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Fucking Monday

If been in a less than stellar mood since the end of exams. It’s probably some form of burnout and it sucks. If I didn’t have work and social obligations, I would have spent Thursday through today lying in bed with my laptop and watching cute animals on youtube*.

As for Mondays, they will be the worst day ever for the next month or so. I can deal with having to wake up at 6 AM to get to work and I can deal with a 6 to 8 PM evening class, but I don’t want to deal with both on the same day. Especially not when I have a 5 hour gap between the two. I am convinced that if previous experience hasn’t convinced me that Mondays were invented by the devil, this schedule would.

Today was particularily bad because I’m been a massive ball of nervous energy and nausea. I also got attacked by wild books leaping from atop my bookshelf and they were fucking heavy and OUCHmotherfuckingOUCH. The only redeeming part of today was spending two hours with the bestest person on the planet.

P.S. If this sounds disjointed as fuck and pointless, that because my brain is not exactly coherent.

* Damn, I just watched that and i’m already feeling better.

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Almost there

I have one more exam to go. Hopefully, by this time tomorrow I will be happy and VERY drunk. I’ll also try to forget that I’m taking a summer course which starts on Monday. *sigh*

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Pyth suggested in a comment to a previous post that it may not be a terrible idea to vent/talk about my personal experience with self-injury. I’ve been reluctant do do so for many reasons. One of then is that I so rarely (never) talk about it IRL or on the internet and I just don’t know what to say or how to say it. A bigger obstacle is the fear of judgement.


I’m afraid of being seen as an “attention whore”. It’s hard to escape that insecurity when the most widespread image of a person who self-injures is the angsty teenager using mental illness cutting as a way of rebelling, getting their parent’s attention, and/or garnering sympathy from their peers. While this image is dishonest and dismissive, it’s not what really fucks me over and makes me insecure with how I’m judged when I talk about self-injury. What fucks me over is when it’s used to create a distinction between “real” and “fake” self-injury.

You see, there are fake self-injurers (whatever that actually means) who use self-injury to manipulate people for sympathy points when there is really nothing wrong with them (lets ignore that that cutting/burning/hitting yourself for attention indicates that something is probably not right). These people flaunt it (by which we mean talk about it at all) and should be ignored or laughed at (see various jokes at self-injurer’s expense). There are of course “real” self-injury. These are people with serious mental illness and serious problems because there’s got to be something really, really wrong with you if you purposely injure yourself. More importantly, these “real” self-injurers don’t ever talk about it because they are too ashamed and they should feel bad because they’re doing a very bad thing. In conclusion, if you talk about deliberately injuring yourself you’re just trying to get attention and you’re not serious and should not be taken seriously.

I know this is all complete bullshit. I know that what other people, especially ignorant idiots, think shouldn’t matter. But having that as a the main discussion and characterization of self-injury during those formative teenage years makes it hard not to develop anxiety about this judgement even when I know better.

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Tomorrow, I have my first exam and I doubt I’ll be sleeping tonight. Since almost anything is preferable to lying in bed trying to fall asleep while my brain is repeating the spinothalamic tract or the cranial nerve nuclei, I went and got enough caffeinated beverages to keep me awake for days…and chocolate gummi bears. Chocolate gummi bears make me feel better about my impending death by neuroanatomy final. I am, in fact, the most pathetic human being on the planet.

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Shoes


– Or I’ve caught the Dr. Isis bug.

Reading Dr. Isis’ “Shoe of the Week” posts has made me realize that I am severely lacking in hot shoes. Luckily I got abandoned downtown today (long story involving a dead cellphone and various levels of miscommunication) and spend a good two hours at payless hunting until I found these adorable heels. I’m still severely tempted to buy the navy and white version of the brown pumps, I just have to come up with a reason why I would need them.

I also met up with a really good friend from high school who is still one of the funniest and nicest guys I have ever know. sh

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Fuck YES!

After getting our gas shut off on Thursday (someone fucked up the bill payment) I finally have heating and water again. There are no word to describe how happy I am that I won’t have to take another ice-cold shower or drink myself into warmth*. Now, I can go back to recording dramatic readings of a friend’s porn.

*I’d be lying if I said I really minded that.

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Anyone who has an aversion to discussion of feminine hygiene can skip this post.


This month I managed to quit tampons and pad. No I haven’t gone into very, very early menopause or decided that free bleeding is a great idea. What I did was finally give into my curiosity of menstrual cups. I’m sure you’re all intelligent enough to pick up on the environmental benefits and supposedly there are health benefits (via reduced chances of TSS). Whatever, the real thing the convinced me was the idea that I wouldn’t have to be running to the bathroom every 4-6 hours to change products.

I bought my Diva Cup a couple of weeks before my period to do a “dry run”. This was an interesting experience in alternating anxiety and relief:

  1. Remembering the good old days on LJ, I find a community dedicated to menstrual cups where I read up on how to put the goddamn thing up my vagina. Apparently there are about 50 million ways to fold the thing so it fits in. and apparently everyone has a favourite.
  2. After trying a couple of folds, I’m not getting them to open up in my vagina (anxiety, maybe I suck at this or my vagina is sentient being all of its own that dislikes my environmentally friendly menstrual product).
  3. Success! I felt it “pop” open and twisted it around to confirm (relief).
  4. Next comes the removal and a fuck-tonne of anxiety. HOW THE FUCK DO YOU GET THE FUCKER OUT?!?!?! The thing is now basically suctioned to my vaginal walls and doesn’t want to let go. FUCK!
  5. Okay I just need to calm down. If worse comes to worst, and I need to get it removed at least I didn’t stick something embarrassing up there like a pickle or a dildo on a power tool.
  6. After waiting 30 minutes, I manged to relax and make another attempt to rescue the silicone cup from the jaws of my rabid sexual plumbing. It is successful and I can now relax until my next attempt to repeat steps 1 through 6.

Having now also tried it while on my periods, I’m fucking sold. Even on my heaviest day, I manged to go 12 hours between changes and aside from the incident where I dropped a cupful on my bathroom floor (if I ever need to stage a miniature massacre, I now know what to do) I had no leaks – a huge change from the usual.

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