As the past 9 months of Lyrica dosage have been a CHEMICAL LOBOTOMY and I have not written anything of any value, passion or consequence in all of that time, it's been driving me even CRAZIER than I am on a normal basis.
I'm almost finished with the cold-turkey detox from hell (wouldn't wish this shit on anybody but Darth Cheney!!!), and I can start to feel some oxygen getting back to whatever few brain cells I've got left, so I know that it's coming. The same way that I can feel changes in the air pressure that herald a hurricane, even when it's still a little uppity storm down in the Caribbean, I can feel this one coming, and it's gonna be the muthaload. Don't know what it'll be about, whether it'll be about the Barry kool-aid drinkers, or the many ways in which Hillary has ALWAYS disappointed, or how John Edwards broke my heart in a million different fucking ways, that slimey ambulance-chasing bastid.
Maybe it'll just be about how poor patients, Medicare & Medicaid & charity no-pay patients, are (and have been for over a century) treated as fucking GUINEA PIGS by the pharmaceutical industry and their best little bitches, the doctors who shill that shit for them. Most of y'all know my long and horrific history with Charity Hospital, city clinics in NOLA (which, far as I know, STILL haven't been reopened!), and the motherfuckers who are getting WAY fucking overpaid to work in the private/corporate medical industry. That's what's at the front of my brain right now, it just needs to decompress and not get the bends from all of this sudden influx of oxygen. I had a closed-head injury in 1986 that SHOULD have killed me, seeing as how it took out most of my left brain and the skills sets contained therein, and shaved a good 30 points of my IQ, so every fucking thing that endangers the 50 or 60 remaining FUNCTIONAL brain cells that I've got left. And years on and off of narcotic painkillers sure as HELL ain't helpin' on that ladder. When I'm cremated, I want y'all to smoke my ashes, 'cause there will be an ASSLOAD of opiate residue in there, still as strong and cemented to those synapses as ever. Just wish that I could've gotten a few more acid trips in first, though. I miss that shit and need a crainial douche like all hell. Haven't even SEEN any good shit since 1998, and can't even get the cheap college-kid blotter nowadays.
Not trying to write a suicide note or anything, we all know that I *always* fuck that shit up, and it is NOT worth the additional brain damage, nor the incipient incarceration. But after the fuck-over of all time by Lying Sociopath Mercinary BITCH Niece in February, my sarcoidosis came back for the first time in 10 years. No, it won't be merciful enough to kill me this time, either, I'm sure. The skin abnormalities, uprisings, feeling like I've been exfoliated by fiberglas insulation, the headaches, insomnia (added to the mental hell/insomnia/manic episodes due to the fucking LYRICA), the bloody lungs, the gut issues --- yup, allllll back with a fucking vengeance.
So sue me if I get a little narcissistic. That's the lovely thing about autoimmune syndromes --- they affect more women than men, so of COURSE it's one of those "histrionic wimmenfolks" issues, where the GPs pat you on the head and tell you that it's all in your head. And y'know the number-one inciter for sarcoidosis (and prolly Lupus, too)? STRESS. Thanks, oh greedy little psycho-whore "niece" who is now disowned and who had removed me from great-nephew Dameon's life indefinitely. Hope that you got your fucking rocks off on it. And yes, I'm going to try to find a rheumatologist this time, to see if they've gotten anything beyond fucking prednisone or chemo drugs. Soon as I can get the truck fixed-up enough to make it to Baton Rouge (I am fed the fuck UP with these hillbilly hacks, almost as much as I am with the carpetbagging yuppie-scum who've taken over the entire medical industry in Baton Rouge), I'm going to get a new GP and a rheumatologist to try and beat this shit before it reduced me to a bed-incarcerated lump of useless.
THIS is not the rant that's coming on, this is just the preamble.
But if anybody wants to contribute to the Save-The-Pickup Fund, so that I can actually GET to go find those doctors, I ain't gonna be mad atcha. I don't know how in the hell I'd have survived these past 5 hellacious years of pure torment without y'all, for damned sure. But love, affection, and undying support don't mean bupkis to a hoopty ol' pickup truck who needs WAY too much man-hours of labor to get TO the damned intake manifold gasket. Yes, I'm shaking the tin cup again. Don't generally get a lot of responses these days, except for my ever-faithful Redcane, and when Andy can, not to mention all of the great new women who have come into my life, from CCMcGoon to Mirele to others whose nics I don't know, so I don't want to sacrifice their privacy, when I hope that they already know how much I appreciate their love an generosity.
Okay, shutting up now. Eagerly awaiting CCMcGoon's next great installment from the TexDemCon!
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