Its nearly 3am, of course I'm not tired...

So life is finally starting to gain some sort of normalcy. I have my own room in a basement apartment with two of my bets friends. My room is starting to come along awesome. Ditched my shitty futon bed and am going for that simple, spartan mattress on the floor vibe. Since I have Greg "I Can Fix Anything In The Fucking World" Dias just on the other side of the bathroom, I get to hang my actual paintings up for the first time in a while. The first thing up was some custom flash by friend Mark Mitchell. If you live in Atlanta, you should get tatttooed by him because he is the shit.

This week's plans include more writing, music collaboration, new gigs, and finally getting a someone out of grad school hell so socialization can occur.

As far as my health goes, I am still waiting on a date for the MRI. That plus two drug tests and i should be ready for the endocrinologist should tell me when my shit comes out of my head. Lately I have been throwing up a lot in the middle of the night. I also have this spells where I feel dizzy and tired. I feel the need to consume sugar for some reason, even if I don't want to. This shit is fucking weird.

It would cool if you locals hit Eli's Wednesday, or Goospeed Friday or Saturday. The Godspeed shit is new and its New Year's Eve and Day so shit will be poppin' poppin'.

I feel a thousand times better in my own space, but I still have a long way to go. Sigh.

The Future Is Looking Bright Actually

One of the most challenging parts of dealing with my health situation is having to move in with my grandparents. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate them taking me in and taking care of me and feeding me and helping with me money when i needed it. I love them so much and they have gone above and beyond what anyone could to to take of me.. However, they live in a small apartment, are older, and have a their routines and their stuff and their things. I am 30, and even though I am in poor health and not really out doing all that much stuff, I can't really do what I want to do while living here. I can't have friends over, I could never bring a girl over here (which really hasn't been much of anything I've wanted to do all that bad, but still), and understandably, my grandparents get upset over things like coming home late, or basically doing whatever autonomous thing I choose to do as an adult.

Alas, on Monday, I will be moving into my new place with my good friends Sunshine and Greg. As sick as I was, I didn't participate at all in the house hunt, so tonight was the first time I saw the place. I have to say, it was the nicest house I ever saw in Oakland. My new room is cozy, and has the potential to be the perfect space that I have been lacking really since July because while I appreciated livning at the Hive, I never really made my room my own and I got so sick so fast that I was rarely there. I am really looking forward to moving in, having my own space, which I hope will ease my anxiety. Sunshine and Greg have already moved in, so I got to catch up with Sunshine for a minute. She got a new job at a bar not far from our house, which is leading to me getting a new dj gig over there, and allegedly I may have another new gig lined up at Pop's over in San Francisco. I am super excited about branching out into new places and, of course, stacking that paper.

On the health front, not much else has changed except my insomnia has gotten worse, and I'm pooing in a weird colors. I haven't gotten an MRI date, which means I haven't gotten a surgery either. So again, another stagnant holding pattern.

I will say, however, that over the past few days, I have seen some of the greatest sides of some of the greatest people, some of them new, some of them old. I have some incredible creative projects in the fire. I cant wait to get them going.

Each day the outlook gets better. I added another chapter of my book tonight. I can't wait to write about that.

I'd like to thank the following people for being fucking awesome to me this week: Koji, Mingo, Danielle, Carl, Chloe T, Beckah R, Sunshine, Paisley, Mary, Grace B, Grace A, Cang, Jack, Leanne, Carl at Action PR, and you the reader. See you tomorrow.

Wednesday with the Wizard Playlist 12/22/10

om: at giza
blue oyster cult: dont fear the reaper
parchman farm: too many people
the stooges: down on the street
the suicide file: i hate you
black sabbath: hole in the sky
off!: i dont belong
quest for fire: strange vacation
deep purple: child of time
fu manchu: eatin dust
iron age: dispossessed
judas priest: one for the road
pentagram: walk in the blue light
scorpions: in trance
the white stripes: dead leaves and the dirty ground
bad brains: re ignition
crowbar: planets collide
ghost: con clavi clon dio
karma to burn: nineteen
kylesa: spiral shadow
royal thunder: sleeping witch
ted nugent: stranglehold
baroness: a horse called golgotha
mastodon: oblivion
queens of the stone age: if only
saviours: we roam
torche: amnesian
witch: seer
sleep: dragonaut
mc5: rama lama fa fa fa
legend: the destroyer
hulmo del cairo: nimbo
quicksand: head to wall
the sword: lawless lands
helmet: give it
high on fire: snakes for the divine
acid king: evil satan
bison bc: slow hand of death
danzig: she rides
trash talk: worthless nights/walking disease
black breath: i am beyond
rzl dzl: ignorance is bliss remix
the blood brothers: set fire to the face on fire
christian mistress: desert rose
leaf hound: freelance fiend
ozzy osbourne: crazy train
clutch: big news II
black sabbath: planet caravan
barn owl: visions in dust
jesu: tired of me
neil young: cowgirl in the sand

Occasionally I act like real writer

http://sfist.com/2010/12/19/sfist_attends_wild_949s_wild_jam.php#comments

The Highs and Lows

Today was a day I had been looking forward to for a long time. Make fun of me all you want, but today was Wild 94.9's Wild Jam concert featuring Drake, who as pop as he may be, is one of my favorite rap/hip hop/urban/whatever artists currently out there, and my good friend was able to get me into the show for free. I was super fucking excited to see a dude who I had been pretty fucking into since last summer, and it was going to be nice to get out of town for the night. So I finished up a rather lackluster night of Djing at Eli's last night, sped home, and fell asleep as early as I could, but it was hard because honestly it was like how a little kid feels trying to sleep on Christmas Eve.

When I woke up today, I had a couple of missed phone calls from my internist. I am not a particularly big fan of using the phone in general, so I figured I'd get back to him when I was damn good and ready, and hopped in the shower. I hadn't been in the shower for more than three minutes when I heard my grandma pounding on the bathroom door and telling me that Dr. Chen was on the phone, Now, as I have stated in earlier posts, tensions in this apartment have been running a tad high due to being in such close quarters under the stress of me being sick combined with the generational differences in methods of coping with illness and stress, but I know that my grandma wouldn't be pounding on the bathroom door mid shower for no good reason. I told her I'd be out in a minute, turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, and went into the kitchen to get the phone.

On my Tuesday doctor's visit, my doctor ordered some blood tests, specifically for my liver, kidney, and thyroid. Almost in passing, I had mentioned to him that my sex drive had been more or less non-existent over the last two months. I told him I'm aware that a 30 year old male shouldn't have that perma-boner, fuck anything that walks libido of a teenager, but I figure I am going to tell my doctors anything that's weird or out of character for me because it may lead to finding an end to all this suffering and bullshit I'm going through. My doctor decided to test my testosterone for the hell of it. Low sex drive is normal in people suffering from depression, but hey, what the hell? They already were sticking a needle in me anyway, what's a little more blood, right?

He had called me back to tell me that my liver, kidney, and thyroid tests had all come back normal, but something was seriously wrong with my testosterone. I asked him to explain to me what that meant.

According to my doctor, the average range of the testosterone level of an adult male is between 200 and 800. A thirty year old male in relative good health should be somewhere around the 500 range. What level was I, you ask? 34.

Yeah, you read that right 34. Not even in triple fucking digits. Not even the low side of normal. If you want my term for being that far off of the normal range, it would be PRETTY FUCKED UP.

He had ran some tests regarding my pituitary gland, and the findings to that were also not up to par. He told me he had already referred me to an endocrinologist, order two very specific blood test that the endocrinologist would need to start her work, and ordered me an MRI for my brain. His early prognosis is that I have a tumor in, or near my pituitary gland, which is located a the base of my brain at the top of my neck, and that it would have to be cut out in order to render this problem solved. He said that while it isn't necessarily related, he wouldn't rule out all of my gastrointestinal issues being a side effect of this gland problem, but that would have to be something that was studied and documented after i had addressed the pituitary issue.

So, to sum that up in a real short sentence, brain surgery is in my near future.

When I got off the phone, I didn't really know how to feel. On one hand, this was the first bit of medical info I have gotten since all of this started that actually had like, a tangible end to it. It was the first thing a doctor had said to me that made some sort of sense, and discovered a problem that had a solution. On the other hand, its a fucking TUMOR that requires fucking BRAIN SURGERY. That's a little more of a big deal than like, getting your wisdom teeth pulled.

I called my parents, let my besets of friends know, let some other people know, then got it together enough to head down to the show. I mean, tumor or not, fucking Drizzy was playing tonight and I wasn't about to miss that for anything. His set was incredible, and it completely got my mind off of my health for 45 minutes. However, I headed back to Oakland from San Jose, stopped by a friends, and before I knew it, I was back to being alone in my room with the weight of this new found discovery bearing down on me like a whole new, much larger monkey is now on my back,

So now its 2:23am, I'm eating graham crackers and drinking cranberry juice, and riding a pharmaceutical buzz (sorry family, you drink wine or smoke weed, I eat the valium that I'm prescribed, accept reality). I have lived through hard times, walked through the fire, made mistakes and took lessons away from them, and am not one to cower in the face of adversity. It still kills me, however, to think back to June of 2010 and think of how happy and normal my life was going. I had a girlfriend I loved, a job I could tolerate, plans to go to grad school, was playing great music with great friends, and watched all of that slip away from me as I puked and shitted and cramped and cried alone in my grandparents' guest room. I am not asking for free ride. I am not asking for life to be easy. I just want life to not be complicated for like, a year of my life. I want to not have to fight, to be brave, to be strong, to have to endure misery, just for like, a year. How the fuck did I go from riding my bike freely down Broadway every morning to work, bullshitting with Greg, making dinner with Paisley, and playing shows with Loose Endz, to losing 30 lbs and screaming at my grandmother about how i have given up hope on ever finding a cause for my sickness and how I have thought about throwing myself off of the seventh floor balcony of their apartment on more than one occasion? And now, when an answer may have finally presented itself, it mostly likely will involve cutting the base of my skull open to remove some shit from a gland? What the fuck bro?

