Well it’s the month of April and my bank account appears flush with cash, but only because my landlady hasn’t cashed the rent checks in two months.
There’s a gazillion things I could talk about politically, personally, about friends or enemies (don’t really have any of those, but ad space can be sold here). There is no dearth of information to be covered. I could cover the GOP, but why when I have the Daily Show.
I could cover the media not covering OWS, but, no doubt, they will cover it as well as they covered as Ron Paul (not that I love or hate the guy, but Newt got enough airtime.) I guess Newt has enough dirt now they don’t even have to go back to the 80′s, but I do miss Molly Ives just quoting him verbatim.
Everyone seems up in arms about The Lorax, enough so that one acquaintance equalled liberalism to baby killers and Nazi’s…hmmm I always naively thought it was about saving trees and big business bad. Ahhhh, Walmart and every sweatshop it owns, Pepsi and Halliburton and their over seas accounts that aren’t taxed.
I don’t even have to watch Fox anymore. I can just watch people tear each other up on Facebook.
Facebook is an open forum which can allow anyone to look like an idiot, and have people “like” it.
I suppose the Kindle and the Nook have stopped reading normal words from becoming extinct, though I always felt women wearing books on their breasts would increase literacy greatly. It was a great idea whose time has come and past.
I suppose this is my Seinfeld episode blog. It’s just about nothing, just stream of consciousness.
Most of you know I vacillate between hating and loathing this type of writing, but I thought I would give it a whirligig and see if it goes somewhere. So far it could meander into Georgia O’Keiffe or toaster ovens.
Maybe I’m just too attached to structure. You start somewhere (hopefully not at the very beginning) make you points, counterpoints, try not to use straw man theory like your opponents will so you can feel better about yourself, and come up with a killer closing line.
It could be witty, chilling, at least somewhat entertaining or your strongest fact (or your strongest fact munipulated against those who will misquote you, take you our of context, and have little or no understanding of sarcasm).
Hmmm. Still don’t like stream of consciousness, but it was a nice break.
Only way to write with a migraine, they are new. Let’s just say that shiny new migraine smell is not all it’s cracked up to be. I’d stick to the pineapple.
TBI writer signing off.
Hey March gods it’s me, Angela
By · CommentsDear March gods…well I guess I could just say Ares or Mars (cover the Greek and the Roman).
If I remember right, Roman wise, it was the first month of the year.
For March I would like a break from stress, pressure, and all medical symptoms. Just a reprieve if you will. See I have this court case coming up and between all my medical problems, bills, and stressers caused by such things, I think a two week vaca is in order. I’m not saying I’ve earned it by putting in March time or anything. I did not go to New Orleans and flash people for beads (okay that’s February time, but it leads to March).
I can’t promise to drink a green beer on St. Patrick’s day because my meds prevent such a fun tradition, though I promise to have a green one in my mind. In fact, I’m enjoying it now.
There’s the equinox, but I think my trial is starting that day. It might be tough to get into an Equinox mood. Not sure what an Equinox mood is, but I will be lighting incense for it. Patchoily, okay? Seems Equinoxy.
Okay, I don’t even know if I’ve blogged in March, but I am now. Seem to run out of time. I think when you add two doctors to an overabundance of preexisting physicians that you should get to lose a couple. I share the same feeling with clothes, though close are cheaper than doctors and do not seem to play by the same rules. Still I could lose a few standing doctor appointments, but that would imply that I don’t need them.
I’m lucky. On a cursory evaluation when you meet me I don’t seem like I have a traumatic brain injury at all. I share this with a few TBI’s in my TBI group. Unfortunately, it’s not true, but I would like to put it on the wish list of things to come.
I mean sure, I’ll never recover 100 percent, but they are shooting as high is 90. I wonder what it will feel like if I am 90 percent myself, again (and yes, that’s the top of the range). Supposedly I’m supposed to be quite pleased with that.
I might at the end of this only lose 10 percent of my intellect, creativity, emotional stability, intelligence, etc. But I do get to replace that 10 percent with many a fuckuped negative things which unfortunately adds up to more than 10 percent. Guess I’m really going to have to work on my Chi.
I wonder if there’s a Chi for Dummies book. I bet there is. Children’s guide to better Chi? If not someone should write one, I should be able to handle that after I figure out what Chi is.
