Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em

Eurgh, parents, mothers.

Does anyone else have the problem that despite being twenty-something, and it being a temporary measure, anytime you start to raise your voice slightly, sound incredulous, or take offence to anything your parents are saying they start telling you to calm down, that they're just 'asking', just trying to have a conversation etc. Like when you were a little kid and any hint of being upset was just an indication that you were tired and it was time for bed. I just got a variation of the 'whilst under our roof, our rules etc' talk from my mother, mostly because I refuse to tell her anything about what's going on with me and Chris at the moment. Frankly, its between the two of us; if I felt like discussing it with my mother I would, and I get that some people would want to discuss it with their parents, but considering my parents don't know half of the stuff going on in my relationship, I really don't. Though at the rate she keeps pressuring me I'm going to crack and tell her everything, the kink, the being in love with other boys, the renting, but I'd like to have my escape plan firmly set before fully committing to that method of attack.

I get that she's concerned, I get that I don't tell them much about what's going on in my life, I get that all I want to do is hide in my room (in part, to avoid being confronted with further attempts at getting information out of me), and that people ask her what my plans are for next year, or why I came back from the US early, and she can't answer. For some of these things, she should really accept that I honestly don't know, yes she would know if she was in that position, but I don't live my life in the same way. And there are parts of my life I don't care to share with my parents, I'm grateful for their support, for it being without condition, but that's the point, I very obviously don't want to talk about these things, I could use your support, but I need you to trust me that I have my reasons, and my parents and I have never had a lot of trust for each other on those kind of things. I was told earlier that I'd just dropped the not going to PwC thing on them suddenly and changed my mind on the spur of the moment without warning and been lying to them the whole time telling them what they wanted to hear, WTF?! What about the solid summer of arguing, I made my decision rather late yes, but that's because rather pivotal information regarding my fee liability, i.e. the difference between 10k and 30k only came to light 7 days before I was due to start, I really couldn't help that one. But we'd been arguing like hell over it for like 3 months up to then.

This is all because I've spent too much time back at my parents with no obvious sign of leaving. I have a rule, max 2 weeks stay at theirs in any one period; any longer and it all starts to break down, and my dad and I end up at serious risk of repeating my 16th year when we actually came to blows during one argument. I've been here 12 days and the above is happening, go figure.


In conclusion, I NEED to get out of here ASAP. ANYONE, with a spare couch/bit of floor ANYWHERE (though london is of course ideal), who can put me up for a few days, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me come seek refuge with you ASAP! Before the hellmouth opens in a small country village somewhere in the home counties.

Mantra

What's life without a constant train wreck?

Continuation

One day...

Airport boy, will also buy me the locker edition of High School Musical, just 'cause he knows how fucking much I love that shit.

Nuptial Complications

"Inside that box are the most perfect wedding shoes ever, both visually stunning and cleated and I won't be able to wear them since I obviously wont be making the date for Emmet's fantasy baseball wedding, givenI don't have a chance of getting those important congresspeople to cosponsor my bill, which I need in order to get a hearing, in order to stop animal testing in order to reunite bruiser with his mothe,r in order to have them at my wedding, at which I was going to wear the most perfect wedding shoes ever, right inside that box."


"... They never covered this in the handbook."

Not that kind of painslut

Chris got his first proper insight into hospitals and me over the last 2 days, which is impressive that it's been 5 1/2 years before he's been forced into that position.  My stomach cramping from 3 weeks ago was still occuring and in fact had got really bad.  Monday I'd been to A&E who had decided it wasn't appendicitis and sent me home with some painkillers.  Thursday found me in Addenbrookes A&E as the problem still hadn't gone away, and I was generally finding it hard to do anything except cry out in pain.  I wasn't spasming like I normally do, it was more like a sine wave; except the peaks were a lot lot longer than the troughs :(  Anyhoo, 6 hours of A&E later, they'd decided there was nothing medically wrong with me, but as I was at Addenbrookes, they had a giant stack of notes in the system that said there's never been anything medically wrong with me, but I'm still FUCKED, so they transferred me to the wards and gave me morphine, which finally made the pain, not go away, but at least so I could function.  I was poked about half a dozen times by different people, and eventually after 3 surgical visits they decided an ultrasound and surgical investigation the next day was the way forward.  Fair enough, but this meant spending a night in hospital, and i HATE spending time in hospitals - too many bad experiences, it tends to make me irritable, angry, sullen, and depressed all at once.  It also meant no food or drink, boo.  Up on the wards things slowed to their usual halt that they do outside of the A&E dept, I eventually got more morphine, and they were even nice enough to hook me up to an IV feed of paracetamol to see me through the night, which it didn't of course.

