GAH! (for lack of a better title)

I don’t know whats wrong with me these days. Well actually I take that back but I still feel…weird, even for me! I think it could be the new drugs that I’m on that make me forget completely about food. I just am not hungry at all. Which is really weird for me because I’m usually perpetually hungry. And when I am forced to eat, I have the hardest problem making decisions. About everything, really. I feel so anxious, but that isn’t the right word, maybe tense and confused, when I have to choose something. It is crazy! I’m not indecisive! GAH

Had the dressing on my PICC line changed today. EW gross! That little patch of skin is wondering why it got the rotten end of the deal. It really hurts to take of the Tagaderm covering the PICC line. It’s SO sticky! It causes all these little scrapes and cuts and scabs and purple-ing. Not pretty!
We have snooooww in the forecast! Woo! Sort of. Its pretty an annoying! Isn’t that alot of things?
Gah! I can’t think really clearly right now. I feel fuzzly. I’ll write more later.  

Wake Up Call

Like it is totally not cool when you have to wake up to the sweet serenade of a fire alarm. I mean NOT COOL! Okay, so it’s 4:30 and basically I just turned out the light when the damn thing starts squawking. I swear it is like a bazillion decibels above the legal limit. Of course I screamed loud as hell, but it was SO loud I couldn’t hear my scream, which obviously means it was KILLER loud. Did I mention it is about 23 F ( -5 C) out there!? I mean that is the point that blood freezes in the veins right? Maybe just my veins. So we pack on clothes and join the sleepy exodus from building 5. Just how I love to start the morning right? 

As far as I know, a false alarm. I think the building inhabitants have put a high price on the head of the idiot who pulled/triggered the alarm. Its not the first time this has happened either. 
The Tagaderm (I think its called that, and it basically is a clear band-aid) over my PICC line chose this morning of all mornings to act up. It basically came off my arm and exposed the puncture wound (I’ve decided its high time to call it what it is). So we packed off to get the dressing changed. Then library, bank. Blahblahblah
People STILL stare at me. To me it looks like there eyes are saying “OMG there goes the last 3 headed girl alive. You’ll never see one of those again. Especially the kind with purple teeth and teal pupils and six toes.” Seriously, they could stare a little harder. It’s kinda starting to piss me off. 
And people who park in wheelchair parking spot who like could be football players, or ganstas, or just regular lazy asses. On the wheelchair spot sign it says that they prosecute people who don’t have a sticker. Lies. The States could rescue the stock markets several times over with the parking fees collected on people who illegally park in those spots. If they were fined. Even the bloody postal worker was parked in the wheelchair spot. He was filling the mail slots in the doctors office building. I kindly inquired as to if he was disabled. And he kindly said he’d move his truck. “Oh sorry.” 
And they think that covers the world. 

Groovy Colored Pills!!

The ceiling is not all rough, so I can’t pick shapes out of the sky. There are no little holes in the ceiling, or grooves, like a doctors office, so I can’t count dots. I can’t connect them either. This makes late night ceiling meditation difficult and too boring. Obviously! 

My joints are going through a I-am-so-pissed-at-you-I-am-going-to-make-your-life-hellish faze. Swollen knees makes it so hard to walk, that when I get up in the night, I usually crawl to where ever I need to go, so I don’t fall and rearrange my face. Hard choice: dignity or bruises. I’m valuing them both more and more. 
I started a new drug. I have no idea what it’s called but it’s a little red pill and tastes icky. I think (but I could be dancing on the moon) that this is for the Bartonella in my brain, which-take it from me!-is some nasty shit. Bartonella is a co-infection of lyme and is contracted the same way, the bite of a tick. Ew. It causes fatigue, restlessness, anger problems, pain, liver and spleen problems, abdominal pain, granulomatous hepatitis (swollen tissue mass). One to six weeks after its ‘established’, Bartonella can present various (and serious) neurological symptoms. And oh golly, oh lucky me, I got some!! Lyme doctors say that it causes my frequent blackouts, ‘intense’ short term memory loss and long term patchy memories, speech loss problems, deep pain on the soles of my feet, hallucinations, blinding headaches, cognitive dysfunction, seizures and involuntary body motions. Bartonella can also cause rashes, loss of vision,  osteomyelitis (bone marrow inflamation), osteolytic lesions (softening of the bone, arthritis , endocarditis (swelling of the heart wall), and cardiomegaly (enlargement of the heart). The ‘co-infections’, to me cause me the worst bother of all, and make treating just ‘Lyme’, more complicated. I have 2 co-infections, Babesia and Bartonella on top of Lyme, which unfortunately is quite common. And that is quite enough technical nonsense for one moment. 
In short, Bartonella, is ICKY! And I personally think it deserves just as much hate as Lyme 😀 !
Anyways…I painted my nails pink to match my LIME GREEN toes. It was practically HOT here today!! I understand about those CRAZY people in Ontario who wear sundresses when its 36 F. Because it has been cold for so long that 55 F practically is HOT! Isn’t it strange how quickly we change? 