I've cried more in the last six months than I have in my entire life. I've thrown up more in the last six months than most people probably do in a lifetime. I won't get into the diarrhea because its just downright unpleasant. I have tried to keep my head up and to not put this on everyone I know, and been told I was too self-absorbed to be a good friend. I have cut out negative elements of my life. I have been told that I am too candid in public about how I feel, and that the few small things I do to keep the illusion of having a regular adult life are either counterproductive to my health or detrimental to my feeling better. Essentially, I am failing people at even being sick. I have taken all of this and still I pull myself out of bed, in the morning, in the afternoon, and sometimes after dark. I have done everything every doctor has told me to do. I shit onto saran wrap and scooped into vials and dropped them off to be mailed somewhere and examined. I have gotten so much blood drawn I have track marks. I take antibiotics, anti depressants, anti nausea meds, anti anxiety meds, all of which have side effects that make me feel just as sick, albeit different sick, than i feel anyway.

After doing all that, I now get told that the key to getting this all fixed is going to be a bone saw, a scalpel, anesthesia, and an incredible amount of pain and discomfort.

While I am happy to finally get a lead on something that may actually put an end to all of this, the severity of what the cure may actually be is incredibly soul crushing, and its very hard to smile and keep my head up when brain surgery looms over my future like a squall over open ocean.

I just want a few months of nothing. Of just existing. I don't even remember what that's like. I don't even remember what being me in average health feels like anymore.

I'd like to thank Dre Stewart for getting me into the show tonight, and continually doing me favors like that whenever he gets the chance. I don't ever take what you do, or our friendship for granted, and I look forward to gladly being able to return the favor in any way I can throughout our friendship in the future.

I'd like to thank my family and friends for putting up with me and all of this, and for putting up with however this unfolds in my future. I am fucking scared and angry and puzzled. I am sure I will snap on some of you, say horrifically scary things to others, or perhaps clam up and fall off the face of the earth and not be around for others. I am only a 30 year old with less than perfect social skills who has never been this sick before in his life. I am doing the best I can, and I know that sometimes my best sucks. Just bare with me. I wouldn't wish how I feel right now on anyone in the world. Not even anyone on that very short list in the back of my mind of people who I fucking despise with every inch of my being.

I just want to be me. I am scared of what my future holds, and fuck, I don't even know how to keep talking about this. I am crying all over my keyboard right now. I should probably just shut the fuck up and go to bed.

Either way, today was a day that for 45 minutes, I felt like I was on top of the world screaming along with 15000 other kids to a Canadian rapper who knows to sing, and was pulled to the lowest depths of hell dwelling over the fact that I have to get my skull cut the fuck open.

"...and you just tell me what you down for. Anything you down for. I know things have changed; know I used to be around more, but you should miss me a little when I'm gone. i just hope you miss me a little when I'm gone...gone...gone..."

12/15 Wednesday with the Wizard Playlist

for those who dont know, i dj at elis mile high club on wednesday nights from 7 to 11. its mostly a metal night, with an emphasis on stoner metal, doom, classic metal, and basically dirty sounding shit. heres what i played tonight:

earthless: sonic prayer
humo del cairo: nimbo
black sabbath: the wizard
kyuss: supa scoopa and mighty scoop
george thorogood and the destroyers: one bourbon, one scotch, one beer
quest for fire: bison eyes
judas priest: one for the road
ghost: con clavo con dio
zz top: tush
titan: sweet dreams
royal thunder: sleeping witch
the white stripes: icky thump
pentagram: 20 buck spin
ted nugent: stranglehold
graveyard: evil ways
danzig: tired of being alive
high on fire: hung, drawn, and quartered
kylesa: spiral shadow
parchman farm: mirror spirit
blood ceremony: master of confusion
doomriders: come alive
kvelertak: mjod
black breath: unholy virgin
saviours: we roam
white zombie: thunderkiss 65
helmet: meantime
karma to burn: nineteen
torche: amnesian
the sword: lawless lands
clutch: sleestack lightning
the high confessions: mistaken for cops
dead meadow: babbling flower
queens of the stone age: go with the flow
turbonegro: sell your body to the night
murder city devils: lemuria rising
fu manchu: shit kicker
baroness: a horse called golgotha
the melvins: a history of bad men
13th floor elevators: youre gonna miss me
sleep: dragonaut
eyehategod: 99 miles of bad road
witchcraft: wooden cross
acid king: dry run
christian mistress: desert rose
thin lizzy: boys are back in town
every time i die: the new black
sonic youth: white cross
black flag: i love you
born against: nine years later
leaf hound: drowned my life in fear
serpent throne: wheels of satan
diamond nights: destination diamonds
crowbar: planets collide

These Days

It hasn't always been the easiest thing to be me, and lately its been really hard. If you read this nonsense, you're probably sick of hearing about how hard it is. However, I am having one of those moments of positive inspiration that lately I would call rare, but in my earlier years seemed to be much more frequent.

First in foremost, my best friend had his first son, and second child over all today. I can't even pretend to have any idea what that's really like, but I know a) that he and his girlfriend are so incredibly happy right now and that b) while I go through some pretty serious bouts with pain and discomfort, I'm pretty sure the worst of this isn't quite on par with pushing a football out of a vagina. I mean, I've seen some interesting things in film, and those girls looked like they were enjoying themselves, but I'm sure that's not what having a baby is like.

Hearing the news that the lil guy arrived put wind in my sails. While I can't wait to hang out with the little guy, and see how happy he makes his parents and sister, it obviously didn't make the nausea that kept me in bed until 3pm any easier. However, the news of his birth makes me feel hopeful. To be honest, and friends and family, please don't take this as a slight or that I take all that you do for me for granted, its the first time I've felt hopeful and positive about my own life in a long time. I don't really know how or why its effecting me like this. I am in no way trying to take the spotlight from someone else's life event and pin my horse shit situation to it, but when you're having a hard time, you try and find whatever light that comes your way in the dark. While he isn't my son, he will always be close to me, and that's about as bright as it gets no matter how dark your light may be.

I got the news while I was walking up Piedmont Ave. as part of my new regiment against sleeping like a vampire. Since I was struggling to keep from throwing up during most of the hours whilst the sun was up today, I opted to walk on what's probably the only street in Oakland where you are in zero danger of being fucked with by anyone after dark. I got frozen yogurt, which tasted great but wasn't the funnest thing to ingest in the 56 degree and somewhat damp evening air. I was happy to know that 400 miles to the south, one of my closest friends was beaming with joy and pride, and for whatever reason, it made me feel like even though I can't put my finger on exactly what, how, when, where, who, or why, that there is a reason to see what's on the other side of feeling like absolute shit every day of my life and enduring constant digestive upheaval.

Thanks Jav. For everything and no less than one thousand times over.

Transylvanian Hunger

This morning my grandparents and I went out for breakfast. I didn't really feel hungry at all, but I knew it was morning and that I needed to eat because about twelve hours had passed since I enjoyed a bagel and cream cheese for dinner last night. My stomach doesn't ever get that "hungry" feeling. I can count on one hand the times I've felt hunger pangs since the onset of all this back in June. You could give me complete and total control of every aspect of the menu for any given meal, and I still doubt that I'd feel hungry or really all that excited about eating in the first place.

I started thinking about the word hunger, and ways that it is used in simile and metaphor for other aspects of life. I spend most days resting (save for my super bitchin' active walks I've been all up on since Thursday's date with Dr. Destiny) because I don't physically feel well. I don't have the strength or the drive to do things that are overly active. I can't work. The one time I attempted to ride my bike since wrecking it as a result of dehydration was a horrible idea that I somehow walked away from unscathed. I more or less sit on the sidelines and try and fit myself into the busy lives of my friends who all have very important shit going on. It dawned on me today as I stared at a rather unappealing plate of eggs, italian sausage, hash browns, and toast, that not only do I never feel hunger in terms of food or nourishment, but I'm starting to lose the hunger accompanies living. Aside from picking up the pieces of my physical well being, once this issue gets resolved I am going to have to pick up the rest of my life. I tried to think about exactly what my life is going to look like on the other side of this awful mess, and well, nothing came to mind.

Now I am a firm believer in taking each day as it comes, and I have never been the world's strongest long term planner, but aside from not even being able to picture a healthy me living some sort of life beyond being chained to the commode, I am lacking the motivation to even pursue what that life is going to be. I see moving out of this state of waiting and testing and feeling 4 to 6 out of 10 on my best day as undoubtedly the most daunting trial life has placed in front of me yet. Five months of having your hopes dashed by non-event diagnostic test after non-event diagnostic test has drained me of having positivity as my number-one, go-to frame of mind.

Short of this blog, a memoir that's turning into less of a memoir and more of stories of my poor decision making strewn about my mindless babbling on all sorts of topics relating to making poor decisions, and taking Hipstamatic pics for my tumblr, there isn't any sort of tangible life I'm longing for upon getting healthy. There are people who I love that I want to hang out with and spend time with, but I am less than thrilled about the best possible scenario for a life in Oakland at full health (and the worst case scenarios are fucking unbearable to even imagine), and there aren't really any other cities or situations that come to mind as progressive and proper plans for continuing my life post recovery.

Not trying to be dramatic, and believe me, after last week's near 5150, this isn't a cry for help that hasn't already been heard and worked on, but I'm somewhat worried as to where to go from here. I do enjoy putting my bullshit into print, and apparently its not a complete waste of time to read according to some of my friends (and please, if you're saying that just to be nice, stop or ladies, if you're saying that because you want a piece, I'm way easier than that), so maybe if I keep hammering these keys I can write my way into something that pays using my brain versus punishing my already shredded body for an hourly wage again.