I'd also forgotten just how much sleeping with a cannula in your arm fucking hurts.  Anyway, 9am the next day the consultant turns up, announces he's cancelled my ultrasound and surgical investigation as he sees no point in it, that I can eat and I should be able to go home later that day.  I tried arguing him.  It wasn't worth it.  I gave up.  Nurses throughout the day tried to give me paracetamol instead of morphine as painkiller, which wasn't working; they also tried to give me various drugs that I've had before that have no effect, such as various anti-spasmodics (as discussed, I wasn't spasming though), or others that have in the past made me projectile vomit 30ft.

The consultant never reappeared.  Being the weekend, I was unlikely to get a rearranged surgical consult or ultrasound or ct-scan in the next 2 days, and wasn't about to spend a needless 48 hours in my personal version of hell on earth.  After effectively waiting 12 hours and counting for someone to come discharge me during the day, I eventually got up and left: jacked up on morphine, cannula still sticking out of my arm and orderlies chasing me down the corridor.  At least I have style.

I really hate hospitals.
And I really hate consultants.  They come see you for 5 minutes each day (10 if you get an afternoon round too), and think they know everything about you, cancel and rearrange all the things the other doctors and nurses have arranged for you, and generally fuck up your stay in hospital making it last much much longer than it should have done.  For all that my trip to hospital did, I might as well have stayed in bed groaning to myself.

Next time I'm going to the US for 3 weeks, and then in the 2nd week going to A&E and getting investigated there.  Where the NHS hate to give you anything as it costs them, the US will give you everything you haven't even asked for, as it costs you, which in my case will be my insurance.


In other news, conversations did not go quite as expected.  And were interrupted halfway through, in part due to the above.  Which now leaves it in an even more akward situation.  It doesn't make sense to recover the old ground, but the second half doesn't really make sense out of the blue without the first half being in the immediate past.  Hmmm... things to come.

The Old Glove

It fits so well. Its moulded to you. It's soft and pliable and bends around every curve in just the right way at the right places. Experience has taught it to be comfortable, like nothing else could be. When the cold sets in and you slip it back on, you wonder why you ever took it off. Why you ever forsook it. Even in the warm, this glove could be cooling and protective...




But the years have worn it down. It has holes. The thread is thin and fragile. As comfortable and familiar as it is, it doesn't function fully anymore, it doesn't keep you dry, or stop your fingers from freezing, it's too delicate to do that anymore. But you don't throw it out, you don't buy new gloves, because you've had this one so long you can't imagine anything else, because you don't want to have to work in a new pair and turn something ordinary and standard into something personal and form fitted all over again. But one day, that glove will break, and you'll be left with nothing but old thread to throw out.

Zaphod's jus' zis guy...

One day, a guy will take me to the airport.  He'll take the day off work and drive me there even when my flight's at 3 in the morning.  He'll hold me and kiss me and not want to let me go.  He'll give me something to remember him by, something personal; maybe he made it, maybe its something that has a particular memory associated with it, but its something that everytime i see, read, hear, look at, smell, hold, I'll think of him.

 

And when I come back, he'll be waiting at arrivals.  I won't have had to tell him anything; he'll have had the date, time, and flight details down in his diary for ages.  And he doesn't even need it in his diary cause its etched into his memory anyway.  He'll have done all the washing and reordered the DVDs the day before, only because he couldn't come get me then.  He'll be one of the first people waiting at the arrivals hall because he was than eager to see me again.  He'll give me flowers, or a stuffed animal with my name on the foot, or chocolate milk, and he'll give me a big hug, and a kiss, in front of everyone else there, not caring what they think, or if its so sickeningly trite and gay that they want to vomit, or hit us or something.  And then he'll take my bag, and he'll take my hand, and lead me back to his car, and drive me home.

 

And if we're both up for it, maybe he pulls over half way home and fucks the hell out of me to say welcome home XD.  And at home, my friends will be there waiting for me, with a cooked meal, and alcohol, and they'll have the sense to either eat, say their helloes and then leave, or to stay talking and drinking about nothing until the next sunrise according to how drained I feel after travelling.  And then I'll get into bed with this guy, and he'll curl himself around me, and tell me he loves me, that he doesn't care what happened whilst I was away, who I saw, who I fucked, who he fucked, he just cares that I'm home and with him.  And then I'll finally fall asleep.

 

And I know there's practical issues with this; Chris and I don't live together, he needs to learn to drive, etc.  But like I say, one day...

 

 

Yeah... I'm not as out and out bad boy as I seem at the end of the day.

 

 

Post factum scribendumque:

Chris had chocolate milk.  Hehe.  And I hadn't even had a chance to post this at the time.  There's hope yet...  Unfortunately my stomach feels like hell again; milk is thus good as it gives me something to line my digestive system with, but at the same time its a really heavy substance to hit the stomach, especially in warm weather.