A Little of Something

I wish I was home. Home has so much right stuff that no other place, even the capital of Corecto, could never have. 
I have never before appreciated ‘your mom’ and ‘thats-what-she-said’ jokes. I hear pronounced silences, where my friends would have chipped in with the appropriate line. It is unnatural for a teenager to go that long without hearing those words. 
I take guitar lessons now which is pretty sweet. I play with a baby guitar, or I guess those in the know would say ‘half sized’, because it is easier for my little swollen fingers to stretch the shorter distance. Reading music is extremely difficult because I play one bar, or sometimes even a note and I have to stop and think where I was a moment before. Everything I play is ‘sight reading’ even if I played it a hundred times before. Learning new ideas is virtually out of the question. I instead revisit the ideas of self-discipline and patience. And I SO could use the lesson.
I am surprised by what I can get used to without actually remembering that I have gotten used to it- does that make sense? I am sitting here, with my IV ball ‘plugged in’ and it seems like that is what everyone does. It seems habitual, but I only know its habitual because that is the way people treat it. They are calm and act like it’s normal, so instead of being like ‘WTF is this thing and what exactly is it’ and all, I just read the signs and play chill. I’m getting good at reading cues. And playing make believe. 
There is a main office at our apartment buildings and ever time I go in to play pool, watch TV or get a movie, they all say “oh hi nicole” and make small talk and ask me questions about things that no one could know except if they 
a) stalked me CONSTANTLY
b) talked to my mom or other parental units
c) met me
…and frankly, and for the sake of sanity, I’d like to think that the first one is out. So I make like I know them and just avoid names and detailed conversations. I’d seriously be the easiest kid in the world to kidnap. I mean, if they just acted or even suggested that they knew me, I’d be holding their hand and walking with them. I’m sort of being sarcastic, but kind of not, if you follow. I’d like to think that I’m pretty lax about the getting-to-know-you thing. 
I play make believe a lot as well. Once upon a time in a far away kingdom, a 16-year-old sits in her yellow walled chambers cutting out pictures in magazines, glue up to her elbows and a crick in her knee. The curtains on the glass doors are pulled back to reveal seemingly endless trees, giving way to ocean and the distant bank of green. The porch overhang blocks out the warmth of the sun but no light. The phone rings and she bounces on her bed, laughing with a friend. She runs upstairs, the dog following close behind. She boils water and puts on pasta and is making tomato sauce and is just adding brown sugar. Enter parents and dog. Pasta noodles tossed in sauce and schlepped into a casserole dish and into the oven it goes. Plates and silverware and candles and toasted bread and then desert and clean up. She plays a piano interlude maybe. A knock at the front door. Friends. Then it’s popcorn and movie selections and a game of Life with good friends. It’s still summer. And the girl runs down the stairs and sleeps tight that night.
I dream of my house in a kingdom as far away as the sun. And of another time and the other way it could have gone. 
Ahh the simple life. Good times. 
“It is normal to give away a little of one’s life in order not to lose it all.” – Albert Camus

Think Scattered

I think my mind is playing mind tricks on me. It want me to think I am lowly and not worthy of memories.

I forget. I feel dumb to forget. I mean its so simple to hold on to and yet now I always leave it go. Cotton, jello, microwave noodles, that cheese in a tube that is clearly not cheese: that’s what I feel my brain is made of. 
I sit on my bed, into the wee hours of the morning. I see the stars twinkle and the sky lighten as it makes way for the suns reappearance. I know from the glow above my curtains that it is close to dawn. That its been hours since I should have gone to sleep. It makes me so mad.
I spend too much time in my own head. I’m an outward person usually and now I find that I reflect more and think of things more. I over think, maybe. But the past is so reliable.
Sitting cross legged on my bed, like I’m about to bust out a sick yoga move, I fall inside a memory as warm as it aught to be. 
A wok, big enough to use as a toboggan. All the neighbors. Kids. Frisbee. Duckduckgoose. Rocks. Chasing children. Eating hot, smoking stirfires. 20 cup rice cookers. New people. Old friends. Smiles. Wild asparagus growing the the ‘marsh’. Playing Credence and Metalica songs on the guitar. More smiles. More laughter. Girlies giggling and eating ice cream. Summer.