I am feeling my depression change as each week goes by. Last weekend was undoubtedly an aggressive outburst and how I managed to keep sharp objects entirely out of my hands may be proof that there is some sort of supernatural, omniscient being hard at work throughout these coptic times, but as the week has gone by and while I don't necessarily feel any better about anything at all, the emotional suffering has evolved. Depression throbs through my body like a dull, deep ache. Today as I walked through the Costco in San Leandro, I felt the ebb and flow of depression carry me down each aisle like currents in the Mississippi River. I wonder if I look as bad as I feel, because if my current relentless battle to stay composed is more exhausting than soccer, and there are times when I feel like I'm losing both the battle and the war.

"Burning inside (I cross myself, it doesn't help) Because I'm not smart enough (I'm digging into hot white) Learning not to lie."

I'm About To Have A Nervous Breakdown...

Actually, I'm not about to have a nervous breakdown, I actual did have one Saturday morning. It wasn't pretty. While I am pretty candid about what I share here, the gory details are going to be omitted because well, it was awful and not everything is for the prying eyes of the more than likely, uninterested public. The short version is that I received the results of my colonoscopy from November 23rd on Friday afternoon, and what shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone, there was nothing abnormal afoot in my anal area. This news itself wasn't so frustrating, but when I was told that I wouldn't be able to get a follow up appointment with the doctor regarding any of his findings until early February, that was enough to make the Corvair that is my heart, brain, and/or soul to become even more unsafe at any speed.

Let me say this though, I made a real effort to keep it together that day once I got off the phone with his receptionist, who's incredibly friendly voice and helpful demeanor only made the perceived reality of my situation at that time sting even more. Every cell in my body ached to be whisked away on a recreational/self-medication vacation from reality with a side of bodily harm that, as grim as this may be to read, could have resulted in me shedding this mortal coil sans regrets. But, I didn't go off the deep end like that. I got stoned off of a pre-rolled joint from a dispensary off Divisadero in the City, and ended up killing a few hours in various record stores and donut shops waiting for a friend to be free of obligations before shooting back to Oakland to be in the presence of another source of strength for me in the face of all this anguish, and tried to ride out the wave of hopelessness and do as little damage as possible. As time is want to do, it slipped away, and I didn't find myself returning home from this adventure in positive coping until 7:00 AM Saturday morning. This act of coping didn't sit well with some of my biggest supports, which lead to a meltdown from the constantly oppressive pressure and tension that ebbs and flows throughout this apartment I'm staying in like the dull, achy pain a deep, vividly discolored bruise. The ensuing outburst switched participants while never faltering in intensity or insanity, so it was decided that it was in my best interest to get out of town and off of the radar for a couple of days.

So I left the mean streets of Oakland to the rural roadways of Carmel Valley, where I spent most of the part of my childhood that any adult actually remembers. While I struggled with the notion of moving myself from self-imposed isolation to real deal, friendless void part of the state isolation, I was too emotionally drained to board another train of thought, and surrendered myself to the control of my parents. There were many moments of my time away that were incredibly refreshing and much needed for my brain, which is now in officially as bad of shape as my digestive tract, but there were also cold, lonely moments that were glaring reminders that my life has gotten seriously fucked up by the events of the last six months, and the idea of climbing out of this hole only continues to get larger and more daunting as days go by. My mother unleashed her keen ability to wheel and deal upon the receptionists in my doctor's office and somehow, by the grace of God, Jesus, Alllah, Krsna, Shiva, Buddha, Lemmy, and John Smith (in no particular order, so I don't need any boo fucking hoo comments out of you religious types), totally weaseled an appointment with the doc himself on Thursday, December 9th, which if you can't do math very well, was yesterday. Much faster than waiting until February 2011, right?

Yesterday's visit was my first with the doctor himself since consulting with him way back in September, and we discussed some things that are going good about my disorder, things that aren't going so good about my disorder, and how to sustain the good while improving the not so good. Another CT scan was booked, this time of my small bowel, and I was told to work on getting my sleep schedule back to that of a normal human, and not someone with severe, multi-continental jet lag. While it isn't really treading new ground, and remain skeptical of this being an area in which the key to this identifying and remedying this fucking Pandora's Box of of grim Life felt it needed to unleash on me. I have a lot ahead of me to fix, but things look lighter today than they did Friday afternoon of last week.

Over the last two weeks, I have began to write down some of the better fucked up stories I've lived through for a sort of anthology or memoir I intend on publishing. Between that and the often overwhelming anxiety and uneasiness of feeling shitty all the time, sometimes writing in here is stretching me very thin. I am, however, always the asshole fucking with his iphone. I downloaded a few of the camera apps, which have direct connections to Tumblr, so I have created caffeineorme.tumbr.com. It is more or less the visual accompaniment to this blog. Sometimes pics will correspond with blog entries, other times they will be they're own entities.

caffeineorme.tumbler.com

I could get into why this took so long, but its weird, so I wont.

Holy Fucking Shit

In a shocking turn of events made possible by Captain Chase Corum, there may be a positive turn of events in the realm of fixing my fucked up stomach.

Neuroendocrine Tumors.

Of course this information comes at the beginning of a Holiday Weekend, so getting this together is going to take some time, but we may have a promising lead towards an end to my misery.

Thank you to Paul Curry, Erin Curry, and Chase motherfucking Corum.

The Bridge

When I was a little kid, my parents lived in San Leandro, my dad's parents lived in Oakland (the very apartment I'm staying in now to be precise), and my mom's parents lived in San Francisco. I spent my fair share of time staring out the back of all of their cars, looking at the Bay Area as it blurred by, and having family on both sides of the Bay meant I spent a lot of time traversing the Bay Bridge.

This morning, on my way to UCSF for my colonoscopy, I felt like I was on the Bay Bridge episode of "This Is Your Life". My grandpa and I left the apartment at 6:30AM this morning to ensure a punctual arrival for my penetration, and like every other trip I take to UCSF, I spent the ride looking at the side of the road behind sunglasses so that I had a hope in hell of hiding how close to sobbing hysteria I was. As we entered the toll plaza, the gloomy grey light in the sky and countless headlights in front of us reminded of all night drives on the East Coast while being on tour with Throwdown. I felt just as tired and stressed out as I did on tour with them certain times, but I was also reminded of how care free and easy life was then. I had a functioning stomach and I didn't feel like some sort of failure as a human being yet. Ignorance was bliss.

I used to live in a warehouse on Tehama St in San Francisco when I first moved to the Bay in 2005. If you were to drive there from the Easy Bay, you took the first exit on the right and basically you were there. In fact, from the huge windows in the front of 58 Tehama which were above the bar in the kitchen, you could see the exit ramp. I had a lot of good times in Tehama. I got to see Big Business, Saviours, Get Hustle, The Starvations, Landmind Marathon, Pelican, FM Bats, Geisha Girls, Backstabbers Inc, and The Holy Kiss all from the comfort of my own home. Tehama was also the greatest built in after party you could have ever imagined, and many a night didn't actually end until well into the next day if you ended up there after a night at the bars. However, good things never last, and it was eventually overran by a russian coke-dealing, Burning Man weirdo. Not that I have any ill will towards that guy, but it was the end of a good time.

As we made our way through the city, we crossed Fell and Divisdero, which is about a block from where Kindle lives, or at least used to live because I haven't talked to him in a few months. At 7AM, the sky was already pretty light, but it wasn't too much lighter than the many times I would stagger and stumble out of his apartment and up Divisdero to Haight St where I would wait in the freezing cold for the N Judah Owl bus to show up. The great thing about the N Judah Owl bus is that it follows absolutely no schedule what so ever, so taking it in any regard, whether is was out of your mind wasted at 6am to get back home to the Sunset, or at 1:45AM from 47th Ave and Judah so you could get to Whole Foods Market Franklin at 4AM to get the store opened before the 6AM all store meeting. The N Judah Owl bus doesn't care if your motives are pure and righteous or juvenile and stupid. It was the great equalizer. No matter what your plans were, it made you suffer nonetheless.

After my procedure my grandpa took me out for a late breakfast at Toast on 24th St. We headed back towards the freeway down 24th St to Valencia, then to Duboce, and to the freeway. The memories of this part of the route are really too much to talk about right now, but nothing like familar street signs, corners, restaurants, sidewalks, and graffiti tags to set your mind going on why you just couldn't cut it as what you needed to be.

As we got back onto the Bridge, I barely kept it together. Back when I was four, and I was getting driven home from my grandparents house to my parent's in San Leandro, I used to look up at the steel rafters that hang down above the cars on the lower deck and be reminded of the ravoli my parents and grandparents would feed me from the Lakeshore Deli in Oakland. Being a rather cunning little shit head as a child, I would often attempt to manipulate whatever dinner plans were in order to include these ravioli as we passed them on the way home. Today the lower deck looked much different. It looked like a part of a scene built for one of the Nightmare on Elm Street movies. The steel beams that cross on the side looked like bone. The view of the entire expansion of the bridge was like some gnarled, fucked up spinal cord that had been beaten and twisted one too many times. On the Oakland side of the bridge past the Treasure Island tunnel, the red rust smeared at random on all of the steel was my blood. Blood I left on the operating table at Long Hospital 103 at the UCSF campus. Blood I left all over a small room of an apartment on 20th St. Blood I left on 47th Ave and Judah. Blood I left on 36th Ave and Anza. Blood I left at 58 Tehama St. Blood I left on sleeves, tissues, paper towels, straws, barstools, pool tables, sidewalks, and faces of the last five years of my adult life in the Bay Area.

