Ghost-of-a-Chance

Fuck the American healthcare system - right up Main Street with absolutely no prep, lube, or aftercare. We started seeing a doctor for Cold’s spine injury, and he’s been out of work going on two months. Now they’re saying his surgery may not be until August, because his insurance wants a specific clinic to do the surgery. He could have been cut open, sewed up, and sent home to heal last week, but insurance said “Nuh-uh, you’re going upstate or you’re going crippled.”
My husband has always been a drafthorse of a worker. He leaves his coworkers in the dust, stays late, goes the extra mile, and shows up while others no-call/no-show because it’s raining. His reward is being shoved to the back of the shelf without pay to wait for a surgery that’s needed to keep him from being paralyzed while several companies yell at us about what they’re not getting done. We’re drowning in medical bills and other bills, and insurance isn’t paying nearly enough. This country needed healthcare reform decades ago – not yesterday, literal decades ago. Instead, we have an ugly-ass ballroom for ugly-ass souls to pat each other on the back after failed or faked assassination attempts.
I’m just...I’m so tired. Seeing him going through all this and in horrible pain, knowing I can’t do anything more for him than I’m doing...and all the while, my mental health has tanked. How are we supposed to do this? How do we keep taking that boot to the ribs without standing up and throwing fists? 

Fuck the American healthcare system - right up Main Street with absolutely no prep, lube, or aftercare. We started seeing a doctor for Cold’s spine injury, and he’s been out of work going on two months. Now they’re saying his surgery may not be until August, because his insurance wants a specific clinic to do the surgery. He could have been cut open, sewed up, and sent home to heal last week, but insurance said “Nuh-uh, you’re going upstate or you’re going crippled.”
My husband has always been a drafthorse of a worker. He leaves his coworkers in the dust, stays late, goes the extra mile, and shows up while others no-call/no-show because it’s raining. His reward is being shoved to the back of the shelf without pay to wait for a surgery that’s needed to keep him from being paralyzed while several companies yell at us about what they’re not getting done. We’re drowning in medical bills and other bills, and insurance isn’t paying nearly enough. This country needed healthcare reform decades ago – not yesterday, literal decades ago. Instead, we have an ugly-ass ballroom for ugly-ass souls to pat each other on the back after failed or faked assassination attempts.
I’m just...I’m so tired. Seeing him going through all this and in horrible pain, knowing I can’t do anything more for him than I’m doing...and all the while, my mental health has tanked. How are we supposed to do this? How do we keep taking that boot to the ribs without standing up and throwing fists? 

Fuck the American healthcare system - right up Main Street with absolutely no prep, lube, or aftercare. We started seeing a doctor for Cold’s spine injury, and he’s been out of work going on two months. Now they’re saying his surgery may not be until August, because his insurance wants a specific clinic to do the surgery. He could have been cut open, sewed up, and sent home to heal last week, but insurance said “Nuh-uh, you’re going upstate or you’re going crippled.”
My husband has always been a drafthorse of a worker. He leaves his coworkers in the dust, stays late, goes the extra mile, and shows up while others no-call/no-show because it’s raining. His reward is being shoved to the back of the shelf without pay to wait for a surgery that’s needed to keep him from being paralyzed while several companies yell at us about what they’re not getting done. We’re drowning in medical bills and other bills, and insurance isn’t paying nearly enough. This country needed healthcare reform decades ago – not yesterday, literal decades ago. Instead, we have an ugly-ass ballroom for ugly-ass souls to pat each other on the back after failed or faked assassination attempts.
I’m just...I’m so tired. Seeing him going through all this and in horrible pain, knowing I can’t do anything more for him than I’m doing...and all the while, my mental health has tanked. How are we supposed to do this? How do we keep taking that boot to the ribs without standing up and throwing fists? 