Average day with the Pierces. Playing cards. Sitting on the grass. Smoothies. Plastic cups. Old table cloths. Big green marbled ball, bouncing off Amy’s head. Laughter so loud and hard it hurts. Similes. More smiles.

Sitting. Just sitting and breathing in grass. And friends perfume. Just laughing. I hear just the laughter and the hard ground of the Field.

Football in the summer. Running in tights over the lawns. Teasing. Flirting. Smiling. Summer warmth. Heat. Classes to go to but we still haven’t won. So much love. Hugs. Oh and body checking. But more hugs

Full contact duckduckgoose. Girls screaming. Circles. Smiles.

Running, just running. Feet. Hearts. Lame P.E. uniforms. 

Burning pop tarts. Seattle. Victoria’s Secret. Perfume. A mess of clothes. And the feeling of more love than could fit in that two double bed room.

A basement. Two basses, a guitar, drums and an upright grand. Laughter. Strobe lights. Good rock music. Friendship. Just sitting and thinking. Strobe lights. Yes, it was a popular theme.

A classroom. Friends in a circle all laughing. Playing mafia for hours. Heat turned up to the max. Nachos. Smiles. You can taste the tang of dry heat and wet wool and love.

So many choir room lunches. Circles. Laughing. That’s what she said jokes. Sandwiches. Rice crisp bars. Beautiful piano. Harmonies. Harmonies. Together laughing and growing friends. Harmony. 

Goodbyes. Hellos. Secerts. Girlfriends. Makeup. Tears.

Empty school dances. Heat fogging the windows. Cold outside. Smiles. Dancing. Drinks. 

Shakespeare. Summer. Horses and hay and sweet smells. Love. A true company, built with so much love. Prospero and I piling on the deck. Chain reaction. A tangle of love and strength and friendship and numb legs and arms later. A feeling of one. Warmth. Laughter. Fuzzy peaches and Mars bars and Grammas’ snacks and costumes. Mustaches. Me and my half’s costumes.

My sister. A beautiful friend who flew the coup to South Africa. Smiling and hugging me and holding me. Remembering how we were mistaken for each other in primary school. Playing Barbies. Making Christmas cookies. Lipstick to ward off brothers. Hugs kisses more hugs and forever we will be sisters. My other half. Forever.

A laugh. Infectious. A friend. Heart wrenching familiar. Saddening to remember and yet not. 

Not being able to say ‘see you tomorrow’ at the end of each day. Leaving for a weeks journey and ending up here 4 months later. There is never enough you can put into a goodbye. 

A beautiful girl. With hair to envy mine. A smile practically ear to ear. A musical crazy-child. La Senza and BoSho visits and bubble tea. Busking. Choir and laughing and hugs. Dating a bestest friend. We’re tight. We were tight. If I could remember things would be all right.

Other scattered memories of friends. Whose voice is whos? Match faces, I know I can. Think Think THINK harder!!

I have scattered memories of all these things as though I saw them in a movie a great while ago and have forgotten details. Some things I remember as clearly as yesterday. But I have not forgotten you all. I will not. Because as long as I work at it and write down each day, the day will not die. It will not end. The day has been reborn in prose.

“Friendship consists in forgetting; what one gives, and remembering what one receives.” -> Alexandre Dumas Père

Think again if you think I will give in to a little thing called the now.

There’s Only This

Wouldn’t it be nice to see into the future? To know for sure, without the shadow of doubt hovering over you, to know that things will work out!? To see yourself in 6 months, a year, or even 5, happy and healthy and laughing and just everyday living. 

Like old times.
Nothing makes me happier than when I imagine myself with me friends, see them laughing and saying weird things in my head. Just everyday living. Just average days. 
The past is the most potent drug. It has the power to bring you to tears of sadness or shame, or make a grin flit across your face, or make you laugh. You don’t need anyone to take a sip of the past; you just need to think hard and it will come to you, warm and loving like a best friend. Yes the past is a beautiful. But so is the future.
The future is a different kind of med. It is a wistful and distracting drug of beauty. It is full of ‘if-s’ and ‘maybe-s’ and ‘when-s’. It stretches your imagination so wide that it can pitch you into a whole new world that is yours to sculpt. And it is all yours and only reality can take it away from you.
And boy is reality a tonic and antidote to most things. What a fricken kill-joy that reality…
I love a taste of the past and spare a thought for the future but what is always best is the now. The now seems to be always left out and it deserves a chance.
“There is no future. There is no past. Thank god this moment’s not the last. There’s only us, there’s only this. forget regret, or life is yours to miss. No other road. No other way. No day but today.” – From ‘Rent’
That is the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me. 

