Intros and crap

I've been informed that I need to "get some of my rage out," so I'll be writing here regularly.

So yeah, livers are great. You know when you really start appreciating them? WHEN YOU FIND OUT THAT DUE TO THE WEIRD-ASS GENETIC CONDITION YOU WERE F*CKING BORN WITH (and attending Iowa State. Ahem.) THAT YOU NEED A NEW ONE.

Yep. The Gaga* was 'Born This Way,' and apparently so was I.

So, upon my diagnosis, I had to give up my apartment and move back in with my parents (who were not nearly as confident as I was about my ability to climb stairs without help). Not such a huge deal- the house is big, and I already work for Ma... so it's just a few more hours of togetherness daily. And she's lovely.

So, yeah. Waiting for an organ transplant. OBVIOUSLY the men under 45 in our part of Iowa consider me to be quite a catch. I mean, you'd think- I have all my teeth, no kids, never married, never tried to get through Valentine's Day at the flower shop by whipping up a quick batch of meth...

But alas, they hear that you have to have a major organ replaced- not one of those stupid organs like a f*cking spleen- and I guess that they think I'm not a good risk to bear The Fruit Of Their Loins.

Or I've finally made the leap from Dreadfully Picky (swear to God, I once started yelling at a guy for liking the "wrong" Zeppelin album) to wanting Someone To Fetch For Me the Puny Amount of Painkillers I'm F*cking Allowed.

So, to sum up- I'll be writing about my medical adventures, my ill-advised decisions also, about my family and friends- all well-meaning. This does not, however, mean that they do not DRIVE ME BATSHIT crazy occasionally.

Sorry for the self-indulgence. My life- it's always been interesting, but now it's Interesting.

*I have much love for the Gaga and will hear nothing bad about her crazy self. My musical taste is all over the map. Just warning you.

Salt

Due to my liver trying to kill me, the doctors said that it might behoove me to limit my sodium intake. You know what? YOU KNOW WHAT? That shit is in EVERYTHING.

Some of my friends and family (who mean well, they really do) have appointed themselves my food police. Others, my medicine police. Still others, my appointment police.

Being told what to do and doing it with a smile has never been my strong suit. And now, I'm being fact-checked constantly. Some might feel comforted by this. I want them to go the hell away and let me watch the Cooking Channel. (how twisted is that)? And then we have the people who do ALLLLLL thosse things.

You might be a smidge grumpy when you spend your time on the can contemplating HOW I'M GOING TO TELL THOSE PEOPLE TO F*CK THE HELL OFF over the next week.

Woe betide anyone who criticizes any decision of mine (Them- "Do you really need that potato chip? You didn't eat them again last night, did you? Me- *hands over chip while sullenly staring at their nosy asses*), because I'M GOING TO CALL THEIR NOSY ASSES ABOUT EVERY F*CKING THING FROM NOW ON.

Tell me what to eat...

4 AM

Nosy F*cker- "Cy, what are you calling about?"
Me- "What, I can't call at 4 AM to ask you if you thought putting hot sauce on the quesadilla I just made was a good idea?"
Nosy F*cker- "Whaaaa...."
Me- "YOU WANT TO BOSS ME AROUND, IT'S A 24 HOUR A DAY JOB YOU ASSHAT. NOW, SHOULD I ADD HOT SAUCE OR NOT? JESUS, I DON'T HAVE ALL NIGHT."

THAT would crimp their style. Yes, I know they love me. Threw a rather large benefit for me last month. I love them, too which would be all wonderful if they would periodically LEAVE ME ALONE.

God, I want potato chips now. Crap.