Unfortunately my little assault “gift” gives me a much higher rate for early onset dementia and Alzheimer’s. That’s not leaving me a whole bunch of productive years in the human experience, so what say we skip those, not the productive years but the diseases that go with them. Just thought I would be clear on that one.
I know I don’t deserve a shorter life span and less productive one because of some random guy.
I suppose I will meet random guy again soon enough.
Don’t worry Ares and Mars, I figure I’ll write to the old gods of each month; I think I have enough prayers to cover the Christian one.
Ahhh, yes a rattling of the cage as I Vent, Vent, Vent.
By · CommentsYou’d think I could vent.
I have a team of neuropsychologists, psychologists, neuropsychiastrists, psychiatrists, counselors, and clinicians at RUSK. They oversee my cognative remediation (brain fixin’) as I like to call it. They’re number eight in the nation and number one in NYC in their brain adjustments.
No, I’ll never get use of my brain back 100 percent, they are just shooting for 90. Don’t want to aim too high, and they say this is really good. Were I not an academic or a “heavy brain user” in my premorbid state the percentage would be much lower.
I refer to this group fondly as the high council.
Who the fuck they are, I have no idea.
They disseminate orders through my clinician (who? whom? (never learned that rule) I enjoy, but has the authority of a non-equity actor in NYC, and I follow their demands or I am kicked from the program, and yes they have no problem withholding medical treatment.
They did an end run around my own psychiatrist who I see often since the assault. They decided this was a great time for me to start a DBT program in NYC. You have two weeks, go!
WTF? What the fuck is DBT? It’s fucked up bullshit psychobabble and an off shoot of CBT, but just for more fucked up people. BTW CBT is retarded. Tried it twice. Yeah, I’ll go find one of those. Found one…I mean one in NYC that is taking “clients”.
So it’s 375 a week. Did I mention I have 28 doctors? I think that’s about right since this whole assault thing began. Hmmm. I don’t have 3.75 a week to spare, and they aren’t using a decimal point I notice. That’s right. No Starbucks for me.
I need another fucking doctor like a need a hole in the head.
The Office of Victim services in NY is suppose to help on my doctors. So far I’ve paid tens of thousands of dollars in doctor bills, and sent them copies of bills.
As of now they have given me 80 dollars. 50 dollars for my blood soaked coat that apparently almost made the woman at the dry cleaners pass out or heave or something even though Jamie warned her in advance it was from a violent bloody assault. And 30 dollars to replace the clothes they cut off me at the hospital.
The disparity seems alarming, apparently, only to me.
Back to the high counsel. I can pay for DBT or go fuck myself. They don’t really care. I am required to have it, even though they are not “suppose” to be doing any kind of psychoanalysis on me, because they told me they weren’t.
Sounds like psychoanalysis to me if they are like, “Hey, you have to do this psychological program even though we’ve never met you, and we have no idea if you’re a good candidate or not since you don’t meet the criteria, because you don’t have any of the conditions that DBT is made for”.
Oh, and part of the DBT program is I give up my personal psychiatrist. Let me see, what’s that in my pocket? A potato? Nope a big fuck you!
You know when the ideal time to switch psychiatrists is when your life is in complete upheaval. That’s healthy. Why didn’t I think of that?
I only have this little trial thing coming up. I have years of brain therapy, PT, dentistry, psych, and really a never ending list of crap to look forward to for the rest of my life. My CPA sucks, seriously, he never bothered to turn in my 2010 taxes. I guess he still has them. I don’t know he won’t talk to me about them.
The pressure of not working, not finishing my PhD (and trying to stay in the program long enough for my brain to heal to finish my dissertation), shitty short term memory, and being a professional patient. Maybe a surgery or two and working on renal failure for some reason or another. Could have been the meds we gave you. Sigh.
So I live in fear everyday (yes, it’s called PTSD, yet another gift). A little something to remember my assailant by.
Perfect time to take my shrink away. Seriously, have these people ever heard of a referral? No? Why, because they could find a DBT program to get back to them either.
I have been known to have issues with authority figures when I feel a situation is unfair. We’re getting really close here.
I found two CBT shrinks and one DBT that take my insurance in the same office. On a waiting list, no I don’t get group therapy, darn.