A Desert of Questions

I have lived in a sweets shop and eaten candy all my life and yesterday I was thrown into a textile mill of worries and anger. I think this time, Lyme has gone far enough. I will forever and irrevocably loathe it till kingdom come and I be done. If I could hold onto a grudge for long.
The mind is a fickle friend. No, I lie, it is not a friend. It is the Godfather of the body and it both respects it and loathes it and fears it. But it knows the best of any how to get you worst. It knows your weakness. It knows you very well. It keeps you closer than an enemy or a friend. It knows the memory is what we cherish, and pain, sorrow and loneliness is what we fear. It blocks important memories when you need them most, gives you pain when your happy, makes your tongue say stupid things to give you sorrow and laughs at your loneliness. ‘You are not lonely. You have me. Brain. Godfather.’, the brain would say if it could talk. 
It has hit me deepest of all. I did not know my brain wanted to wage such a vendetta against me, and it most likely wouldn’t have without outside help. Lyme is trickier than even the Godfather and convinced him to make some wiring changes. Tweak things. Make it easier for Lyme to get closer. 
Godfather and Lyme plotted to erase my father. And their plot was so effortlessly strategize and carried out that I didn’t see it coming and couldn’t have prevented it. 
Ladies and Gentleman, do not let Lyme take a bow. He has not won.
He. Will. No. Win.
He can take everything from me and he still will be despicable and a piece of dirt on the sole of my shoe. And I step on dirt and wash it away and I will do the same to Lyme.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I do not remember my father. The man who I’ve know longer than any and better than any I will ever know. I know not of what we have done, where we have been or seen together. I do not know his name. I do not know where he works. I can’t picture him. He is gone. Somethings I remember. Vaguely. Like someone’s best-friends-sisters-boyfriend that you met once at a wedding/funeral/party/street-meeting. My memory is fuzzy.
I know I should love him, blow him kisses as we sign off the phone, tell him I miss him. But I do not know him. I don’t love strangers (as a rule) , kiss strangers (as a looser rule), or tell strangers I miss them because I do not know them. I still blow him kisses and tell him I miss him and love him. I ask the general small talk questions.
I would like to tell you all that my dad and I were close. That he played games with me and had a warm laugh and loved wine and cooking and listened to the music I liked in the early morning school rides. But I do not know for sure. I know nothing.
It feels like half of my ties to this world that I love are gone. Like there is a whole inside my heart and mind and I know what is supposed to fill the whole but can’t seem to locate it. Its being hungry but not remembering food is to fill it, and instead chew on glass and rubber tires and sorrow. 
Where is the saving grace? 
I am alive. I remember Mommy. I have a ceiling above me and a floor below and food in my belly and love all around.
Those are saving graces.
I know I love you that much, Daddy. And I know you love me. And I feel like a bad daughter to forget. But its not me. Just know its not me. Its the Godfather figure masquerading as my brain and a clever fellow called Lyme. I love you Daddy.
I am half like a toddler who stubbornly cries for Daddy and then when Mommy walks upstairs to where you sleep and asks what’s wrong, you say “I wanted Daddy, not you”.
But I’m not. Cause I want Mommy and Daddy. Is that too much to ask. It is too much to ask the Godfather to spare me mercy this time and let me have what I want. It is a small request. I will double whatever Lyme is paying you to erase Daddy.

I feel there is no oasis, not now. And there was not one yesterday, or the day before yesterday or tomorrow. I am certain. There is an desert of questions and untouchable memories and I am a thirsty nomad just looking for a drink. But I didn’t come to the desert, I was home and wandered and wandered and wandered, following signs and advice from tourists, calling down from the safety of their hot air balloons passing over head. They’d cry, “There is water this way! Follow!” or “Home is this way! Turn around! You are headed the wrong way!”. And each time I was directed, I was misdirected, and each time I followed a sign, it pointed me in the wrong direction. So now I have blown into the desert and I am still searching for another sign, another tourist to point me to an oasis. If you wander far enough, if you travel long enough, if you struggle enough, if you see enough and learn enough you will find an oasis. 