Fuck the American healthcare system - right up Main Street with absolutely no prep, lube, or aftercare. We started seeing a doctor for Cold’s spine injury, and he’s been out of work going on two months. Now they’re saying his surgery may not be until August, because his insurance wants a specific clinic to do the surgery. He could have been cut open, sewed up, and sent home to heal last week, but insurance said “Nuh-uh, you’re going upstate or you’re going crippled.”
My husband has always been a drafthorse of a worker. He leaves his coworkers in the dust, stays late, goes the extra mile, and shows up while others no-call/no-show because it’s raining. His reward is being shoved to the back of the shelf without pay to wait for a surgery that’s needed to keep him from being paralyzed while several companies yell at us about what they’re not getting done. We’re drowning in medical bills and other bills, and insurance isn’t paying nearly enough. This country needed healthcare reform decades ago – not yesterday, literal decades ago. Instead, we have an ugly-ass ballroom for ugly-ass souls to pat each other on the back after failed or faked assassination attempts.
I’m just...I’m so tired. Seeing him going through all this and in horrible pain, knowing I can’t do anything more for him than I’m doing...and all the while, my mental health has tanked. How are we supposed to do this? How do we keep taking that boot to the ribs without standing up and throwing fists? 

Fuck the American healthcare system - right up Main Street with absolutely no prep, lube, or aftercare. We started seeing a doctor for Cold’s spine injury, and he’s been out of work going on two months. Now they’re saying his surgery may not be until August, because his insurance wants a specific clinic to do the surgery. He could have been cut open, sewed up, and sent home to heal last week, but insurance said “Nuh-uh, you’re going upstate or you’re going crippled.”
My husband has always been a drafthorse of a worker. He leaves his coworkers in the dust, stays late, goes the extra mile, and shows up while others no-call/no-show because it’s raining. His reward is being shoved to the back of the shelf without pay to wait for a surgery that’s needed to keep him from being paralyzed while several companies yell at us about what they’re not getting done. We’re drowning in medical bills and other bills, and insurance isn’t paying nearly enough. This country needed healthcare reform decades ago – not yesterday, literal decades ago. Instead, we have an ugly-ass ballroom for ugly-ass souls to pat each other on the back after failed or faked assassination attempts.
I’m just...I’m so tired. Seeing him going through all this and in horrible pain, knowing I can’t do anything more for him than I’m doing...and all the while, my mental health has tanked. How are we supposed to do this? How do we keep taking that boot to the ribs without standing up and throwing fists? 

Ive been out of work for 3 months due to a fractured left wrist! you think that would give me the time to write finally but NOOOOO! SMH

Every time I think we’ve gotten through a crisis in real life, something else pops up. Now we’ve been told my doctor-averse husband will end up paralyzed if he doesn’t have surgery...and we’re talking serious consequences within a few months, not years, paralysis in years, not decades.
It’s not just Cold’s injury, either. We’ve had a deluge of stress this year. I had to have surgery because of constant headaches. Cold, aside from the sudden increase in chronic pain leading to his terrifying diagnosis, got sick for the first time in over a decade, and I’ve gotten sick at least a dozen times (enough to need medication) since Christmas. We lost Woozle in January. My mother may be having a joint replaced this year on account of injury and age. My mother-in-law suddenly decided I’m the antichrist despite being female and has done her damnedest to make life harder than it needs to be. On top of all that, Heiferlump’s health took another turn, and she’s on more medication than she ever has been before. That cat started last year healthy as a horse, and now we worry about her constantly; yesterday, she climbed her cat tower for the first time in a year, and I was torn between happy to see her with so much energy, and worried this is a sign her time is nearing. And I won’t even get into the problems we’re having with the house, that we cannot afford to fix and also can’t afford to not fix, and the fact that this storm season is unusually active.
We. Need. A frigging break. Somewhere out there, there’s a Ghost-shaped curse doll. If whichever stab-happy motherfucker who found it would just...not...at least for a few months...that would be great.