I don't feel hopefully or confident about today's test. The only difference today's procedure had from any previous operation I've had since getting sick was that I at certain times, I was awake enough to try and have a conversation with the doctor and nurses at certain points, but they would just look back at me and say nothing. I knew what I was trying to say, and I was trying to say pleasant and helpful things, but I'm sure that the words themselves sounded like gibberish from a raving mad man, which warranted their "shhhs" and their gentle hands pushing me back towards the drooled on pillow at the head of my gurney. Before drifting off into another sedation intensified slumber, and laughed to myself and thought "wow, I've never lived through something so metaphorically related to how I feel about my own life before".

The End of the Silence

Hey Friends.

Haven't been here in a minute. To be honest, I haven't really been anywhere in a minute. While this blog is a mecca for self-deprecating humor and less than savory topics, I try to not write on here when I am in the danger zone of depression. What is the danger zone of depression, you ask? Well, without being too revealing or dramatic, contrary to the new leaves I was trying to turn over the last time I wrote in this thing, I more or less spiraled into even a darker place for a few weeks. I don't really want to get into it. Those of you who are close know, and a lot of you who I thought were close talk a lot of shit and spread rumors, so let's just call that a wash. It really isn't all that interesting anyway, otherwise I'd be writing about it.

I'm still sick as ever. In fact, I was just reading over the latest colonoscopy prep paperwork I got from UCSF to get ready for tomorrow night's pee butt festival. While they found a hiatal hernia and fat on my liver via an ultrasound, so far neither finding really lead to any sort of recovery plan that will get me back to being full of piss and vinegar. Every time I go to the doctor, I get information that is useless to me and each visit ends up wasting my time. I don't know how going to the doctor makes you feel, but for me its an incredibly anxiety-ridden and agonizing experience, and I always leave the office feeling worn out. After Thursday's disappointment, I fell asleep all day. I am not a teenager. I don't like sleeping for hours throughout the sunny parts of the day. In fact, my sleeping schedule is all fucked up because I'm depressed. I have incredibly unpleasant thoughts all the time, and have spent several nights on the phone with friends talking myself out of very bad head spaces. Some of you readers may not have known this was going on with me (sorry Mom, Grandma, friends, whoever), because I act better than Leonardo DiCaprio on his worst day, but I feel like staying silent isn't doing me any favors.

I have had a few glimmering moments over the last few weeks, and been lucky enough to be reminded that I have incredible friends who love and care about me dearly. I have tried to cling fast to those moments and ride them like a wave as far as I could, but inevitably I always come crashing back to the reality of acid reflux, bile, and feces that reek of rotting and sulfur. The utter hopelessness of not getting any better and not hearing any sort of confident answer from medical professionals ultimately silences any fun gained from meeting new friends at a party, going to see Acid King, or whatever the fuck else I've done since the last time I wrote here. I think the fact that no other events of the last three weeks stand out in my mind should be testimony as to how lost at sea I really feel right now. I feel guilty for saying this much, knowing that it probably won't sit well with people who care about me, but hey everyone, this is what's up. I'd rather address it with words than with silence which, while obviously says that things aren't so well with me, allows for minds to wander and assumptions to be made.

To be honest, I'm at a loss of what to do with myself. I am heavily questioning my current situation in life in terms of where I am, and whether it would do me some good to get away from here for a while. Last night, I broke into tears thinking about how back in June, I was pretty fucking happy with the direction my life was heading. Things were going so great. Since then, it's all gone down the toilet, literally. I've lost independence, love, friends, creative outlets, and now I'm starting to lose hope. I have a very complicated relationship with the professional mental health industry, and that coupled with my latest horrible experience with medical professionals regarding my stomach, leaves me doubtful about using that as a means to make sense of myself. I don't necessarily have a better idea in mind; I don't have any alternative in mind, but needless to say, life keeps coming at me daily and I feel myself slipping into darkness blacker than I have lived through in my 30 years.

However, I have to say that I had a moment today that put me at ease more than anything has over the last four weeks. After having a particularly soul-crushing Saturday night that provided me with next to no sleep, I didn't feel particularly confident in my ability to be both left alone and unharmed today. I decided to join my grandparents on their Sunday errands, which included a stop by my grandfather's dry cleaning plant, where most of my worldly possessions are being stowed until I find a new place to live. While at the plant, I decided to grab my leather jacket from my hanging clothes which are kept on a pole in the back of the plant. For whatever reason, it felt really good to put that jacket on. It felt like I was wearing more than a jacket, it felt like armor or a shield from the ever-plummeting temperatures of the the Bay Area fall. It's only a jacket and from what I can tell, it doesn't have curative powers of any kind, but it felt really, really nice to wear.

After getting home from errands, I promptly fell into a depression-induced slumber and except for the 45 minutes that it took to eat dinner, slept until ten PM. I sat around staring at the computer for an hour trying to figure out what to do with myself, when my friend Tina texted me and invited me over to her apartment for some light socialization and leafy libations. She lives about ten blocks away, I really like her apartment, and she's the bee's fucking knees as far as friends go, so I decided to head over to her house and hang out. I thought about driving over there, but for whatever reason, walking felt incredibly appealing. I put my trusty leather jacket on over my black Saviours hoodie, grabbed my ipod, and headed down the back elevator of my grandparents' apartment building and out to the street.

For those of you not in California, it has been pissing down rain all over the Golden State all weekend. The atmosphere decided to relent, which provided a break in the storm for most of the day, but 19th St. was still wet as I set off towards Tina's apartment. There was a chill in the air, and most of the orange and yellow leaves from the trees were strewn about the streets and piled over storm drains, but being outside felt nice because my leather jacket was keeping my body warm and the sheer brutality of the Black Dahlia Murder's "Unhallowed" record was keeping my brain and heart at least upbeat, if not entirely happy. Walking through the damp streets of Oakland at midnight soothed my soul. Some may call it unsafe, yet it was still oddly comforting. I spent a few hours with Tina getting caught up on life, listening to records, giggling, staring at the walls, and talking shit to her cats. At about 2AM I decided to walk home. The atmosphere had decided that break from the rain had gone on long enough while I sat in Tina's living room listening to the Scene Creamers and hitting her vaporizer, and as I stepped out of the entryway to her building onto Telegraph Ave, it was pouring. Even though water came streaming down from the sky, it felt good to be in my leather jacket, sauntering towards downtown Oakland in the chilly dark. The way my jeans hugged my thighs felt right and the noise my Vans low tops made on the wet concrete gave me that same satisfactory feeling a seven year old gets from stomping in a puddle. I changed the ipod from the Black Dahlia Murder to Saviours and attempted to find the most sheltered route for the journey back to my grandparents' apartment. The overall commute between my grandparents' and Tina's couldn't have been more than twenty minutes altogether, but they were the best twenty minutes I've had to myself in a long time. Even though I am constantly uncomfortable, I don't know when or if I will ever feel like I did back in June, or exactly what I am going to do with myself or my life as this seemingly never-ending chapter of my life continues to twist and turn over days on a calendar, comfort and contentment aren't always so fleeting, and really are pretty easy to obtain if you step back and focus on the little things like leather jackets and good records.

I have been low as fuck for quite some time now. I have been trying my best to keep it, and really me, off of everyone's radar because at times it is a scary, losing control of my life kind of low. I don't know what I intend to do about it. I still feel just as sick as ever, and potentially sicker because my emotional health is in the shitter (along with most of the food I attempt to eat). I don't have an answer, and I'm not asking any of you for an answer, an opinion, or anything at all really. However, tonight, even in the the face of daunting despair and frustration at levels I didn't know were possible, I felt comfortable for a short period of time. I am not looking for sympathy by saying this, and I understand that really, these are first world problems and there are tons of people with far more horrific shit going on in their lives. That being said, I still have been feeling pretty fucking bad, to the point where it has me shook, and tonight, even for a short period, I caught a break from the emotional and physical onslaught that made me feel hopeful and inspired enough to pick myself up and start writing in this thing again. For the most part, I am a relatively private person, but I'm realizing that sometimes that is to my own detriment and that sitting here in silence with nothing but my own thoughts is more than likely going to result in something tragic versus something productive. My mind is a cesspool of complications, emotions, worries, regrets, and situations, and the discomfort in my abdomen provides a rather sadistic and extra-dimentional (I think i just invented that phrase, fuck yeah, go me) soundtrack to the rapidly deteriorating mental health septic tank behind my brown, bespectacled eyes, and it's a mass of murky, foul sludge that I can't keep to myself anymore. I don't really want this to be viewed as a cry for help, but I suppose it's a better cry for help than bloodletting or getting my stomach pumped would be.

I keep getting knocked off the horse, and each fall feels farther and harder than the one before it, but I am going to climb back up on it and begin again. I hope that while its probably impossible and unreasonable to even ask this of anyone who reads this and is remotely invested in me in any level emotionally to not panic or freak out, but please try to remember that getting the confidence and comfort to barf these words onto a page took a lot out of me, and that by doing so, I am trying my best to find a productive and responsible path to being in a better space in my life, physically and mentally. I don't expect every day from here on out to be a good day, or even a mediocre day for that matter, but November 22nd, 2010 marks the end of my self-imposed solitary confinement, and here is me getting you caught up how not good I've been doing and where I am trying to go from here.

I'm sorry if this upset you. It upsets me too.

I remember Halloween

Actually, the only thing Halloween about this post is the date on which I'm writing it.

