The Sickness

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Went to Urgent Care and was told it’s a viral upper respiratory infection.

So, pretty much do what I’ve been doing for the last two days — rest and fluids — but now I have nasal steroids, codine cough syrup, and pseudoephedrine.

Also making some chilli. Usually I like to make chilli from scratch with dry beans that are slow cooked and do everything myself, I just got canned everything and packaged ground beef. Crock pot for four hours on high, and you have chilli.

Nothing really insightful today. Sorry.

Kind of sucks having to spend New Years under quarantine.

The Perpetually Sick Girl

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S.O. gave me his sinus crud. Woke up at 5am with a temp of 101.2.

FML.

I texted my supervisor that I was sick and felt like death.

My ears hurt and I have the dizzies.

Totally couldnt pass a field sobriety test.

So, it looks like hot tea with honey and lemon, Vit C, cold meds, Vicks, soup, my couch, a very concerned Harley Cat, and Star Trek.

Jean Luc Picard should lift my spirits, if anything.

My brain hurts.

Ugh.

And this is after being sick in October. It took two courses of antibiotics to kill it.

I should be a science experiment.

Going back to sleep now.

The Death of my Childhood

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2016 has been a shit year.

Had a lot of weird/bad things happen to me, but a lot of good things, too. Sort of.

Bad things tend to outweigh the good things, at least in my mind. But I’m a highly logical person who has to analyze everything. Combine it with anxiety. Sprinkle lightly with salt. BAM.

I remember when Robin Williams died, I thought my childhood had died. My cousin had taken her life a week prior and almost exactly the way Williams had. And Williams was a staple of my childhood. Hook, Genie, Jumanji, etc…

I’ve never had a celebrity death impact me like that.

But, dammit, 2016. Carrie Fisher. Seriously.

My childhood is dead. Just gone.

I think I said “Fuck you, 2016” like 200 times yesterday.

 

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The Fat Kid Problems

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Hokay!

Foreword about this post — I, in no way, am fat shaming or glorifying being fat. It’s a simple statement of facts and my own personal opinion. I’m not a fan of SJWing, especially for physically or mentally unhealthy things, and no matter which way you serve it, being fat is detrimental to your health. Period.

All this coming from a person who is overweight and not in the best of health.

I’ve talked about my thyroid issue before, which makes it difficult to lose weight. Combine with unhealthy foods being the cheapest and a sedentary work life. Fat.

Honestly, what bothers me most is that I don’t drink soda, I don’t own any sugar (except to make sugar scrub). I sweeten things with honey or leave it plain. I don’t put sugar in my coffee; I usually drink it with straight milk or cream. I walk roughly an hour every day depending on weather and do yoga. I eat quinoa and lean meats. I love veggies. I’m conscious about what I eat.

I don’t want to hear that I’m not trying.

I still have problems with fatigue and energy from my thyroid. I go in for labs next month to check levels and hopefully will have my levothyroxine dose upped.

And as for health problems — your bones and joints hate you. I sit 40+ hours a week with work and I have the worst sciatica. I look for reason to get up and walk — the fax machine is a great excuse. I have random aches and pains. I’ve had to go to physical therapy for my back and hips. I do feel fortunate that I don’t have diabetes. But, before I started thyroid meds, my cholesterol was abysmal.

But I digress…

I got a gift card to Kohls. And I love most of their clothes.

Until I realized, where in most places I can wear an XL, the XL’s there are smaller than normal. So, I took my happy, fat ass to the plus size section and was aghast with how hideous all their plus sized clothes were. They were all oversized, shapeless, tacky graphic tees. All the dress shirts were shapeless and unflattering.

It was just gross.

I was tempted to find their maternity section, but at that point I was just disgruntled.

I walked around Kohls for an hour trying to find something to buy with my $50 gift card and came out with two Yankee candles… after being in there for a whole HOUR.

I found lots of clothes that were my style and I would have walked out of there in a heart beat if they were my size. Some of the Lauren Conrad and Vera Wang dresses were absolutely gorgeous, especially the Disney inspired ones.

Nope.

Not one of them in my size.

I like dark blues, blacks, lace, pearls, creams, deep purples and burgundies… none of that was there in the plus sized section.

It was bad.

Maybe I can find something online…

But altogether it was a disappointing experience.