Every time I think we’ve gotten through a crisis in real life, something else pops up. Now we’ve been told my doctor-averse husband will end up paralyzed if he doesn’t have surgery...and we’re talking serious consequences within a few months, not years, paralysis in years, not decades.
It’s not just Cold’s injury, either. We’ve had a deluge of stress this year. I had to have surgery because of constant headaches. Cold, aside from the sudden increase in chronic pain leading to his terrifying diagnosis, got sick for the first time in over a decade, and I’ve gotten sick at least a dozen times (enough to need medication) since Christmas. We lost Woozle in January. My mother may be having a joint replaced this year on account of injury and age. My mother-in-law suddenly decided I’m the antichrist despite being female and has done her damnedest to make life harder than it needs to be. On top of all that, Heiferlump’s health took another turn, and she’s on more medication than she ever has been before. That cat started last year healthy as a horse, and now we worry about her constantly; yesterday, she climbed her cat tower for the first time in a year, and I was torn between happy to see her with so much energy, and worried this is a sign her time is nearing. And I won’t even get into the problems we’re having with the house, that we cannot afford to fix and also can’t afford to not fix, and the fact that this storm season is unusually active.
We. Need. A frigging break. Somewhere out there, there’s a Ghost-shaped curse doll. If whichever stab-happy motherfucker who found it would just...not...at least for a few months...that would be great.

Every time I think we’ve gotten through a crisis in real life, something else pops up. Now we’ve been told my doctor-averse husband will end up paralyzed if he doesn’t have surgery...and we’re talking serious consequences within a few months, not years, paralysis in years, not decades.
It’s not just Cold’s injury, either. We’ve had a deluge of stress this year. I had to have surgery because of constant headaches. Cold, aside from the sudden increase in chronic pain leading to his terrifying diagnosis, got sick for the first time in over a decade, and I’ve gotten sick at least a dozen times (enough to need medication) since Christmas. We lost Woozle in January. My mother may be having a joint replaced this year on account of injury and age. My mother-in-law suddenly decided I’m the antichrist despite being female and has done her damnedest to make life harder than it needs to be. On top of all that, Heiferlump’s health took another turn, and she’s on more medication than she ever has been before. That cat started last year healthy as a horse, and now we worry about her constantly; yesterday, she climbed her cat tower for the first time in a year, and I was torn between happy to see her with so much energy, and worried this is a sign her time is nearing. And I won’t even get into the problems we’re having with the house, that we cannot afford to fix and also can’t afford to not fix, and the fact that this storm season is unusually active.
We. Need. A frigging break. Somewhere out there, there’s a Ghost-shaped curse doll. If whichever stab-happy motherfucker who found it would just...not...at least for a few months...that would be great.

Every time I think we’ve gotten through a crisis in real life, something else pops up. Now we’ve been told my doctor-averse husband will end up paralyzed if he doesn’t have surgery...and we’re talking serious consequences within a few months, not years, paralysis in years, not decades.
It’s not just Cold’s injury, either. We’ve had a deluge of stress this year. I had to have surgery because of constant headaches. Cold, aside from the sudden increase in chronic pain leading to his terrifying diagnosis, got sick for the first time in over a decade, and I’ve gotten sick at least a dozen times (enough to need medication) since Christmas. We lost Woozle in January. My mother may be having a joint replaced this year on account of injury and age. My mother-in-law suddenly decided I’m the antichrist despite being female and has done her damnedest to make life harder than it needs to be. On top of all that, Heiferlump’s health took another turn, and she’s on more medication than she ever has been before. That cat started last year healthy as a horse, and now we worry about her constantly; yesterday, she climbed her cat tower for the first time in a year, and I was torn between happy to see her with so much energy, and worried this is a sign her time is nearing. And I won’t even get into the problems we’re having with the house, that we cannot afford to fix and also can’t afford to not fix, and the fact that this storm season is unusually active.
We. Need. A frigging break. Somewhere out there, there’s a Ghost-shaped curse doll. If whichever stab-happy motherfucker who found it would just...not...at least for a few months...that would be great.

Every now and then, I take up a small sewing, mending, or needlework project, and I wonder why I don’t do it more often. Then I realize exactly why: somewhere between my chair and the back door—over half the house—is a one inch long needle the thickness of one of my husband’s beard hairs, dangling from thread the color of our floors, and I’m effectively blind.
...because I heard a bird.

Yes. I heard a bird and walked through several doorways, needle in hand, to see what it was; on the way back, my brain dumped its cache and the needle vanished. It has ceased to exist. It’s a brand new needle, too, so sharp AF. And our floors have streaks of grey, so the needle blends in like it’s invisible. Unless I magnet-sweep while walking like a Jain with a broom, the second my shoes come off, that little bugger is going to come careening out of nowhere like a heat-seeking missile just so it can stab me in the foot. Curse you, happy singing bird, for damning my feet to such fowl treatment. May all your bath water be just slightly too warm or cold to be perfect.