For the six or seven of you that are paying attention, I didn't write here for about a week. It may have seemed like it had more to do with being in Orange County and trying to take a vacation from this bullshit hand life has dealt me at this particular time, but the truth was, it had nothing to do with that at all. The truth was that I more or less was having a prolonged mental crisis. Kids, I have been fucking depressed. I feel like in a four week period, everything I thought I knew to be true about a lot of really important things I had going in my life were more or less turned on their head. I saw some things in lights that I hadn't seen, or chose to ignore until I had no way to not see situations for what they really were. I was floored, and I was completely and totally overwhelmed by what reality was, and I had to figure out where the fuck to go, and what the fuck to do now. And let me tell you, this sort of stress did wonders for my stomach. I have had diarrhea in ways I didn't think were humanly possible. I could be making millions in the Japanese or German adult film industry these days, but I don't want to gross you all out.

I thought I had hit a rough patch of life last summer, when ultimately I got sober for the better part of a year and began to build my life back up from the bottom. I thought that over the last year, I had really started to get a plan together. I started to make plans for grad school, I had surrounded myself with what I thought were the right people, and while life threw curveballs at me here and there, I felt like the ball was rolling where it needed to and was supposed to roll. As I've stated in earlier posts, when life sidelines you like it has sidelined me since July, you have a lot of time to think on your hands. I have had some rather devastating situations befall me over the last few weeks. At times, it has felt like the rug was pulled out from underneath me. I have spent the last few weeks wondering what I did to get myself into those situations. How did I miss the mark? How could I have made myself more clear? How did I let something I cared about so deeply get so far off course? I started to look at where I really let myself get to over the last year, and saw that I wasn't nearly as on track as I wanted to or needed to be. When did I get distracted? How did I get distracted? What the fuck do I do now?

Now don't get me wrong, I am not trying to say I have a miserable life, I am also not trying to passive aggressively shit on relationships in my life that have changed over the last few weeks. What I am trying to say is that I was blindsided, and blindsided so hard that it shook me to the core of my being. The only person that I have any direct control or responsibility over in any situation is me. It would have been such a cop out to do anything but look at my own involvement in situations that went tits up. However, just because I had the presence of mind to look long and hard in the mirror doesn't mean that it was any easier to do the work or to not feel torn up inside.

So, if I haven't made it clear by now, I've been real fucking low for about nine days or so. I turned up the numb volume in some less than healthy ways at times, and I've more or less made myself scarce. I am not saying that either of these reactions are the right one, but at the very least, it made me be alone with my thoughts, and I didn't unnecessarily drag other people through my own emotional roller coaster (or if I did, it was the bare minimum amount of people). The last few nights have been some of the longest, loneliest, sobbingest nights that I have endured over my thirty years of being here. I've been pulled in so many directions about so many different aspects of my recent past and the future that continues to bare down on me regardless of how I happen to be feeling at the moment. I've had to try to understand if I was sad because I was lonely or was I sad because I was misunderstood? Was something really as good as it seemed if intentions were so misconstrued and ultimately convoluted? How do I continue to thrive and exist in a place that isn't where I want to be? How do I realistically plan to change things that are big picture and won't happen overnight?

A fucking drag, right? Well, I am happy to say that I am starting to make some sense of this. I have spent enough time in solitary. My drive and motivation are coming back. While I don't have all these questions answered. I haven't resolved how I feel about some of the recent changes in my life. I don't exactly how I am going to get myself to where I want to be next. I do know that I can only change things that are in my power. I can't beat myself up over what other people do, and I can't worry myself over things I can't entirely effect on my own. There are a few new projects I am getting involved with and starting to work on, and I have recently met some exciting new people that are providing my life with a much needed breath of fresh air. In addition to these newer elements of my life, I can't forget my rocks, my support, my friends who have been there, and will always be there no matter what the fuck goes on.

This probably was vague and I'm sure reads like a raving idiot rambling on at four in the morning, but hey, I am who I am, and I ride the wave of inspiration whenever it hits. The important part is to remember that for as bleak as it seems, it won't stay bleak forever. I'm sure that I'll still lay awake over-analyzing my life's recent turbulence. I'm probably not done crying, and I for sure haven't figured out how to get from the point a I'm currently stuck in, to the totally awesome point b I want to have for myself, but there is a light at the end of this tunnel, and I'm pretty sure it isn't an oncoming train.

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you...

without a dope blog to step to.

Sorry for that.

A lot has happened in a week. My time in Orange County was amazing. Thanks to Mindy Hoch, Javier Van Huss, Erica Koska and Family, Sara Rockwood, Adrian Castillo, Leah Putnam, Andrew and Commissary Lounge, Norm and Misses Norm, Chase Corum, Collin O Brian, Keath Moon, Rachel Johnston, Matt Horwitz, Osh and White Lotus Tattoo and everyone else I ran into/hung out with. I had a total fucking blast and completely got out of my head for four days. It was exactly what I needed at this point in my life. You guys are fucking awesome.

I got the torture test results back. The ultrasound found fat on my liver that needs to go, and the HIDA Scan found nothing wrong with the Gall Bladder. Fuck my life. I have an endoscopy Monday and an order for more stool samples. Yeah, I can't really even comment. Trying to be positive.

I had a conversation last week that kinda fucked with my head for a minute. Without getting to into it, because its not really blog material, I feel like my grown up plans and intentions weren't taken seriously because I grew up punk, and still am involved with punk at 30 years of age. I have lots of visible tattoos, I listen to loud, unruly music, I make unconventional decisions, and while I may not be leaping off the stage at every show at Gilman St, I still live my life in that vein in a lot of ways. The thing is, for the most part, I do grown up shit. I don't really like going out all the time. Most of the time, I don't go see bands I don't really love anymore. I would rather be at home by 10pm than out getting wasted. I am trying to aim my life to a place of stability. I want to end up married with kids and house. I don't want roommates forever. I don't want to have touring bands playing my basement. But if for the time being, I have to do that to get by, I will. I will make do in any situation, because that's what punk taught me. If you can't get in the club, the club is wherever you are.

So this goes out to all the old dudes who are slowing down the life and playing the game by the rules, but don't remember where they came from, and still get wild without necessarily buying into the aspects of punk that don't matter in the long run.

The tides may be turning

I woke up this afternoon feeling especially haggard. I had to cancel plans that I really didn't want to cancel, but there was no way I was going to be able to make them comfortably. This short of shit drives me insane. It just reminds me how fucking useless this situation has made me. However, my grandpa came home, and he brought two game changing envelopes with him...

MY FUCKING DISABILITY FINALLY CAME!!!!!!!!

I mean, it only took, what, nearly three months. That's a reasonable amount of time for a human to live off of nothing right? Especially when you're sick and unable to really do anything for yourself...

So I get to leave town tomorrow without having to borrow any more money and I'll be that much less stressed.

Especially after having a crappy week djing, as far as money goes anyway.

Other than that, not much else to report. I'll write more from Orange County.

Don't worry...the chemicals we use don't have any side effects...

Famous last words from the lab tech Friday. Don't be fooled. While I may not be peeing in glow in the dark colors, to say that my body has been off all weekend would be the understatement of the year. I imagine that this is what having that "not so fresh" feeling must be like.

Anywho, another weekend of insomnia and low energy fun has came and went. The highlight of the weekend was the Baseball Pizza Party that I had with Greg Diasshole. I decided that Round Table Pizza couldn't be that much worse for me that radioactive chemicals, so we got a large pie and some breadsticks and watched Cody Ross go deep twice as the Giants took game 1 from the Phillies in the NLCS. More importantly than the game or the pizza, Greg was the first guest of my own I've had since moving into my grandparents apartment as a result being sick. While the apartment really isn't all that big, and I'm long past the age of wanting to throw ragers in any of my living spaces, it changed the atmosphere of living here. Don't get me wrong, the apartment is nice, comfortable, and I am not complaining about the situation I am lucky enough to be in at this time (because who the fuck knows what I'd be doing without it), but it most definitely isn't my own place, and I wouldn't feel right subjecting my grandparents to the rough and tumble socialization that often is a bi-product to my friends and I being us. It's amazing what a good friend, some junk food, and decent baseball can do to one's PMA.

Other than that, I'm another fun holding pattern of waiting for someone with the answers to find time to let me know what those answers are. Would it kill a hospital to have someone stick around these test sites that can offer insight or even decode data so the sit around and wait while puking time gets cut way down?

Speaking of which, if the HIDA Scan yields no results that lead to action, I have no idea what I am going to do with myself. I have been left to sit around and twiddle my thumbs between bathroom visits since August and I'm at the end of my rope. If all that fucking agony and pain was for nothing, I'm going to need to be put in a straightjacket and locked in a rubber room. Yes ladies, I get that childbaring is gnarly, and I'm not trying to get into a "who's pain is worse" pissing contest, but Friday morning was fucked up. I just now have started to feel all right.

So basically the rest of this week is one giant countdown until Friday at noon. Extreme conditions call for extreme responses, and in this case, I am so sick and stressed that Southern California looks like good times. It will be nice to give myself a break, my grandparents a break, recharge the batteries, and return inspired for getting the new plan in life rolling.

I don't want the news, I have no use for it

Friday was by far one of the most fucked days of my entire life. I had no idea what was coming my way.

So after a night of staring up at the ceiling because sleep and I have a very touch and go relationship these days, I pulled myself together and headed down to the car with my grandma. We drove over the bridge and my phone kept beeping with well wishes and funny anecdotes to cheer me up, but there really wasn't anything that was going to ease my mind. It was a rare morning where I actually felt hungry when I woke up, but due to medical restrictions, there was no possible way for me to eat food this morning. Traffic on the bridge wasn't so bad, and we got to 400 Parnassus Ave early for my first appointment.

