I’m no stranger to hitting objects while driving. I even hit a policeman once (emphasis on “man” because it wasn’t a squad car–see here and here). As I left the gym last Tuesday, I hit an SUV while backing out. Yes, I was on the phone with Brian, but I was at least wearing my headset, which I always do when I drive. Also, the SUV was backed into the spot in which it was parked and was over the yellow line line, partially in my space. Unfortunately, I hit the right, front end near the tire and running board, which wasn’t over the line.
This was the first time I hit a car, and I didn’t know what to do, so I was understandably anxious. Thank God for Klonopin. Brian, who was still on the phone, told me to leave a note explaining what happened and to include our insurance information. Meanwhile, this “witness” fucking cunt busybody on her way to the gym began yelling at me: “You can’t just leave! That’s illegal!” Um, I wasn’t leaving. I was still in my car, foot on the brake, frozen in the position in which I was backing out, shocked. I so didn’t know what to do–I wasn’t going anywhere!
Meanwhile, this bitch continued to screech at me and the parking lot attendant, asking him where the owners were and demanding that I find them. Apparently, they took their kids to the Kids’ Club, which is in a separate building from the gym, so I went inside and told a staff person what happened, and if anyone in a gold Lexus SUV dropped off their kids. She said they did before going to work out, but that neither they, nor the front desk at the health club would have any license plate information. What did she suggest? Leave a note.
Another lady, who had just picked up her child and happened to follow me outside corrected me–nicely–to say that it was actually an Infiniti SUV, “if that helps,” she added. But the fucking douchebag was still there! I told her what the Kids’ Club staff person said, and she screamed that there was no way the owners have kids because there were no car seats in the SUV! WTF? Apparently, I’m a liar now, too. She left a note of her own that I of course read, but she didn’t leave a name and number, and I was surprised she didn’t ORDER them to purchase car seats.
I did exactly what Brian, the Kids’ Club staff person, and the parking attendant suggested–left a note explaining what happened and that included our insurance policy number, name, and phone number. The upside to this (as if there is one, since we’ll have to pay a deductible and Brian’s now jobless) is that the owner was polite and said the car would probably just need a touch-up paint job.
So FUCK OFF AND DIE, you busybody bitch, and learn to mind your own fucking business. You’re lucky I didn’t have a panic attack right then and there, though I’m sure you still would have treated me like I just murdered the SUV owners instead of hitting their car. I hope you get hit by a car and die that way, after you fuck off. Cunt.
***Only leave your link in the box below if you’ve written a FOAD post today. You’ll be deleted otherwise. Thanks.***
Courtesy of Leslie’s Omnibus. Apparently, I could be persuaded to be the DS. :[ I find that amusing.
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It’s been unseasonably gorgeous here in Chicago–mid-60s at the end of November? Unheard of! So one of my hockey teammates coordinated an impromptu game of kickball at a local park this past Sunday. It was too warm to spend the day indoors, so Brian and I went.
OK, I didn’t actually hurt myself playing kickball. I did it when I hopped over the wrought iron fence nearest to the field where the game was taking place. There were no nearby entrances, you see. Anyway, I fell on the other side, which fortunately consisted of grass rather than concrete. I must have used my left hand to cushion my fall. That wouldn’t be so bad, except that I was wearing my Official Ring of The Ohio State University (in white gold, thank you very much–I hate gold-toned gold). The ring cut a nice line across my finger, but didn’t sever it at least. However, the finger has been swollen for days now, and I’ve been icing it since we got home. I will be utterly devastated if the ring needs to be sawed off. It was a gift from my parents, after all, and a reminder that I managed to finish grad school in spite of my depression.
The next day, Brian lost his job! That has nothing to do with the kickball game, either, which was lots of fun, by the way, but I just thought I’d add that. If you want all the details about his job loss, you’ll have to register since it’s a private post. You can read more about my private posts here.