Every now and then, I take up a small sewing, mending, or needlework project, and I wonder why I don’t do it more often. Then I realize exactly why: somewhere between my chair and the back door—over half the house—is a one inch long needle the thickness of one of my husband’s beard hairs, dangling from thread the color of our floors, and I’m effectively blind.
...because I heard a bird.

Yes. I heard a bird and walked through several doorways, needle in hand, to see what it was; on the way back, my brain dumped its cache and the needle vanished. It has ceased to exist. It’s a brand new needle, too, so sharp AF. And our floors have streaks of grey, so the needle blends in like it’s invisible. Unless I magnet-sweep while walking like a Jain with a broom, the second my shoes come off, that little bugger is going to come careening out of nowhere like a heat-seeking missile just so it can stab me in the foot. Curse you, happy singing bird, for damning my feet to such fowl treatment. May all your bath water be just slightly too warm or cold to be perfect.

Every now and then, I take up a small sewing, mending, or needlework project, and I wonder why I don’t do it more often. Then I realize exactly why: somewhere between my chair and the back door—over half the house—is a one inch long needle the thickness of one of my husband’s beard hairs, dangling from thread the color of our floors, and I’m effectively blind.
...because I heard a bird.

Yes. I heard a bird and walked through several doorways, needle in hand, to see what it was; on the way back, my brain dumped its cache and the needle vanished. It has ceased to exist. It’s a brand new needle, too, so sharp AF. And our floors have streaks of grey, so the needle blends in like it’s invisible. Unless I magnet-sweep while walking like a Jain with a broom, the second my shoes come off, that little bugger is going to come careening out of nowhere like a heat-seeking missile just so it can stab me in the foot. Curse you, happy singing bird, for damning my feet to such fowl treatment. May all your bath water be just slightly too warm or cold to be perfect.

Aside from my paranoia as an adult, my parents’ homophobia is likely the only reason they haven’t figured out I’m bi. Hearing your teenage girl singing the chorus of Spill the Wine as “Do I dig that girl? Heh!” probably should have made them question things. Fortunately, Heiferlump just thinks I’m embarrassing; her reaction to me singing is to roll over, grunt, fart, and go back to sleep with her paws over her nose. Cats don’t let you get a big head.
(Yeah. Almost forty and I just figured out I’ve been singing that wrong all these years. Freud would be clicking his heels with joy over that slip. And almost forty and I only noticed now that autocorrect cut my age the first time. Ugh.)

Did you know New York actually has 12 seasons? 

https://12seasons.nyc/

Pro Writing Aid is on such crack. I use actual line-breaks; it doesn’t recognize them as line-breaks and cries about “scenes bleeding into each other” and “mid-scene shifts in POV.” I use extra spaces, ditto, and same with several other ideas. It wasn’t even recognizing transitions, as it tends to. Well, I finally broke down and started writing this...
...every time I change to a new scene, just to hammer it in for the programming. This does not make it onto the finished product; I replace it with a proper line-break before posting because my readers aren’t morons. Well, today, PWA has something new to cry about:
Make up your goddamn mind, you worthless pile of code! I can’t psychically implant into your processors that I’m changing the scene, and you can’t recognize that a scene is being changed, so what the hell am I supposed to do? Just let your tantrum drag down my writing score because you can’t find any actual errors that need to be fixed?!
I swear. My writing skills have improved since I started using this app for editing, but my blood pressure has worsened. It wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass if any of the errors I’ve reported had ever been addressed instead of just happening time and time again.