The first appointment I had this morning was un ultrasound. I was lead into a dark room by a young Asian nurse, told to take off my shirt, put on a hospital gown, and lay down on a reclining chair. The nurse then squirted warm lube onto my abdomen. Its not uncommon for guys to have fantasies about asian women, dark rooms, and warm lube, but I guarantee that this isn't what most guys have in mind. For the next thirty minutes, the nurse ran a plastic tool with a rolling edge over every square inch of my abdomen. Part of the restrictions for the tests were no food six hours before the test. I hadn't eaten anything but Wheat Thins since midnight, so when the nurse asked If I had breakfast and looked at me funny when I said no, my mind instantly went WHAT. THE. FUCK. However, it is clearly posted all over the ultrasound department that the person administering the test is merely a technician, and they are not qualified to answer anything regarding the results of your ultrasound. Hey UCSF, if you don't want your patients asking questions, tell your lab techs to keep a straight face when they see some weird shit. Dicks.

When we finished at the ultrasound department, there was about an hour and a half to kill before my next appointment. I wrote in my last entry about how I couldn't read my doctors handwriting because it looked like black metal font and there were undecipherable words written on the test order. Well, after taking a second look at the sheet, I was a little wrong. There was one word that clearly stood out that I had either overlooked or blocked out mentally: INJECTION. Seeing as how I actually felt like I was starving, and no matter how interesting Chris Nieratko's Skinema is, waiting in the food court would have drove me insane. Grandma and I decided to head to the other appointment early to see if maybe I could get in there early. It seemed unlikely, but hey, you know never know, right?

We headed to 505 Parnassus Ave and took the elevator to the third floor. Upon going to the third floor, I saw a sign that scared the absolute shit out of me: NUCLEAR DIAGNOSTICS. Let's do the mental math here: nuclear means radioactive elements often used in bombs that destroy everything within a couple hundred miles of where they detonate, and diagnostics are means to diagnose or uncover a health issue. I quickly realized that my morning took a turn for the worst. We walked up to the check in desk and waited as the young, brunette nurse in purple scrubs apathetically argued with a patient over the phone over an appointment time. When she hung up the phone, I handed her my sheet, explained that I knew I was here early, and asked if it would be remotely possible for me to be seen earlier than 11. She told me she would look into it. That wasn't my only question though....

"So what exactly is a HIDA Scan with a CCK Injection?" I asked.

"Oh, um, it means they're going to take a bunch of pictures of your abdomen and kidneys," she answered in an odd, uneasy tone.

Listen lady, you're cute, but you fucking fail at keeping a poker face.

We sat down to wait, and I nervously finished reading Ben Snakepit's new anthology, Life in the Jugular Vein (which is really good). Twenty minutes go by and a male lab tech calls my name, and leads my grandma and I down to another, smaller waiting room. The lab tech, Craig, told me that I would need to be outfitted with an IV, and lead me into a triage station to get me ready. As we are walking into the triage, I figured that this guy would know what the HIDA scan/CCK Injection is. He won't bullshit me, right? So I ask him. I really wasn't prepared for the answer.

"Well...we are going to shoot radioactive material into your blood, which will be absorbed into your liver by the (insert sciencey as fuck word), which is where bile is made. Once its made into bile, were going to track how it gets to the gall bladder. After an hour, we are going to inject the CCK, which is a chemical that makes your gall bladder contract, releasing the radioactive stuff out of your gall bladder. Don't worry though, there aren't any side effects or anything like that. So let's find your vein here...."

Uh...what?

Craig gets my IV in, and walks me back to the waiting room. Seeing as how it had been eleven hours since my last meal of Wheat Thins, I didn't have a lot of gas left in the tank, so Craig had to keep me from falling over three or four times on the way back to the waiting room. I sat back down, attempted to read, but realized I was still too nauseous from the IV and had to put my head between my legs. Five minutes later, Craig came and got my grandma and I, and took us to the testing area.

As we entered the room, to the left was a large, box shaped machine with a bed coming out of the middle of it. Craig told me to lay on the bed, and then slid the bed under the box. He attached a bag of sketchy looking liquid to my IV, lowered the large, square camera down so that there was about two inches of room between the camera and my chest, hit a few buttons, and the party started. I felt every bit of that liquid go into my arm, and I was overcome with this feeling of great discomfort. I instantly had the urge to shift my body as the liquid pumped itself in. It wasn't painful, but it took everything I had to not push my way out of the camera, and I kept writhing and moving side to side the best I could given the small amount of room I had. It was the longest hour of my life. Luckily enough, I managed to fall asleep for about twenty minutes, but was woken up by a family who had a seven year old sun receiving a CT Scan next door. The only solace I had was taken by a poor kid who I'm sure had no idea how bummed he was going to be in a couple of minutes.

At the end of what seemed like six or seven years, Craig came back wheeling a table with a small appliance fitted with a tube of clear liquid in a plunger on top, with a connectable IV tube coming out of it. I am not a doctor, I'm not even a smart man all the time, but my Spidey sense knew enough to know that what was on that table was bad, bad news.

"So I'm going to start the CCK Injection. We are going to infuse the CCK into your bloodstream over fifteen minutes, then observe for another fifteen minutes. Oh, you may experience some nausea or slight pain, but that really depends on how your body is."

By nausea and slight pain, Craig meant severe, shooting pains that I couldn't even react to because I had no room to move. Even though it was only my gall bladder contracting, it felt like my entire stomach was trying to fight itself. The last thirty minutes of that test was abosolutely agonizing. After the appointment, I had plans with my grandma to go out to a celebratory lunch. I quickly realized that any plans I thought I was going to be able to keep on Friday were out the fucking window. My life was hijacked. Again.

Finally, the torture ended. The camera was lifted, the bed was moved outward, Craig pulled my IV out, and my grandma and I were sent on our way. I don't know how I looked when I made that walk back to the car, but I know that I couldn't stand up straight and that I was out of my fucking mind if I thought I was going to be eating at the Cheesecake Factory anytime soon. We eventually got back to the car, drove back to Oakland, and I had a couple of eggs before passing out for hours.

Could anyone tell me what's wrong at that day? Of course not. I woke up Friday night feeling dirty, gross, depressed, and still without an answer. They said the radioactive chemical had no side effects, but I haven't felt off like this since getting this sick. So I went through hell and back and I still have to wait and wonder. I know no more now then I did Thursday night other than the HIDA Scan fucking sucks.

To sum it all up, my body went through hell and I still don't know what's wrong. Yay science.

Nightmare Before Christmas

Tomorrow I get to wake up at 6:45am to leave the house by 7:15am to make sure I am on time for an 8:45am appointment at the UCSF Hospital. I know that I am getting an ultrasound of my gall bladder, and then I am getting some other test, but my doctor's handwriting looks like black metal font so I have no fucking idea what it is or what it means. Kvelertak? Nachtmystium? Zzyxx? I guess I'll tell you about it when I'm done. I hope it doesn't involve needles. I am tired of that. Anyway, I'll have my ipod and a book. So yeah, I got that going for me.

This 6:45am wake up should be interesting seeing as how all this week, that's usually about the time Lexapro loses to Tylenol PM. I called Dr. Chen today to figure out how to break this fucking ridiculous cycle and start sleeping like a normal human. Armed with Benadryl and low key activities all day, I am not going to see Fishbone tonight and pacing around my grandparent's apartment trying not to think about tomorrow and all of the other bullshit that fell on me this week. It's really hard to keep your mind clear when in the interest of your health you are keeping it low key. So I keep doing laps, I ate a bagel, drank a soda, you get the idea. Not a whole lot going on here. Just the weather.

Only one week until I'm heading south. It can't come fast enough. I don't really know what else to say right now. I trying to fight stir crazy. If you want me, I'll be watching the same six shows on

First Failure

Today someone I really love and respect slighted me. Slighted me so much without even bothering to really understand the situation that I was slighted over. It fucked me up. Fucked me up bad. Ruined my day and my night. Turned me into a fucking shitty mope and made me feel like never leaving the house again.

I dwelled on it all night. No matter what I did, I couldn't shake it off. It made me a drag to be around, and made me second guess myself.

Well guess what, fuck you.

For your stupid, thoughtless lashing out, I am going to work that much harder at this. I am going to write that much better. I am going to crank out whatever fucking story for whoever wants to put my shitty dribble out there for the world to see. I'm doing it because I'm good at it and it makes me feel good. If you really are choosing to not participate in this part of my life, well then its your loss. It's something to be proud of. Something that gets me through the lowest times and I'm sure is only going to make the high times even better.

So I'm going to be awesome, just to spite you. I am going to be unfuckingavoidable by the time I'm done. You're going to wish you didn't have to see me, my name, and my words everywhere and they are going to haunt you just as long as today is going to haunt me.

You may have won the battle, but I'm winning the war.

Everyone's Got Something

Everyone has something to tell me. Everyone has an opinion as to what's really wrong with me. Everyone has an opinion on what I should do about it. Everyone has something to say about how I put it all out there. Everyone's worried, but the way I deal with my own worry isn't ok.

It's walking a tightrope you can't ever stay on top of. One on hand, if I'm too honest about feeling bad, its too hard to read. If I try and do things and be out, I'm doing too much and being counterproductive to my healing.

This is harder for me than any of you, and for everything you read, see, hear, or think you know, you have no idea. I don't write looking for pity. I don't write for your sympathy. I don't write for your compliments. I don't need to get sick to reconnect with every friend I've ever had or lost long love ever lost. While I appreciate the positive response, and I am perplexed by some of the negative, this is my situation. This is my outlet. This is my life. This is what I need.

Sometimes I make the wrong move. We all do. Sometimes I think I can do something that I really can't do. Sometimes I think the leap is shorter than it really is. Sometimes it's a metaphorical skinned knee, other times things end up in ICU. That's life. You go through the best you can and hopefully you cover the head, neck, and kidneys when the aftermath hits.

This is one of those throw up your hands days. Maybe tomorrow won't be so bad.

Shit I want to do when I'm in OC in 2 weeks

I have a bunch of other writing to get done today, so I don't have time to get all "boo fucking hoo my life sucks" on you today. Here's a list of awesome shit I want to do in OC.