I don’t have to replace my shrink, because they don’t require it.
And I met the high counsels demand to go to a DBT intake by February 14 ($275) to tell a woman I will never see again my history, because she’s too lazy to read the paper in front of her, and I’m not going to that program.
Yep, perfect time to give a brain damaged person an ultimatum, since I don’t have the brain executive functions to handle it, and they know that…comes with all traumatic brain injuries, which is what they treat.
I have to meet one of the high council ever 6 weeks. Luckily, I’ve only seen her twice and I think it’s actually been a few months. She’s abusive, entitled and condescending. At least that’s my opinion as of this moment. Can’t wait to see her week after next. Wonder if she reads my blogs? Hugs.
Why not switch shrinks? There’s nothing else going on in my life.
Okay if you’ve ever done theatre, you know what I mean.
No fighting in front of the children means don’t fight in front of the actors, and let’s all take a break.
Stage managers dread the situation, which inevitable involves a combination of any of these: director, music director, choreographer, designer, composer, playwright, book writer, librettist, producers, artistic directors etc. and so on fighting with each other in front of the actors (and occasionally these people are just fighting with themselves).
This one goes out to all my doctors.
Don’t fight or disagree with each other in front of me. That’s right. You have to act like the adults. I am the sick one. I am the kid, albeit highly functioning one, but in order to not fuck with my “performance“ I don’t need to see what goes on behind the scenes of the most fucked up telephone game I have ever witnessed.
I have a group of Neuropsychologists and a Clinician (okay I like the Clinician) at RUSK I refer to lovingly as the High Counsel. I have no idea what they do, other than make my life a living hell. I must take on more doctors, and get more treatment.
Find more doctors that I CANNOT FUCKING AFFORD because I am bled dry at the moment, or I am kicked from my cognative remedeation program (the brain fixers, re-trainers, whatever) RUSK. Yes, they will withhold medical treatment if I don’t get more doctors.
That being said, in the first two years after a TBI is when your brain will recover the most, i.e. it’s a good idea to rehab the brain in those two years.
Somehow these people are making my life hell. They want me to add additional treatments and doctors to my group. I feel at this point doctors are kind of like clothes, if I gain some I’d like to lost a few (well same with weight), but not the one they don’t see concerned about, which happens to be my highest priority. Seriously. I’m pissed. I think I might begin to crack. ”From what”, you might ask…”from everything”, I respond.
But they are fucking with the one doctor I don’t want them too. I don’t need it. He doesn’t need it. He’s done far more for me than any of them have. Yes the high counsel is them.
God, if my psychiatrist reads this I have no idea what kind of interp I’m going to get from this: puppies, entitlement, privaledge, Aces wild, fuck the high counsel, and yes I have a problem with authority figures, (always have, and always will) if I feel I am being treated unfairly.
You know, I have 20 something doctors. You peeps are expensive. Yes each and every one of you. And I love you all sans one…(you can fight over which one that is).
Maybe I’m spoiled. Maybe I don’t think someone with a brain injury should be out shopping for new doctors in NYC.
This just occurred to me.
I am spoiled.
I’m accustomed to something called a referral. You know when your told to go to see such and such and they take your insurance.
That would be nice.
If they don’t work you get another magical thing called another referral.
My executive functions don’t work, people. RUSK knows this…they are treating me for it. So why the fuck are they making this so fucking hard. Yes, they are number 8 in the national in brain rehab, number 1 in NYC. They are also number one in adding to the misery and pressure to my life that I do not need right now.
But I need them, or no brain fixing. I’ll just add it to the list of the 30k (20k of which I got from my friends) I’ve spent on this little fun sojourn in life.
Yes, I am using my blog to vent.
Fuck it.
Sometimes I am tired of being good little soldier.
Wow. This person has too much time. Seriously.
It could all be attributed to Egyptology, Etruscan, and too many to count, but he’s on to the Illuminati.
Put the Dan Brown books down.
Step away from the Dan Brown books.
Really I can make it match alotta historical symbology.
But the tarot card from the Rider-Waite deck, OMFG, this person is a moron.