Wow. The movie version of The Prestige totally blew me away. I’m surprised to say this, but although I liked the book (see book review here), I LOVED the movie, which I think is way better. Although there are many similarities between the two, I’d say the movie is loosely based on the novel. Yes, there were things that were left out and really not much added in at the screenwriters’ (Jonathan Nolan and Christopher Nolan) discretion, but they did an excellent job adapting this for the big screen.
Not surprisingly, Christian Bale, Hugh Jackman, and Michael Caine give excellent performances, as does David Bowie in his role as Nikolas Tesla, the scientist. However, anyone could have played Scarlett Johansson’s character; Nolan didn’t utilize her full potential as an actress, though the character was a minor one, in my opinion. Rebecca Hall does a much better job portraying Borden’s wife, Sarah. Personally, I think Bale outshines Jackman, but this could be because his character, Alfred Borden, is a bit more complex. However, Jackman really plays up his character’s (Robert–changed from Rupert–Angier’s) obsession with not only learning Borden’s secret to his greatest illusion, but in his quest to outdo him.
I have to admit that if I saw the movie before reading the book, I’d be very disappointed with the novel. That isn’t to say the book isn’t good–it is–but I thought the movie was just so much better and really well done.
Several bloggers I know have written posts similar to this one. It’s been mainly women bloggers writing these and marking them private, which is understandable. Past lovers are listed, the situation(s) described, and maybe a note written to the person telling them what they think of said person now.
I’m not going to write a similar post because there’s no way I’d be able to remember how many men I’ve slept with, and it isn’t just because of the ECT. There were plenty: several one-night stands, “play dates” with guys who already had girlfriends, you name it. Even if I could remember the exact number, I’d need more than just my fingers and toes to count all the guys.
Most of this happened between the ages of 20 and 23. Go ahead and call me a slut. I suppose I was. All of this occurred before I was diagnosed with bipolar and borderline personality disorders (BPD) in 1994, when I was 24. One of the DSM-IV criteria for BPD is this:
4. impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating).
(All the criteria can be found here.)
Once I was in treatment and on the proper medication, this behavior stopped. Before that, I had the idea in my head that the more men I slept with, the more attractive I was. I grew up with both parents telling me I was ugly, and especially that my lips were too big. In Mrs. Monahan’s eighth grade reading class, this guy Mike drew a picture of a giant pair of lips with a teeny, tiny body attached to it and wrote my name on it. This drawing was passed around, and as you can imagine, elicited many snickers and “furtive” looks my way. I saw the picture. I did nothing about it.
To this day, I am very self-conscious about my lips, but at least I only have sex with my husband.
by Christopher Priest
Although The Prestige
is categorized as science fiction, there are no spaceships, alternate galaxies, or aliens. I believe it falls into that category because science, albeit early 20th-century science, is a major part of the plot. It did receive the World Fantasy Award in 1996, but there are no dragons or elves here, either.
The only other information I had before reading the book was of a rivalry between two magicians, so I assumed the title word, “prestige,” connoted the fame and fortune associated with performers. Rather, it refers to “the effect (emphasis added), or…the product of magic” (73), which is important to keep in mind as you read.
The Prestige is written in first person from different characters’ points of view, and is divided into five parts. The story itself takes place in 1990s England and begins in that era, narrated by adoptee Andrew Westley. He knows his birth name is Nicholas Borden and that he is the great-grandson of the magician Alfred Borden.
Kate Angier, great-granddaughter of Borden’s rival, Rupert Angier, lures Andrew to her estate that has long been in the family’s possession, and where her great-grandfather grew up, to put an end to the feud between Alfred and Rupert, even though the rivalry has no impact on either Kate’s or Andrew’s current lives. However, she also seeks answers to something she witnessed as a child–something that involved Rupert’s greatest illusion, as well as a young Nicholas Borden.
The portions narrated by Rupert and Alfred are from diaries each man kept. The novel itself spans only one night, so it may be assumed that as the reader reads the magicians’ accounts, Andrew is reading them for the first time, alongside the reader, which, in a way, makes the reader part of The Prestige. This narrative technique makes the novel unconventional and almost ground-breaking: who is the protagonist? The antagonist? Perhaps there is neither. Perhaps there is both, which changes depending on the present narrator.
