sensitivity, well, it ended up being a pretty piss poor day.  Always nice of the universe to be like, "oh, do you finally feel a bit better concerning your withdrawal from hell?  Good.  Now I can get back to throwing other shit at you, like:

The total incompetence of retail staff. This is best experienced while trying to soothe an increasingly fussy toddler because who the fuck WOULDN'T get tired and hungry after waiting a half hour longer than you should have to, to pick up something already bought and paid for?  That e-mail the store sent cheerfully stating that the product had been pulled and was ready for pick up?  That's just a little FU maurading as a courtesy.  Even better was the guy who FINALLY brought it to the front of the store (where it's supposed to have been waiting already) and chuckles that they "lost" it back there.  Um, DUDE?  I could fit three of my kid in there and the three of them would not have to duck or anything to get the box closed.  How in the name of a crocodillian's cloaca can you "lose" something that size? Especially after it's been "pulled" and set out to be "ready for pick up"?  Maybe if you idiots would stop playing hide and seek or building box forts or whatever the hell else y'all do back there--that sure as hell ain't what you're supposed to be doing--things might run a little smoother.

Just a fucking conspiracy, innit? Source

The unholy bitchiness and unprofessionalism of the cunt writer whose, obviously perfect, writing you DARED to QC, as if it were your fucking JOB or something!  And yes, because it's a medical research proposal, it is obviously immune to all rules of grammar and readability.  Any misunderstanding is obviously due to the proofreader's ignorance of this type of material because the writer has written "countless" ones of these before.  Though one does have to wonder why, with all that prior experience, the writer didn't get it right in the first place (as in had to be told by the boss SEVERAL times to meet the length and reference requirements) and why such a prolific and outstanding writer would even need to lower herself to the pittance payment level of freelancing this report.  It could be because a vast majority of people who have ever had ANY interaction with her would much rather have some "naked time" in a room with a rabid honey-badger than have to interact with her again.

Alright genitals, brace yourselves.  Source

The attempts at professionalism (that are actually just spinelessness) made by your boss in regards to the afore-mentioned cunt.  Attempts that are pretty much the final warning sign on a relatively long road already FILLED with flashing signs and some of those giant "Go back; this is not the way!" heads from Labyrinth.  A road that serves as a nice little reminder that money really ISN'T everything because no feasible amount of payment from this sort of opportunity is worth putting up with incompetence, poor planning, and pansy-asses.  GOD FOR FUCKING BID YOU ACTUALLY DO SOME PLANNING BEFORE STARTING YOUR OWN LITTLE ENTERPRISE.  By the way boss, the reason your turnover rate is higher than a McDonald's burger-flipper's is because your hiring "practices" are piss-poor.  I know that even a blind squirrel finds a nut sometimes, but you can't really build a company on a few nuts and a shit-ton of squirrels who starved to death.

Not Pictured: structurally sound components. Source.

The maddening and, let's call a spade a spade, careless mistake made by a friend that completely changes the tone of the ONE fucking day you set aside to have "adult" time (as in you tapped your aunt 2 MONTHS in advance to come stay with your son--the first time  you're ever leaving him overnight, BTW), and the one day that you really need now, thanks to withdrawal-land and the fact that your husband has to go out of town both before and after that one day.  It's so awesome when you try to do everything right like planning and booking and whatnot practically two months ahead, so that you could have this ONE fun, easy, relaxing day where you didn't have to worry about anything except whether you needed to get more tickets to buy your next beer, and the trust you placed in someone takes a chunk out of your ass.  And then you feel stupid for even trusting that person in the first place. Someone else makes the mistake, but you end up feeling stupid.  AWESOME.

Awesome and not infuriating to the point of homicidal tendencies AT ALL. Source

[This particular situation was made much, much worse by events the next day, but since we're just focusing on Sunday here, I'll let that slide.  Plus, I'm not in a place to be able to write about it without potentially ruining the friendship due to my IMMENSE anger and irritation.  On the up side, Craig and now have a fantastic "adult" day planned out for just the two of us.  Lemons and lemonade, right? Just lemonade that will not be shared with ANYONE, because people suck and piss me off and during said "lemonade," I will be drinking alcohol--a lot of it--which will set my filter levels to ZIP.  Combine that with crazy withdrawal emotions?  In fact, NOBODY PISS ME OFF UNTIL AT LEAST 2 WEEKS FROM NOW, K?]

So, yes, the second the physical symptoms finally ease up (and after four days, it's about goddamn time), the universe decides to start working on the old mental state.  Thanks universe!

But that was Sunday and yesterday.  Both almost complete shit, but not really due to withdrawal.  Progress, right?  Sometimes that's all you really have to hold on to, no matter how small the amount.  Now it's just a matter of time.  Time for the old body to balance itself back out.  Time to see if the brain can go back to coping without chemical assistance.  Time to see if I'll need to try natural supplements (because I'm not going anywhere near Effexor again until I have exhausted EVERY other option) or if I can just go about my merry way, assistance free.   YAY TIME, MY FAVORITE THING TO HAVE TO BASE STUFF ON.

I will cut that fucking smile off your face . . . Source


  1. If you were worried about ruining our friendship, perhaps you shouldn't have vented on your blog.

  2. A) I did keep it as anonymous as possible, B) I showed more restraint than anyone will EVER know, and C) if venting on my own blog is all it takes, then so be it.