Some may find this post very offensive, so you may want to skip it if you:
- Are a fan of the British “monarchy”
- Think very highly of the English “Royal Family”
- Think Princess “Lady Di” Diana was a saint
- Have a huge crush on her son, Prince William
- You are offended by the fact that I choose to take opioid painkillers
for a week each month for to manage my menstrual pain multiplied exponentially compared to what most women experience during their periods because I have a disease called “endometriosis“, and think this qualifies me as a drug addict
, or, the more colloquial term that is thrown my way very, very often because of my choice to use both homeopathic remedies and hydromorphone – “junkie”. I have tried, literally, everything else that has been suggested to me by friends, doctors, the “Internets”, books, and any other source of information to resolve the pain, from hormone replacement therapy to some free reiki at a folk fest. Unfortunately, if I do not add the evidently blasphemous “narcotic painkiller”, I have to spend five to eight days out of every twenty-eight curled up in the fetal position, crying more often than not. I do not think I should have to suffer such miserable paralysis for such a significant block of time out of each moon cycle feeling like someone is tearing my guts out when there is a way to dull the feeling. However, I do not like being drowsy and foggy in the head either, so I am planning on getting a hysterectomy when I move back to my chosen home (at age 26 or 27). I guess I’m a pretty big fan of choice. WWJD?!!!!! (what would junkie do – choose to become voluntarily infertile well before her thirties, or keep the prescription for pills supposedly “3 limes stronger than heroin”, whatever that means
, and a “junkie” – an offensive word to begin with in my mind) probably would. Furthermore, I broke up with a partner that I loved and still love, though always more as a dear friend, because I could not stand to watch him self-destruct with the aid of massive quantities of drugs, including opiates of all sorts. I just do not enjoy synthetic opiates. As a teenager, I enjoyed stimulants. Perhaps I’m, once again, plagued for being honest about this, even though I’m honing in on 30 years-old…
<Alright! I’ve officially paid for my blasphemous thought re: the Princess! I am relieved of any cognitive dissonance as I would be if I confessed to a Priest or psychiatrist! The stark immaturity and nastiness of other women never ceases to amaze me. What this time? My dad’s first look at me on day one of my period (groggy yet still in a great deal of pain ad nearly immovable, clumsy as all hell, incredibly light-sensitive) while not on antipsychotics, that shut down my reproductive system by reducing dopamine – and no, your doc/psydoc will not tell you about this consequence – in at least seven years happens to coincide with an e-mail cc’d to him from my last former roommate, a secret neo-con dressed up as a hippie, dreadlocks full of dandruff down to the waist and all, stating that she had a great time throwing out all items I forgot as I packed up two years of life in eight hours after making the split-second decision to stay with my dad in Winnipeg, Manitoba, while applying to law schools to save some dough, claiming that she found “CRACK COCAINE” (capitalization in original) in my old bedroom.
This utter impossibility, I’m guessing, were mistaken remnants of either some actual rocks – the kind that come from the Earth – that I spilled from a lucky bamboo plant, or bits of drywall that are scattered about this apartment because each time her live-in boyfriend goes on his weekly whisky-binge (alcohol of course not being a drug because of its legality) he punches a few new holes in the drywall of the place, after which she subsequently leaves giant gashes on his face with her nails. She goes on
Realization: This second woman to show no compassion for my womanly problems shares a great deal with the other. Both are spoiled only children who had incredibly idyllic childhoods that involved travelling the world. Both have been lucky enough never to have any real tragedy enter their lives…yet. Both have wardrobes that fill multiple closts. Both have claimed at times that I am their “best friends”, but have also made me cry blows by saying some of the nastiest things to me I’ve ever been told.
Note to Self: Red flags when meeting new people – be very weary of women in their early twenties with dreads but suspiciously expensive looking clothing. Perhaps also ask how many times they’ve been to Coachella and if they fell in love with “OK Computer” when they were sixteen or just started listening to this really crazy but great singer named Thom Yorke.
The Original Point of this Post?
Today I found out that a “street name” for Dilaudid is “Lady Di”. The street names for drugs never fail to amuse me. The ecstasy pills imprinted with jumbo jets that were called “airplanes” before 9/11 and then suddenly rose in price and became “Bin Ladens” post “terrorist attack” still take the cake.
Then I remembered the announcement of this Prince William/Kate Middleton engagement this morning and my giggles felt very guilty.
I feel I had a lot more to say about that, but am now.
I am in the latter half of my twenties and the other little girls are still trying to get me in trouble with daddy by making up stories?
How long until I get accused of stuffing my bra with luncheon meat (no word of a lie) like I was by a “BFF” or whatever the equivalent slang nonsense was in the early ’90s? Wait, I don’t wear bras any more. Undershirts all the way, baby.
I would have to be using duct tape.
Man, forget the man-children. They were just coddled and now they are lazy. It’s the women-children that are ruthless.
…if the girls can’t be women, how the hell are they going to learn to be men?!?
). I was calm, as I also knew the answer awaited me in my hometown, in the office of a psychiatrist with some anarchist tendencies. (Scroll down to the red points at the end if you aren’t interested in the rest of this article to find out why you are no longer going to receive your tax credit).