Places I want to eat at, no matter how sick it'll make me:
Albertacos
Albatros
Taco Loco
Super Pollo (that by far is going to be the most taxing, but its been years)
Two Brothers
Wheel of Life (maybe? Adrian...is the shit still even good?)

Places I want to drink beers at:
The Little Knight
The Huddle
The Almight Commissary Lounge
That weird mexican restaurant I met Collin at with Sunshine (Collin...help a dude out with that)
Fill in the blanks. It's drinking beers.

Things I want/need to do to my body:
Touch up the fade
Marr and Marr
Fight to Lose on the throat
Another nose ring (Adrian...whats the overhead on that?)

Other bonuses:
D-land
Play bass for The Mistake (the less musical responsibility the better)
Mosh for Children of God and The Love Below
Hang out with Devon
Baby Shower
Neil Alan Wright
Matt Horwitz


Ok...I have to write this bio on my brother and his lady before they summon the gods of folk rock and send weird 50 year old lesbian van drivers with attitudes after me.

Gut Check

I swear to you that I didn't plan on having such a stupid pun for a blog entry title, but honestly, the kind of weekend I had was the kind of weekend where a gut check was required, and I'm not even talking about my appointments at UCSF on Friday.

It's often said that the true character and nature of people shows when the going gets tough. and my going's been getting tougher since the end of June. The further into this I've gotten, the blood and the water have become increasingly more separated. Take that how you want. It's a reference to people, places, situations, activities, and life plans. It's amazing to see how much time you wasted when you had every opportunity not to waste time while you're in a position where all you can do is waste time because you're too fucked to do anything else. That sounded like some shitty Modest Mouse lyric, didn't it? Its probably a grammatical nightmare and isn't making UCSC look like any less of a party school than it already does, but I don't really give a shit anymore.

Not to sound like an asshole (but I'm going to), but I realized something yesterday while I was playing jams at Eli's for hours. I'm a great dude. Don't be confused, I'm not perfect, without flaws, and not necessarily better than anyone else, but all things considered, I'm smart, talented, decent-looking, and a good friend. I wouldn't call the time spent up to my being sick a waste or a mistake or anything like that at all, but I realized that I've been wasting myself. Selling myself short on opportunities, settling for less than acceptable, and not getting the most out of my time.

I'm fucking done with that.

I float around Oakland, struggling to get by, and the majority of the people I love I don't even see. I get caught up in a rat race of social politics and nuances that when I stop and think about, I could give two shits about. However, because I am an idiot, I've let that be something that took the reigns over my own satisfaction, my own creativity, my own art, my own comfort, and my own happiness. No more.

As some of you may or may not know, I have been applying to and planning on attending USF to get a Masters in education, and eventually become a teacher. After a solid gut check this weekend, the playing field is wide open. I plan on applying to schools in Southern California and Austin, Texas. I'm always going to be a Bay Area dude, but, as someone so often texts me at random, "these days, the people I love are spread so far apart".

I want to excel at school, write more, be "Marr and Marr", be the best sketchy uncle ever, talk punk rock with the Captain, get drunk with Collin O Brian, and push myself to move the way I want to and need to move. Oakland, I love you, and we've had some great times, but my days are numbered. Time to get on to the next thing, and hopefully return to some of the greatest people I've ever met.

When life flattens you out, and you realize you have a shot and rising again, you need to rise as high up as you can. Don't put it off, let's start today.

PS - The other day, Adrian asked me if I ever had a weird Ouija Board story, and I totally do, but it was too long to text. Adrian, here's your story.

I was in early high school, and my brother and I, like every other kid I know, had a Ouija Board. One night, he, myself, and two of our friends decide to turn all the lights off in our room (yeah, my brother and I shared a room, until I graduated from high school, annoying right?), and get all creepy with the Ouija Board. We were in the middle of the room, no less than ten feet from my dresser which had a globe on top of it. We start fucking around with the board, and all of the sudden, out of nowhere, the globe starts spinning and falls off the dresser. No one was close enough to touch the dresser or the globe, and all four people in the room had their hands on the board. SKETCHY AS FUCK. I don't necessarily believe in ghosts, but I know something fucked with us that night, and that Ouija Boards are no joke.

The Reality of My Surroundings

To be totally honest, the title of this entry is really only influenced by the incredibly awesome documentary on Fishbone I just watched called "Everyday Sunshine" (yeah, I know that should be italicized, but for whatever reason updating my blog via my iPad doesn't allow me to do that easily, and getting to the Apple store for an iPad lesson hasn't really been high on my list of shit to do lately). If you are a fan of any style of music, by all means, go see this movie. It is one of the realist portrayals of being in a band I have ever seen, and has gotten me excited about my expected return to playing in the near future.

Other than that, not a whole lot to report upon in the world of vomit and poo lately. I have been stricken with ridiculous insomnia lately, and have been trying to break the cycle of falling asleep at sunrise and waking up at 4 in the afternoon. I was actually home last night at what i thought was a reasonable hour and asleep by the time i was usually getting home, so i see that as a positive step in the right direction. Apparently my anti-depressant, Lexapro, can wreak havoc on sleep, so I'm trying to weigh out how I should cope with this going forward. Do I want to load myself up with Ambien or Unisom or something just to regulate another pill? Do I switch anti-depressants? These seem like such stupid problems to have. Problems I never wanted and problems I still don't believe i have to put up with. Such is life, they say.

Tomorrow I doing eight hours of DJing at Eli's for a bbq, Monday and Tuesday I am making some money helping my friend Jon with some stuff around his house, and Tuesday and Wednesday I have my usual DJ gigs. What does that mean? I won't be flat fucking broke for days at a time. The disability system in the state is ridiculous. If I didn't have an amazing family who has stepped up and helped me in this incredibly trying time, I have no idea what I would be doing right now.

I was supposed to be at a wedding today. I'm obviously not at said wedding. I guess that's how it goes when you're striving towards the greater good in your life. Sometimes you have to throw yourself in front of the bullet in order to not get hit by a bus. Maybe that's a stupid analogy. Oh well, they can't all be zingers, right?

Six more days until I head back up the hill to UCSF. I feel like I'm in the boring part of a movie. I just have to sit here and hold on some more before I get to find anything out about feeling better or having anything to tell anyone else about how I feel. This makes for writing about things other than the ups and downs of uncontrolable excrement a bit more challenging. I suppose that if I ever want to do anything with this half-assed pipe dream of being some sort of person paid for his ability to dribble words onto a computer screen, my game needs to be as sharp during the doldrums of life as they are when Hurricane Fucking Katrina crashes on shore.

If you live in San Francisco, go see Everyday Sunshine. It's part of SF Indie Fest this week. I will have a glowing review available to read on the sfist.com by Tuesday, and all of the pertinent info will be there for you to read. I guess its time to go make something about of my Saturday night.

Saturday night...ooooooohhhhh Saturday night. Sorry, I just felt obligated to do that.

Adios. Come hang out with me at Eli's tomorrow. I'll play whatever you like.

talking shit about a pretty sunset

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Patterns...patterns...patterns...patterns...

Like clockwork, I will start to feel worn down and a touch more exhausted on Sundays. If I had to make a corny simile, it is as if the cold of Fall starts creeping into a Summer day. Sylvia Plath, look out. By Monday, I am in horrible shape. For example, Monday I spent most of the day laying around in bed. I was asleep until 3pm. My sole attempt at going out last night was limited to sitting on couches, which I eventually wrapped up early because I was seeing double and felt like I had lead going through my veins. Tuesdays are just as bad, but almost worst as far as my headspace goes. These are the days I think the irrational thoughts that no one wants to think, and even less people want to share because they are unpleasant, horrible, serious, and end being the sort of thing that end up being a 5150 situation.

What does it mean? How the fuck do I know? I wasted $60,000 not going to literature classes at UCSC. I couldn't never been a doctor, and self-diagnosis is for idiots. However, it keeps happening this way. Usually by the end of DJing at Eli's on Wednesday, I start to feel pretty good, and by the weekend my energy and attitude are at a weekly high. I feel like I am addressing this via Lexapro and Valium when things get really bad, but regardless of these medications, the cycle continues. I don't really know if this means anything, but I feel like making a note of it is better than nothing.

I received an "unorthodox proposition" from my good friend, Captain Chase Corum last night. Upon getting back to being me, we are going to head off on an Apocalypse Now meets Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas adventure to Thailand. International travel? Best friends? Gooooooood times. It's nice to have something to look forward to in the future. Thanks Chase. Can't wait to lay waste to Asia with you.

I'm DJing tonight at Merchant's in Jack London Square. My good friend Waine from Brooklyn is in town. Shit should get wild. Come hang out. Maybe I can break the cycle of feeling shitty.

The highs and lows...

Another wild weekend in the world of unspecified stomach diseases. One of the most frustating parts of being sick in this way is that every day is a total surprise as to how you may really feel. Friday was great. Kara sprung me from the downtown perch I'm currently roosting in and per the orders of the doctor himself, I liberated my diet and enjoyed chicken and waffles at 900 Grayson. After months of eating food that was devoid of most reasons why people even eat food, it was fucking amazing. Even then I knew I would most likely end up paying for it later, I didn't care. I just wanted to enjoy myself. (Dear Grandma and cousin Lori, it's not that I don't love the soup you make for me, it's just that chicken and waffles from 900 Grayson are next level shit. It's apples and oranges).

After eating, We headed over to "where everybody knows your naaaaaaaaaame...dun dun dun", Eli's. Melissa and Sunshine showed up, Bryan and Topher were already there hard at work on a pitcher. A couple of hours of bad sex jokes and a libation or two, I got dropped back at home and promptly spent some quality time with my old friend, the toilet.