Pro Writing Aid is on such crack. I use actual line-breaks; it doesn’t recognize them as line-breaks and cries about “scenes bleeding into each other” and “mid-scene shifts in POV.” I use extra spaces, ditto, and same with several other ideas. It wasn’t even recognizing transitions, as it tends to. Well, I finally broke down and started writing this...
...every time I change to a new scene, just to hammer it in for the programming. This does not make it onto the finished product; I replace it with a proper line-break before posting because my readers aren’t morons. Well, today, PWA has something new to cry about:
Make up your goddamn mind, you worthless pile of code! I can’t psychically implant into your processors that I’m changing the scene, and you can’t recognize that a scene is being changed, so what the hell am I supposed to do? Just let your tantrum drag down my writing score because you can’t find any actual errors that need to be fixed?!
I swear. My writing skills have improved since I started using this app for editing, but my blood pressure has worsened. It wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass if any of the errors I’ve reported had ever been addressed instead of just happening time and time again.

Had to order something called a “happy hoodie” for the old lady Siamew.  She has an ear infection, is being treated for it, yet is now scratching furrows in her right ear.  So, hopefully this will protect her ears from herself.  

Aside from my paranoia as an adult, my parents’ homophobia is likely the only reason they haven’t figured out I’m bi. Hearing your teenage girl singing the chorus of Spill the Wine as “Do I dig that girl? Heh!” probably should have made them question things. Fortunately, Heiferlump just thinks I’m embarrassing; her reaction to me singing is to roll over, grunt, fart, and go back to sleep with her paws over her nose. Cats don’t let you get a big head.
(Yeah. Almost forty and I just figured out I’ve been singing that wrong all these years. Freud would be clicking his heels with joy over that slip. And almost forty and I only noticed now that autocorrect cut my age the first time. Ugh.)

Aside from my paranoia as an adult, my parents’ homophobia is likely the only reason they haven’t figured out I’m bi. Hearing your teenage girl singing the chorus of Spill the Wine as “Do I dig that girl? Heh!” probably should have made them question things. Fortunately, Heiferlump just thinks I’m embarrassing; her reaction to me singing is to roll over, grunt, fart, and go back to sleep with her paws over her nose. Cats don’t let you get a big head.
(Yeah. Almost forty and I just figured out I’ve been singing that wrong all these years. Freud would be clicking his heels with joy over that slip. And almost forty and I only noticed now that autocorrect cut my age the first time. Ugh.)

Aside from my paranoia as an adult, my parents’ homophobia is likely the only reason they haven’t figured out I’m bi. Hearing your teenage girl singing the chorus of Spill the Wine as “Do I dig that girl? Heh!” probably should have made them question things. Fortunately, Heiferlump just thinks I’m embarrassing; her reaction to me singing is to roll over, grunt, fart, and go back to sleep with her paws over her nose. Cats don’t let you get a big head.
(Yeah. Almost forty and I just figured out I’ve been singing that wrong all these years. Freud would be clicking his heels with joy over that slip. And almost forty and I only noticed now that autocorrect cut my age the first time. Ugh.)

Always love your pets. You never know when you’ll lose them. 

Sleeping naked is the shit when you’re young. Then, one day, you’re middle-aged with a cat who likes sleeping between the sheets and has frigid toes, and you start second guessing everything.
Heiferlump, by the way, wasn’t just thawing out her frosted toebeans on my bare ass. She also kept wiping her cold, wet nose on the ticklish spot between my thigh and cheek every time I dozed off. I’m not ashamed to say I committed the unforgivable crime of yeeting the baby off the bed. I’m not sorry. Kid needs some fuzzy socks or something.

Sleeping naked is the shit when you’re young. Then, one day, you’re middle-aged with a cat who likes sleeping between the sheets and has frigid toes, and you start second guessing everything.
Heiferlump, by the way, wasn’t just thawing out her frosted toebeans on my bare ass. She also kept wiping her cold, wet nose on the ticklish spot between my thigh and cheek every time I dozed off. I’m not ashamed to say I committed the unforgivable crime of yeeting the baby off the bed. I’m not sorry. Kid needs some fuzzy socks or something.

Sleeping naked is the shit when you’re young. Then, one day, you’re middle-aged with a cat who likes sleeping between the sheets and has frigid toes, and you start second guessing everything.
Heiferlump, by the way, wasn’t just thawing out her frosted toebeans on my bare ass. She also kept wiping her cold, wet nose on the ticklish spot between my thigh and cheek every time I dozed off. I’m not ashamed to say I committed the unforgivable crime of yeeting the baby off the bed. I’m not sorry. Kid needs some fuzzy socks or something.