As confusing as that sounds, the story itself is easy to follow. I think the only reason it took me so long to finish has to do with my mood disorder(s) and current inability to concentrate, rather than the novel’s quality. The conclusion, unfortunately, is rushed and abrupt. It doesn’t end in a nice, neat package, but then again, the book isn’t written that way. Perhaps that’s what makes it unique.
Tonight we’re going to see the movie version, starring Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale.
The latest episode of CSI - Cat Scene Investigation is the result of having two alpha cats in the household. I know the picture is blurry because it was taken with a camera phone, but you can see the injury to Hopper’s mouth pretty clearly. It looks even worse in person. Or, in uh, cat (?):
Though the evidence is circumstantial, the perpetrator isn’t meek, little Hee Seop this time. It’s our alpha male, Angelo. Sorry, jane, I know how much you love him, but this is exactly the type of shit he pulls and Hopper, unfortunately, gets the worst of it. Face it–you love a thug! (@)
(@) Angelo says: More pet pics are available for your viewing pleasure at this week?s
Friday Ark. If you post your own pets? photos, leave them a trackback or comment and you?ll be listed there, too. And remember–they don’t limit pictures just to cats!
I was incredibly surprised to find that I’m at 130 lbs. when I weighed myself at the gym today. I didn’t work out yesterday, but the other day I was at like, 131.2 or something like that. I hadn’t had a BM in two days despite all the Metamucil–until yesterday. It’s amazing how much of a difference taking a shit can make, isn’t it? :d
See more progress on: Lose 20 pounds
Perhaps the Rozerem could have been why I’ve felt so shitty the past couple of days. According to Robert Meyer, M.D., who was interviewed for
this article, “‘We saw in the clinical trials that Rozerem could increase depression in people who are depressed’”. So I stopped taking it last night and will take the Lunesta samples I have instead. The
pdoc didn’t call back yesterday, so we’ll call him again tomorrow.
I was going to write a
FOAD post, but since everyone’s probably too stuffed on turkey to go blog surfing anyway, I’ll save it for next week. (*)
Last night, when we met with our couples counselor, I told her that my biggest fear is to fall into another depressive episode. According to an article in the American Journal of Psychiatry (online), “In the United States, 85% of patients with an episode of major depression go on to have a recurrence (3), with an apparent increase in severity with each subsequent episode (5)”. I can’t even count on one hand how many depressive episodes I’ve had.
After these past couple of months of doing so well, I’m afraid I’m crashing again. I know what my symptoms are, and these are the most recent ones: difficulty getting out of bed; difficulty getting myself to do anything other than sit in front of the computer and “waste time” playing online games; difficulty making decisions; lack of personal hygiene. This last one is what’s been bothering me the most.
I’ve been showering every day, especially on the days I go to the gym, but the last few nights that I’ve come home late from hockey, I’ve gone straight to bed after taking my meds because I’m afraid that a shower will stimulate me and that I’ll be up ’til 4:00 in the morning. That sort of makes sense. However, where I was vigilant about my nightly skincare routine before, I’ve been a complete slacker in the past week or so–and I’ve been complaining about the condition of my skin, because even though I take care of it, wearing a goalie helmet doesn’t help reduce breakouts. And it isn’t like we can afford for me to have facials on a regular basis. I need an extraction bad, bad, bad, even though they’re painful!
I was unable to sleep last night and got to bed later than I should have, though I can’t remember what time. I couldn’t get up this morning when Brian was leaving for work, though I did get out of bed by 10:00 a.m. Still, I couldn’t make myself go to the gym. The rest of the day has been complete and utter shit, and it wasn’t until after 4:00 p.m. that I finally managed to drag myself into the shower–never mind the fact that I’d had a leak in my underpants and have my period. I know that’s gross, but it is what it is. I hope to God that my biggest fear isn’t coming true.