But I will stumble upon an oasis. And when I do, it will be filled with the smell of your blankets in the bed you’ve slept in for years, salty tears, jaw-stretching grins and laughter that will hurt and make you cry some more, memories, grass mowed down like a brush cut and mangoes. It will be filled with water. It will be filled with lifeblood. It will be full to the brim with an old memory. And that was worth all the stumbling in the desert for. 

A New Perspective

I’m really unremarkable. Just a nose, eyes, lips, curls…the usual right? So why is it that everyone stares? Honestly…

And I don’t mean just a glance-over-once-or-twice-when-you-think-they-aren’t-looking or the extended gazes staring or the speaker on stage staring either. I mean like flat out gawking. 
I’m still the same girl I was a week ago and 6 months ago. Practically the same girl. I mean, besides the IV, occasional weight yo-yos, hair cuts, drop of 2 feet, different eye liner color…wait. OH!- just struck my thesis head on. I just fell across it so artfully that you might have almost believed that I was thinking this and writing this as I go along, which I almost am incidentally. 
I think it’s not ’cause I’m Caucasian in a town of such a culture mix, I don’t think it’s because of my ‘striking beauty’. I don’t think it’s ’cause of the way I talk or look or walk, which is why they SHOULD be staring, really, if at all. It’s because I’m suddenly two heads shorter than the rest of them and I’m seeing eye to eye with toddlers. It’s ’cause I’m sitting down and wheeling around. It’s SO ’cause I’m in a wheelchair and that’s so NOT the reason I wanted.
I walk…well no…let me rephrase that-> I get pushed around the supermarket and people straight up stop and stare. It’s like some freaked out fire drill: stop, drop and roll. I can see their eye widen and I’m like ‘what’? I want to turn around in my seat and then turn back and shrug my shoulders. But as most genius thoughts occur, they occur too late. But next time. 
And the stares, it’s not just people my own age…it’s grown ups. I often wonder if they haven’t seen a sick kid before. Honestly, you’ve got to wonder if they shut up disabled people here if someone genuinely hasn’t seen someone in a wheelchair before. 
Honestly! The nerve of some people! I feel like I aught to wear a sign and a mirror to deflect stares and questions. Its so awkward. It makes me so…aware shall we say…that I AM in a wheelchair. I didn’t feel like that back home. 
It is strange to be in a country you once called home and now feel like…feel…and now feel like something has changed for the worst and it’s spoiled your memory. It’s made me question how I viewed disabled people before this. They’re just people, right? I mean what is the point of staring?
I should just wear bright purple and green leggings and a yellow jean skirt and put dreads in my hair and wear a coral tube top and a parka and I think they would stare less. Really…
I swear it’s ’cause I’ve effortlessly manipulated people into pushing me around since I’m too lazy to walk. HA! -> as if. But hey, who am I to judge? 

Bite the Bullet

Fact. It is time. I think the world could be ready. Could be ready for the facts.