The sickness that night wasn't that bad as far as some of my worst, but it was still there. Even on what was one of the best days I have had in recent memory, I had to take a time out from the day so I could go home and be sick. Sure, bathrooms are private in just about any public place, but sometimes these attacks are so violent and harsh that for the sake of the senses of everyone around me, I go home to deal with it. If it were something as mild as an asthma attack, and manageable with something akin to an inhaler, it would make my life infinitely easier. However, when I get sick, even on an easy day, it's beyond the capability of being dealt with discreetly in public and while I don't take too much pride in myself, and I'd lost most of my dignity long before the age of 30, the few scraps of each that I have, I am trying to keep by having my symptoms at home.

Anyone see Lucero or Holly Golightly at Hardly Strictly this weekend? I'll bet it was awesome. I would have love to have gone, but portapottis seem like they would be my absolute worst nightmare. That's the sort of shit that really gets me. My ability to adapt is shot.

Sunday finally seemed like Fall had arrived, and I felt like I got to spend it in the most ideal way you can spend a fall day. Yeah, that memory is for me. I may tell you all about how I shit day-glo or that I throw up nine times a day, but you don't get everything. Good or bad.

Just got word from UCSF...my endoscopy can't be scheduled until November 15th, and I hear about when my other tests go down tomorrow. November fucking 15th. And you all wonder why it's hard for me to care about these appointments and take these doctors seriously. Oh well, the overall good of the weekend outweighed the bad, and I can't let things out of my hands ruin the good things I know I can make change.

And I leave with this:

"my ribs have parted ways, said we're not going to protect this heart you have..."

I am a patient boy...I wait I wait I wait I wait.....

To hear about the visit with the almighty doctor at UCSF. What exactly did the the Wizard of Oz have to say? What was it like being in that
creepy looking building that loomed in the distance when I lived in the Outer Sunset? Grab a beer, a comfy seat, and read up.

My brother drove my mom and I over. I pressed my face against passenger side window, tried not to feel queasy, and hid teary eyes behind my totally fucking awesome checkerboard Kanye West sunglasses. Even though I knew going to UCSF was the beginning of finding the answers I need to get better, I just couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom. We zigzagged through Hayes Valley, Nopa, Upper Haight, and then through Cole Valley, I kept fighting the urge to jump out of the car and run. We finally drove up the last hill, pulled up in front of 350 Parnassus Ave, and I slunked out of the car and shuffled up to the large glass doors and up to the elevator.

The office itself wasn't anything special. Very much a small, cramped office on the corner of the fourth floor with a "built in the 70s" kind of vibe. The grumpy, Russian receptionist shoved paperwork at me. I filled it out and joined my mom on a chair in the waiting room. There were a couple of random cougars were giving me the tv eye. It was a rare instance where I wished I would have had the one and only Captain Chase Corum at my side instead of my mom, but then I realized that the cheap Tiffany's jewelry wearing ladies prolly aren't that into low rent thirty something dudes that like stoner metal. Finally the nurse came and got me and away we went.

The nurse practitioner grilled me about my health for about half an hour before bringing me into an exam room and giving me really the first thorough exam I have gotten from any doctor since this whole fucking mess started. After she wrapped that up, the man, the myth, the legend, the guy I crawled out of the hood for, finally came in to see me. He asked me if I had any other significant illnesses throughout life, and about other circumstances surrounding me life at the time of the onset of all these problems. At the end of the conversation, his prognosis is that there is most definitely something wrong with me, but can't distinguish whether it's a huge, horrific problem, or a smaller issue that has magnified over time due to stress and time passing. He ordered an ultrasound of my gall bladder, another gall bladder specific test, some more specific blood tests, and a second endoscopy with a specific small intestine biopsy. He told me to unrestrict my diet because he wants to see my body at it's most annoyed and fucked up. He wants the best samples he can get. We all shook hands, I got another prescription for nausea suppositories (the sexiest way to feel better), and I headed back to my grandparents' apartment.

Was it a victory? Sure. Is it a the start of the end? Possibly. But no matter what you call it, I'm still waiting. I had an amazing day yesterday cruising around Oakland with friends and I felt pretty good, but I started my morning by throwing up and had to take a 3 hour time out from socializing to throw up again and rehydrate.. Today I left my cousins housewarming party and seeing a lot of my family because I didn't feel bloody diarhea was an appropriate house warming gift for my cousin Tony.

Tomorrow a close friend comes back into town, and Monday I schedule all my tests. I am trying to change the tide of my feelings and get my hope to find an end to this nightmare, but I can't put my head in the clouds when my guts decide to rip my back down to Earth and into my grandfather's black tiled bathroom.

Sorry for the missed day. I'll get back to my daily blog hustle tomorrow.

Two hours till...

...the biggest doctor appointment of my life. I got moved out of The Hive thanks to Jaime, Jon S, my brother and my mom. I am so fucking preoccupied that I have nothing else to really talk about. I am eating toast out of nervousness.

The Stats thus far:

Voming: 1. Right after waking up at 9.

Diarhea: 1. After lunch. Real weird looking.

Gotta go. I'll update later.

Other plans often become the plans...

I swear I was planning on waking up today in a good mood. I was gonna wake up, start moving out of my old house, and eventually get to Eli's and play a bunch of Black Flag and see some friends.

Yeah, well, that got fucked right up.

I got home from djing last night and immediately staggered clumsily into the bathroom and proceeded to throw up everything I attempted to ingest yesterday. Not to be disgusting, but Gatorade, eggs, toast, Coca-Cola, a real potpourri of color and flavor. After getting that all out and brushing/rebrushing my teeth a few times, I slugged back as much electrolyte and nutrient-rich liquid that I could, popped a Valium, put on Billy the Exterminator. Before I knew it, I had watched that methed out F-List looking Bret Michaels wannabe destroy all sorts of critters and bugs, saw that daylight had broke, and decided that I may as well go watch real tv in the den. Oh, did I mention that every time I dozed off, I was woken up because my body had a different amount of liquid to get rid out of both ends of my body. The last thing I remember was Gordon Ramsey and some guido fucker yelling at each other on Kitchen Nightmares.

When I came to at 10:18am, two things were abundantly clear about today. The first was that that there was no way I was in any shape to move furniture today, and that I have hit a new low in my health.

So much for a good mood and a productive day. Now moving everything in one day is going to be a miracle tomorrow.

In so many ways, it feels like I am losing my life as I knew it bit by bit. Sitting in front of an open laptop on iTunes last night banished me to a vomiting fit in the shower for thirty minutes. Fuck, I watched Get Him To The Greek Unrated today and laughed myself into puking. What kind of fucked up, sadistic shit is that? What do I have left when movies and computers set this dumb shit off inside me? Where am I heading? What is my new reality?

The worst part of this by far realizing that I really can't do anything strenuous anymore, emotionally or physically. This obviously sucks beyond all sucking. I am digging as deep as I can, and trying to keep the melodrama to a minimum. But I just figured that the bitter pill is for everyone i know to swallow today. Not just for me. I know that from here on out, I need help. Any help. This fight is too much for me on my own anymore. I'm not waving the white flag by any means, but maybe the yellow? Red? NASCAR fans, give me a hand here.

I know that the doctor's visit to end all doctor's visit is tomorrow, and that this dude is known for diagnosing things far outside the box. I know my friends and family are going to get me out of my old house tomorrow. Wrapping my mind about my own inability to do anything to help myself is today's crushing blow.

I feel like this post may not flow well, but I dare you to rewrite The Sun Also Rises on an iPad while crying your eyes out. Shit is difficult.

Today's numbers, random shit, and a favor to ask...

I don't get out much. I am more or less a slave to television, the internet, and the minimal time I do get out of the house when I feel up to it. This is some of the weird shit I saw today:

While watching Monster Quest on the History Channel, the North American Big Cat episode, I was made aware of the Houston Cougar Location Organization, or some almost equivalent acronym involving Houston, Cougar, and/or Puma.

No less than ten minutes after that, a Lowe's commercial featured Lisa the Carpetmaster (but don't call her the Carpet Captain).

And while waiting for Valium at CVS, I noticed that Pamela Anderson has a perfume. Who wants to smell like Hepatitus C and Tommy Lee's semen?

Today's numbers:

Vomiting: Only when I woke up. I did however sleep most of the afternoon today, so today's sample size of time is smaller than average. Update...make that 2.5. It seems like my body is making up lost time.

Diarhea: Twice. Nothing fun to talk about. They can't all be hits, you know?

Finally, a favor to ask of some of you. Lately I've been pretty down, and some of the posts in this blog have been a total bummer and have been a drag to read. I do think that I have made it clear (and if I haven't yet, listen up douche bag), I am trying to be positive and optimistic. That through all the anxiety and puke that I am trying to be funny and uplifting and I am hoping that this ends well. That being said, reality is reality and this whole circus called my life may go tits up if that's the how the cards are dealt. Lately, I have people close to me say something to the effect of "if you were to pass on, then I'm going too. I can't bare the thought of you dying". Now I get the sentiment. I really do. I love my friends and family and to think of world without any of you is a world I don't want to think about. However, put yourself in my shoes. Every day is a battle with my guts and certain days my guys win. Even when I am at my worst, I try to be cool and cordial and not drag other people into my shit, but making my health responsible for your life isn't making me puke any less. It doesn't make me want to spring out of bed and fight harder. If anything, it makes me feel worse on days I don't feel so good and less comfortable about ever having to talk about the reality of never getting any better. To be honest, it's a shitty thing to hear. Let it be known loud and clear that if any of you die early, I plan on continuing my plan of generally kicking ass, but only harder and fiercer (HEY GIRL HEY) because you won't be there to do it with me. If you honestly love and care about me, I expect you to do the same. Again, I am not trying to ignore the sentiment in the statement, but just pointing out how it sounds to a sick kid trying to hang in there.