A change will do you good.

I hurt a lot.  All over, in fact.  Dr. Barbie told me it is because I'm overweight.

Dr. Barbie is an asshole.

My legs have been hurting since November of 2014.  They have gotten worse over the last year, to the point where I wanted to chop the left one off during that awesome youth group retreat I went on for my birthday. That was my left leg.  Now my right is in on the action, and trying to move my body to shed the pounds ends with me in a fetal position at bedtime, popping Motrin and praying for sleep to come.

All that complaining aside,  I decided to experiment with the pain the other day.  I woke up feeling like I was walking on broken glass.

I got in the shower, and said to myself, "SELF! You are not going to focus on this pain anymore. You are going to focus on how the warm water feels on your skin.  You are going to focus on the feel of shampoo bubbles in your hands and the lather in your hair.  You're going to focus on the scent of your body wash.  You're going to listen to Kevin sneaking in to lay against the bathtub while you shower and listen to him sigh once he settles against the tiles.  You're going to focus on the feel of the towel drying your body that can move even though it hurts. You're going to focus on the clothes you can afford to buy and dress yourself with even if you're not your perfect size. You're going to focus on the food that nourishes your body and you are going to be happy that you are alive cause it would suck to be the opposite."

It was a good pep talk I had with myself. I am telling myself the same thing now as my thighs throb from power walking around my workplace. In heels.  Like an idiot. But I'm lucky to have a job, period.

This positive thinking stuff is exhausting. BUT I AM TRYING, GUYS.  I'm really, really trying.

Bloggity, blog, blog

This blog is coming to you from my new laptop computer.

It's shiny.  It's blue.  And all the keys are working. I don't have to hit the right shift key to get things to capitalize. I just type, using my left pinky to CAPS ALL THE THINGS.  That's right.  That was not CAPS LOCK. That was straight shifting, bitches.

I'm trying to get back into PMS mode.  I miss it.  The girls are my kids. I miss them and creating fart jokes for them to say.  I downloaded a template for a well known comic book publisher, and am going to be re-typing PMS Adventures, the graphic novel, into the style they want and submitting it. What's the worst that can happen?  They say no and I'm back to finding a local artist I can work with who I feel comfortable giving notes to. 

I think this may all have to wait a week or two. I have a baby shower to host this coming weekend for one of my best friends. Kevin has a grooming appointment tomorrow.  And I have another doctors appointment on Monday to find out why I am so god damn tired all the time.

Thanks, shiny new computer.  I missed blogging on the weekends.

Fear and loathing.

I quit improv a couple of months ago.  I couldn't be happier.

I think about improv now and I have physical reactions. A friend posted a link to an improv retreat, and the headshots of all the instructors made my esophagus fill with stomach acid. Reading the descriptors for the classes made my eyes cross and my heartrate sped up. I think I have PISD.

Post Improv Stress Disorder.

It can only be helped by long naps, reading crappy sci fi fantasy novels, and taking your time walking your poor dog who was alone during all those hours of driving to and from rehearsals.  It can also be helped by using real objects in your home, as your muscles may be trained to mime a salt shaker in a restaurant with imaginary menus and cutlery.  Cook real food and actually chew things.

If  a flashback is really bad, I recommend balling up a long sleeved flannel shirt and throwing it and your Converse into the back of your closet.

Make sure and do something fun on what would have been your show nights. This past month, I had pizza with my parents instead of leaving work early to haul ass down to the theater, scarfing down Burger King on the way so there would be something in my stomach before I bled imagination all over the floor of a dingy black box theater while some asshole dragged his foot through my life blood by negating my every offer.

I don't miss improv.

I'm thankful that I quit when I did. The surgery went well, other than a slight infection after the fact that I am going to check out with my doctor. Had I been working and doing improv?  I probably wouldn't have been able to do it, let alone afford it.