Um-mmm you may not know this…but sometimes what’s called “designers” come up with a “theme” and then they stick to it. It could just be a really good “costume designer” working in coordination with a good “set and lighting designer”. See these designers work together to tell a story. It’s not the story this person came up with.
If you feel your brain is sucked in by the occult; you are in fact a moron.
BTW “Occult” literally translated from the Greek means “the hidden”. It’s these moments when Wanna-be-intellectuals “work on my last nerve with a file” (to paraphrase Greater Tuna).
And thank you mindless religious Chattel for thinking this person is brilliant, correct, or in anyway meaningful. No wonder you all follow your religion mindlessly. Why don’t you take a step back and think about what you believe rather than what you’ve been taught. Then you can come up with your own ideas instead of someone else’s for a change.
Please read the story from the post. Below is the letter I sent to the Ogden Cap Properties an LLC that owns and operates that building.
http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/manhattan/doggone_shame_1a9XYW8u9ZLlqwRJTa6jrN
Unfortunately,
I know that this email will go to some undeserving staff member, when it should be going directly to the management at One Lincoln Plaza. Please feel free to pass it on to the appropriate party for which it was intended.
I assume it’s Lincoln and not “Lincon”, which you misspelled on your own website. I know you are a mere LLC, but most people check to make certain the things on their website are accurate. Especially, if you want people to take your business seriously.
Clearly, if you cannot spell the name of your own building correctly, perhaps someone in management needs to go back to grammar school.
After reading about the soap actor who killed himself, due in part to false reports and pressure by the management, I want to congratulate on making a complete ass out of yourselves. Just FYI “no comment” only makes you look more inconsiderate, and appear to be a giant, unfeeling, distasteful monster people want to take down.
Strangely, I was looking to move back to the island, and you do have a great location. Based on your response I think I’ll keep my extra house I was going to use as a downpayment and continue to live in Queens.
I just remembered why I don’t like management that feels entitled to treat it’s clients little better than refuse.
If you ever wanted to make a name for yourself.
You have. No matter how you spell the name of your buildings.
Of course, I will be blogging on this, including the story from The Post.
If you would care to return a comment in a civil tongue I would be glad to print it. An uncivil tongue…doubly so.
BTW you just got owned by a doctoral student recovering from a traumatic brain injury I received while on the island.
Sadly, the Upper West Side is just not what it use to be, well unless we go back to the 1980′s.
“ONE LINCON PLAZA” (your spelling from the website not mine)
20 West 64th Street,
New York City
(212) 579-4326
I would never usually comment or care about a minor NYC LLC; however, you have found a special place in my heart. I feel I should just help spread the word around the net.
And to be completely distasteful be sure to let me know how much his apartment is going for and whether or not you will tell perspective owners that a suicide took place there.
If you choose to feign innocents. I’ll attach the link for you.
http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/manhattan/doggone_shame_1a9XYW8u9ZLlqwRJTa6jrN
Sincerely,
Angela Gant
Oh, please let them respond. Please attack the brain damaged writer. Please. Pleeeeeeze.
I’ll let you know.
Missing what I lost and recovery
By · CommentsThis is something a friend of mine spring boarded to me write on today…I miss the spring board.
To always be in recovery…sometimes you learn there is nothing to recover.
My superior intellect which defined my personality is now gone.
Even if it is recovered, it will never be anything but a warble sounds that I have outgrown while waiting and working for it to return. So this is what it
means to have a below average intellect. Hmmm. Kinda feels the same, minus a cocky demeanor.
I can still write, am I at the level I was at before the attack. No. It’s interesting though. It’s not about recovery. It’s about what new
direction will I go. Will I get my ful spread of writing tools back I hope so. Academic writing skills are…we’ll say lacking to put it nicely.
I’ve got to sell out on some level. I should sell out doing what I enjoy.
Whether that’s writing erotica or paranormal romance for my agent.
I’ve got to find a way to make money, again. Writing is the only skill (even if it’s subpar for me). My executive functions on my brain just aren’t working right now. That throws out all management positions, which is all I’ve done most of my adult life.
I hope I can salvage my Ph.D. There is so little left. That’s 22 years of education for me just in school, that doesn’t include the time out of school to work on professional career and dissertation. School that I paid for.
