Okay, I'm gonna give blogging a whirl here even though I've been blocked like, whoa for the last month or so, which I'm sure you have noticed. And I'm really sorry about the lack of content as of late, but if you saw what's been going on in my brain with the latest cocktail of meds I've been prescribed, maybe it would make more sense. I touched on it, but this combo of happy pills has sent me into a pit like you would not believe. The words "palpable grief" come to mind the most. I'm consumed with grief, and there's no reason why. But I persist, because what else is there to do, right? SO. Let's see what's been going on.
I've been trying to join the YMCA, and as you think "how hard is it to join the Y?" lemme explain that I'm trying to get financial assistance to join the Y, since I am as poor as a church mouse (what does that MEAN?!) and they have a program, supposedly for people like me, to help them with the monthly dues. How nice! Also, how BULLSHIT, because I dropped off the paperwork for it today, and this exchange occurred.
Me: I'm here to apply for the financial assistance.
Muscle Dude: This is incomplete.
Me: I know. I wrote a letter explaining my situation. It's with the paperwork.
Muscle Dude: Someone will call you about how you need to complete the paperwork.
Me: But…I'm here NOW.
Muscle Dude: Someone will call you.
Awesome. So now I am still not at the Y, STILL not taking kickboxing, which I really, really need to do, not just to get in shape, but to have an outlet for the RAGE that percolates inside me every damn day, and like a marshmallow in the microwave, I can only take so much before I explode. And no one wants to see that, so I think I need some kickboxing, yes? Yes.
I've also decided to grow out my hair. You were wondering why I stopped taking pictures of myself? Yeah. That's why. I'm full-force into the "DAYUM YOU UGLY" stage of growing it out, so unless holding my breath and blowing REALLY HARD doesn't make it grow faster, you'll have to use your imagination as to what I look like lately.
(HINT: NOT VERY PRETTY.)
I have made it halfway through the catsitting debacle without getting bitten, but it's not for lack of effort on Alexander the Great's part. He's fixin' to skin me from the knees down, and I have to do a little dance every time I get near him that involves hopping to and fro squealing "No biting no biting no biting!" and then falling down. Because that's what I do.
Chrizzie on the cross, I'm rambling. Time to go! And if y'all could send me good mojo for the brain pills situation, I'd appreciate it. Life at Casa Banshee is a little rough right now.