The time is right for some hard, cruel bullets. Bullet points.
-Lyme Disease is passed along by tick bites and is found all across the USA and Canada and around the world. It knows no boundaries or borders and respects no laws. It’s an outlaw and the most dangerous type: no one is hunting it. 
-Less than half of patients with Lyme remember a tick bite. Again, about 50% get the characteristic ‘rash’ which many doctors perceive as the telltale sign of Lyme. So much for a dead give away. 
-The standard test for Lyme Disease that you would get from your regular GP misses 35% of the time to recognize the disease. I was tested and my test came back negative on this test. A ‘screening’ test SHOULD have at least have 95% sensitivity in order to call it such. 
-Currently, there are 5 species of Lyme, and over 100 strands in the USA, and 300 worldwide. The number continues to grow rapidly. 
-Although your doctor will only generally prescribe 30 days of antibiotics for a conclusive diagnosis of Lyme Disease, never has there been a study proving that 30 days of antibiotics  is enough to cure Lyme. It is clear that it does not eradicate the disease and if not treated for more than the 30 days, the relapse rate is upwards of 40%! Long term antibiotics work. It is the only way for me to get better. Long term IV works! It is the way I will get better. Anyone who says otherwise hasn’t been there and clearly hasn’t met people who have. 
-For many Lyme patients, the journey to health can take 1-4 years. Relapses occur and more antibiotics might be needed. 
-Lyme, like Syphilis, mimics a great number of diseases such as arthritis, MS, ALS, depression, type 2 diabetes, , ADHD, , HIV, rheumatic fever, SLE, Arrythmia, Arthralgias, Autoimmune Diseases, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Fibromyalgia, Depression, Parkinson’s, Sleeping Disorders, Alzheimer’s,  Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Scleroderma, Peripheral Neuropathy, Bell’s palsy, meningitis and many more. Scary? Some doctors believe that ALS could actually be very late stage Lyme. The final stage actually. Imagine thinking you are dying of ALS and then being told that high dose med’s could have saved you a hell of a lot of suffering. Imagine being in pain and suffering for 20 years and thinking that you just had chronic fatigue or some mystery illness and nothing would change. Imagine how angry you’d be. 
I feel like I could write a poem, like little kids do when forced to write about something specific, with the title, “Lyme Disease is…” the way they may have written, “fall is…” or “love is…” or “school is…”. I could put just as much fact and observation in my poem as small children do. I like to just use facts sometimes, you know? Just put away all the personal knowledge and stick with facts, ’cause they hurt less and you don’t have to dig them out of some void and put all the feelings into words. Cause it’s so much easier not to tap into that void and let it fester in the meantime. It’s nicer to think that you don’t have to think about it now. But if you don’t think about it now, it will crop up later and it will have had time to get nasty. And old. And that’s the worst. “Lyme disease is…” well what is it, at least to me?
Lyme disease is waking up in a room you’ve been in for a month and not recognizing it. Lyme disease is not being able to walk 5 steps to brush your teeth. Lyme disease is needing to call someone to fill your water bottle, pick up a pen off the ground, pass you a scarf, help you take off a sweater, feed you. Lyme disease is sitting awake all night with terrifying visions for company. Lyme disease is screaming so loud from pain that nothing comes out. Lyme disease is ending up somewhere and not knowing how you got there. Lyme disease is a pain in your joints that makes it impossible to make a fist, or move fast. Lyme disease is being so confused and angry and scared and in such an impenetrably scary hallucination that you want to rip the IV out of your arm, with no thought of the pain or blood or consequence. Lyme disease is living for the moment because that’s all you’ve got. Lyme disease is blood draws and needles and picc lines and scans and tests and such. Lyme disease is tasting sadness and longing in every mouthful. Lyme disease is chill and fever. Lyme disease is frustration and ignorance and fear. Lyme disease is being dragged across a continent to get help when you have free health care at home. Lyme disease is new and old and complex and deep. 
Lyme disease is a disease and is what I have and is not who I am. 
Lyme disease is…
Lyme disease is…
Lyme disease is…
Lyme disease is a chance to change and stand up for what is right and not medical dictatorship or it won’t be much longer. 
Lyme disease is a time, a place, a feeling, a life, a sorrow, a calling, a chance, and a change.
It is a little world and it calls me home. 
News flash: it has been given a final notice.
News flash: it’s been sent packing.
News flash: it’s as good as gone, soon enough.
New flash: Lyme will be evicted from my bones.

A Labyrinth

Yesterday (or was it the day before…) we stayed overnight in a hotel because the next day I had to go to a pain doctor. I’m not entirely sure what he said, but I now understand that nerve pain is a very complex pain and there is no ‘right’ or ‘good’ way to treat it, but some things help. I so was looking more for a quick cure, an easy fix, something that would just numb me to the core and take me out of this pain. But the fast patch jobs never last long and don’t ‘deal with the problem’. And that, my friends, we know sucks. Majorly.

There is only the straight and narrow version for describing ‘dealing with the problem’ right now and it more than sucks. Its a deep kind of disappointment and bitter realization that a cup of tea and a triple chocolate muffin can’t quite fix.
And, that is SO not what I wanted to hear.
I want to hear exactly what I feel will work.
This isn’t a world of Care Bears and rainbows, of frolicking and innocence, and deep-fried chocolate sugar coatings. We sure don’t have a utilitarian government, or, some would argue, even a wholly democratic government. 
We have what we are given, what we take, earn or even choose to believe. And if we don’t like that lot, we make a change. We embody a change. We breath it until we fully believe it and make others. 
I’m working at it. I don’t like this lot at all quite frankly and plan on making change. I believe I can, and now, like butter-cream frosting on a rather reluctant chocolate cake, we’ve got to spread the truth and make the change. Before the lies and ignorance changes you. I live and breath and play and run and laugh like the rest. But if it could change me, it sure as hell could change you. Call it cliche. But if you aren’t sitting in my chair, don’t call it cliche. 
And that is the straight and narrow.  

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