It’s hard to remember who I was, have no idea who I will be. Can roll the dice
a thousand times and not hit yatzee, followed by hitting it five times in a
row.
I don’t know. It’s kind of lucky and interesting.
Guess I get two lives this go round. I don’t much like being humble, or
being humbled by brain damage. Not my fav.
But I will say, NOW eat toast. Never would before. Now I can eat toast. Not all
the time; I’m not a toast-aholic. Did I come all this way to learn to eat toast?
Stranger things have happened in the universe.
I guess I’ll always have toast.
That’s right. My new court date is Feb 14.
I remember the good old days when I would have Valentine’s as a kid. You know where you gave everyone in your class a little cheesy card, and no matter how much you insisted to your parents you didn’t like sweets they would always get you a heart shaped box filled with chocolates that could be filled with anything…
…and I do mean anything. It was like a Russian roulette chocolate game. What will be in this one? Something unidentifiable, something disguisting, or…no safe Carmel. ”Would I like another?” I’m sure I wouldn’t. I’m sure I’d love to run around and be chased by a box of chocolates than to risk a fake coconut one that somehow always tastes how I imagine Aqua Velva tastes.
“Well, mom and dad, I suppose one more wouldn’t hurt since you want to all the trouble to buy me this nice gift.” They look on smiling.
With carmel down, and no repeat looking in sight, I always risk a white one. I have no idea why. There’s some sort of unidentifiable red goo in it usually. And it tastes, well, red. Unidentifiable red taste. Could be anything really. Just red. I try to smile and choke back the one tear that wants to fall in a reaction to the red.
I thank them politely, and offer up candy for them. Of course they decline. This one is all for me.
I glance at the box, after admitting “I’m sure I’d like one more”.
Here it is the last blind hope, that the odd shaped one will contain nuts, and it’s not just a mutant. I really don’t want them to think I’m eating the mutant because I feel sorry for it. Actually, at this age I hated nuts in chocolate, but at least it’s on familiar ground. It does have an unidentifiable nut in it. I have no idea what I have just eaten, but I hope it doesn’t stretch into a tree later.
And no, I never got the kind the kind that shows you the map of what you’re eating. That either came later in life, or my parents were quick to pick out the one box on earth that didn’t come with a chocolate legend.
Three and your safe. It’s time to excuse myself to the bathroom where I can hide for a while until the candy is forgotten. Yes, it’s a childish trick, but I was a child.
Now that I think about it, court doesn’t sound so bad.
You’re favorite TBI writer.
Okay,
Posting the erotica was pure laziness on my part. It means I didn’t have to write a blog as I am slowly losing my mind…well whatever part of it is left.
I am now very happily engaged to an amazing woman, whose family is a little lacking on the accepting homosexuals. I believe I have been equated to a pimp or a drug dealer, which isn’t as bad as it sounds. I am a pimp, not a whore. I am a drug dealer, not a drug user. So, I figure that gives me management possbilites.
I know what you’re thinking. Really? Are people still homophobic, I mean educated people. And the answer to that is YES. It’s a Bible thing, and lest we forget…what 60 years ago an interracial marriage was a lynching offense, and yes the Bible has a lot more to say about racial purity than it does about homosexuality. Does anyone care about interracial marriage…because if you do you’re still a bigot.
Especially female homosexuality.
Sorry my male gays, how I love you so, but I want to point out, what the Bible says about female homosexuality?
That’s right. Nothing.
What did Christ say about homosexuality?
That’s right. Nothing.
I’m just saying if it was important, you think He would have brought it up. I don’t recall Christ teaching hate anywhere in the Bible, and since Christians are suppose to follow the teaching of Christ…yep, I don’t get it.
I feel pretty confident in saying, if you are a hater, Jesus wouldn’t like you very much. Now maybe the Old Testament God would give you a high five…but not Christ…I think He would leave you hanging.
Remember man wrote the Bible. Why do you think there are no bad references to lesbians. Most men love women on women.
Oh, right, erotica one day, call mom the next.
The writing skills are slowly reappearing and I work the hell out of the muscles every chance I get. I don’t have to just get back up to my creative bar, but I’ve I got to reach for that academic bar as well. Unfortunately, it’s easier for me to practice one than the other rather than do it concurrently. Creative came back first, I’ll use the practice of Aristotelean structure before I start talking about it academically about it, again.