. In other words, I found my convoluted way to the pages that purported to list any new benefits for “individuals” and “students”, as I was both an individual and a student at the time. The fifty-plus-page document that appeared before me was certainly not as deceptively accessible as the button with the smiling faces of “individuals, including students” that I finally located was, but Firefox could take care of that for me. I began typing search terms into the “find” box (activated by choosing “find” under the edit menu on the toolbar) that applied to me. Some words and disappointments in, I typed in “disability”, recalling that I had been receiving this tax-deduction (passed along to my father most years as I did not make enough money to be asked to pay tax by Harper, myself – this is an option with a lot of tax credits up here in the land of igloo-dwellers) from 2005-2009.
– well, no names are ever mentioned, so, not really… – I cannot give any specific examples of cases shot down under Harper’s reformulated “tax credit program for the physically or mentally disabled” but I can describe the hoax – it’s an oldie but a goodie!
).
). In sum, the requirement to attend this meeting if you’re seeking a little government handout due to unexpected physical or mental illness – which I’m sure you’ve already paid for in spades via “Employment Insurance” contributions if you’ve ever held a job, however since “Employment Insurance” is so tightly wrapped in red tape and is nearly impossible to obtain – is absolutely unavoidable.
. Back when I was nineteen, both much quieter and louder than I am now, only in different ways – I suppose I’ve learned a few things – I dared raise my hand during the “orientation”. I asked if my presence was required, as I was currently not able to work, and thus minimum wage jobs were not of any relevance to me. Nurse Ratchet, who just happened to be giving this little seminar of sorts, came very close and started menacing me. I feared that the throwing of chalk or an icepick lobotomy was inevitable, perhaps both, and if so, in what order? Luckily, there was only shouting:
”. So, don’t bother. Bring ibuprofen or your headache kill-pill of choice (booze also seems to be common, and I understand why) and get ready for a sore back, a sore butt, and prepare yourself for the fact that you may sit all day without being called for an “appointment”. No, you may be commanded to return at 9:00 am the following morning to wait some more. I have not heard of anyone being called back for a third day of the addition of injury (back and butt) to injury (cause for needing a handout from the taxpayers) but don’t quote me on this – as I said, it has been a while.
)
)…not usually. But Effexor-wise, this is kind of how I feel about my week without Effexor, and its end in a plant-derived, dopamine raising substance that wasn’t paid for by the government, as the Effexor tablets, that would cost about $400 a month are. I made a “mistake”, more an accident, by destroying my supply of Effexor for the week. Then I tried something I basically knew would be impossible – of course with some hope in mind that this would magically be the end of popping three very large red gelcaps every morning to keep my head together, just as I have that spark of hope each time I walk into the office of a new psychopharmacologist (let’s call them what they are) that usually leads me on for a few hour-long appointment, about helping me get off this drug, but soon grows annoyed at talking about life and tries to convince me that I can achieve this goal by taking a new handful of gelcaps or packed pills or the ones you can peel a layer off of…just like Anne says – blue, yellow, green; “I’ve become quite the addict” – to to learn how much of an addict they made me, to learn how deep Effexor is in control of my brain. I sure got my answer. I was expecting it would be sickening, and expected the second after second after half-second brainzaps and light-sensitivity and walking into doorways I got this morning, when I finally got off the couch, the brown couch 
>
, the “professor” (I have no idea how she obtained this title) had us sit in groups of four and name as many terms we could for male so masturbation. As it took us far less than the given twenty minutes to come up with a list – goddess knows what the instructor had left to do, not being a smoker – and all group member stared at one another awkwardly, I tried to strike up some conversation on topic =. I asked the two men in the group if they thought that most men learned how to have sex through watching pornography. They were eager and adamant about saying, “yes!!” Yikes. And end of conversation – I suppose I should have asked a more “open-ended question”! Not much clitoral stimulus going on in mainstream porn, as opposed to the stuff I watch. This is definitely part of the problem. When the professor came back, each group was to write the names they had come up with on the board. Duplicates were erased, and we were to write them down.
)
. But we are alike in the fact that we should both be having an equal amount of fun in the bedroom, and pleasure should be completely reciprocal. If it is not, what is the point? Yes, it might be frightening to tell a guy he’s not making you feel a thing, but if his reaction is frightening, then you’ve saved yourself a few dates with an asshole, haven’t you?
would be prone not to vaccinating their children? Some kind of survey would have to be conducted to find out if not vaccinating children could be the root cause, and even then a direct correlation would not be able to be made – I suppose if doctors and nurses are saying that they’ve struggled with parents over this issue, it is fairly common, but still – by nature of their jobs they come from a slightly biased stance (ex/ the socialization that they undergo during med school, which promotes all things pharma, especially NEW things pharma, and belittles other approaches to an amazing degree – I’ve heard this from several med students, and seen it reflected in the behaviour of younger doctors).
) – I cringe every time a ridiculously spurious correlation is made, yet again! 
Damn, one of the first things I remember learning in first year university was that “CORRELATION DOES NOT EQUAL CAUSATION”. It is like saying that a “large crane population” in a particular area, and a “sudden surge of pregnant women” is connected.