Hello, ADD brain. Calling the mom. If you’re thinking my mom died about 18 years ago, yep, you’d be right. That one would require a long distance call Houdini couldn’t make any psychic to come up with, so there’s the other mom. Yep, I came with two, and no they weren’t a lesbian couple. Both sets of my parents are straight, and they seemed to raise a perfectly normal homosexual child. Odds are it’ll skip a generation or two, so I figure mine (should I choose to have them) will be straight and Republican just to piss me off.
How do you get two sets? Divorce? Religious cult? Nope, adoption. Great plan in case you’re orphaned early. So being a good kid I’ve never troubled my living mom, until now. With the executive functions down and out in the old noodle, it really jacks up my organizational skills.
So yes, I called my mom to help me organize my shit. It’s true with pretty much all TBI brain injuries. And let’s face it, my fiance (Ohhhh, I got to say it!) has enough on her plate with a full-time job, joining me for doctor appts, court crap, and the list never ends. I frankly don’t know how she does it, but we all get to the end of our tether.
There’s only one option of help. I will politely say that her family is unavailable, which leaves the mom. Okay, after 39 years of life and a brain injury, I don’t feel too bad about asking her for this one big favor…unfortunately this is also happening at the busiest time in her life.
Sigh.
It’s funny (not ha-ha funny), but odd.
I was in the hospital and watched my (adoptive) mom die. I had to stay in the room for the final moments, even though she was unconscious, I’m pretty sure to make sure my dad could fuck me up a little.
I watched my mother’s twin sister die in her hospital room, I just had some bad timing on walking into that one.
I watched my dad die in his hospital room. That one I just felt obligated to stay for since I was out of family that knew or raised me before the age of 21.
The one thing you learn slowly watching your family die off, is that family is about the most important thing you will ever have. Like them or hate them, you do love them. That’s why my mom is coming up from Tejas, unconditional love.
I know my fiance is having a rough time right now, but I still have to believe in unconditional love from family, blood or not. I grew up both Southern and Bible Baptist in my formative years. Probably the only true belief I hold from that time is unconditional love. I hope I’m right. I have a pretty good idea of what Christ would say on the subject. He was pretty clear on the love thing.
Unconditional love.
We’re hard wired for it.
I watch your lover through the window walk down the path away from the house for his daily meditation, though the mist outside clings to his skin.Kissing passionately, I drop my head as I let my tongue flick across your neck and listen to you moan in pleasure as I suckle the sweat from your neck caused by our heat, and move my hand to slowly unbuckle your jeans. For just a moment I reach deep inside to feel your hot, rich, slickness against my fingers. A tremor of pleasure escapes your lips as I feel myself gush with my own fresh wetness enslaved by the passion of your heat and fire.I want nothing more than to rip off your jeans and taste the richness surrounding your clit, taking you in my mouth and flicking my tongue across you, teasing at first, then moving my tongue deeper into you licking every crevice only to return to flick my tongue across your clit and feel you involuntarily pull back from me in ragged moan of pleasure. Deepening to probe every inch of you with my tongue. To listen to you moan as I take you in my mouth, but I pull back and wait letting our breaths grow ragged together slowly stroking you with my finger I move up against sliding from the sweat from our bodies. I kiss you for a moment letting you taste yourself for a second on my lips. Your nipples hard against mine, the slickness of our bodies glistening in sweat as we grasp at each other to hold on, not just to each other, but too the moment.Too excited to stop, though we know we could be caught at any second. I press further as I see in the distance your lover returning the mist has turned into a light wet rain.Your body wired with tension calls from every bit of muscle and sinew, and screams to me to end this torture of pleasure and release you. I can tell from your ragged breathing you are only a few strokes away from giving in to a complete release of pleasure. You scream for it, but your lovers path is coming closer to the house the mist increasing to heavier rain, she has quickened her pace.Your clit is rock hard against my fingers, though I can barely keep my strokes going, against my own growing excitement and your slickness that denies direct contact, but forces me to toy around it, baiting it, until finally I rub across it at just the right second. Your body begins to spasm against mine. I shush you against your natural need to release not only your body, but a scream that dies on your lips as I cover your lips with mine to dampen the sound…