 

The Interim

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Hey! It’s Christmas Eve.

Spent the morning driving to S.O.’s — an hour and half away. I forgot how much this drive sucked.

Naps and snuggles ensued.

S.O.’s mom found out I was staying with him. She told him to use protection if we have sex.

He’s 31 and we’ve been dating for six and a half years — she should be more worried if we weren’t having sex.

Just saying…

We braved Target for some benadryl –I’m allergic to his house and wont sleep without it.

Found a sit down resturaunt that wasn’t Waffle House or Dennys and had a good meal.

Now, it’s Deadpool and last minute Christmas wrapping.

A good day.

The Grad School Drop Out

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I think I dropped out of grad school.

I mean… I took a health break for a year after I started working full time and found out my body is eating my thyroid.

And I need to go back and finish.

Badly.

I am literally a thesis defense away from my MS.

Pretty much what happened is that I put blood, sweat, tears into my thesis. I did a huge research project which involved permission from the IRB to do research on actual human people. I did a massive survey. Sleepless nights. Tears. Frustration. Hard work.

And because I live an hour and a half away from my school, having to drive back and forth for meetings was tenuous when I wasn’t full time, and now could put my head on the chopping block.

But I told my committee that I was done. And then they bitched at me for not following protocol and I’m here like… no one told me there is this red tape protocol bureaucratic bullshit.

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I just want to defend my research and get my degree.

“Well, you need to propose your research.”

I fucking did that. Okay. I did that when I sent you an email with a detailed outline of what I was doing, my methodology, blah blah woof woof. Why do I seriously need to drive an hour and a half to have this meeting, where I’m missing work and NOT getting paid, for you to listen to me drone on. Seriously… this could be done by email. Skype if you really wanna see my face.

And then my chair ripped apart my thesis to the point where I may need to rewrite. Add some good, old fashioned anxiety in there and boom!

I might be a grad school drop out.

And for all my friends who have M.S. degrees, they ain’t even using them.

Note: this diatribe was created in part due to my dad asking “Carolanne, when are you going to finish your masters?” and stumbling upon my portfolio with all my awesome grad work.

For anyone interested in long, boring essays and case briefs about various criminological topics written by yours truly, click below:

Click me to read long boring essays.

And encouragement. I really need that right now.

 

The Friday before Christmas — A Poem

T’was the Friday before Christmas

and all through the state,

state workers were working

at a slower than normal rate.

We all got paid today

and are steadily watching the clock

Time is dragging on

waiting for the time when all the doors lock.

The Governor usually gives us this day off

but this year is different.

Most workers are here

but others took their annual leave to be absent.

I stare at my computer screen

in hopes that time will go by faster

but it’s all in vain.

Surely, patience is a skill I will eventually master.

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Yes, I’m bored. Don’t judge me.

The Refreshingly Shitty Childhood

Is it sad that I find it actually slightly comforting when I meet a person whose childhood was just as shitty as mine. Like little things. One of my coworkers has similar issues with her family, and she mentioned how she will never tell her family if she has money or how much money she makes.

Holy crap.

I have to do that too.

Or when you have more convicted felons in your family than people with degrees.

Maybe it makes me feel normal, knowing there is someone out there that can actually empathize with me.

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Holidays always bring up past memories of all the shitty things my parents inflicted on me.

Rewind about 20 years — that’s when my older brother became a prominent member of the criminal justice system. In the years since, he’s been in and out of correctional institutes.

I guess that’s why I ended up with a criminology degree.

I could literally write a doctoral dissertation about my brother’s career as a criminal.

Right now, in fact, he’s in a correctional institution in rural Georgia.

I could go on about my brother, but this post is about me…

I cannot tell you how many of my parents income tax returns went to pay for my brother’s attorney fees. In fact, my parents were so consumed with my brother’s ongoing legal issues that they seemed to forget I was there….

But remember, I was the good child. I didn’t need any attention from my parents.

A few years later, my brother was 17, and a huge fucking idiot. But we’ve already established that.

He thought it would be a good idea to hook up with a 14 year old. Now, they didn’t have sex. Should have. Because if they did, it would have been statutory rape and NOT child molestation.

And because my parents were just a bunch of ignorant rednecks, my brother’s lawyer told them to plead out and BAM! Three years in prison.

During those three years, I was in high school. And my mom thought it was an awesome idea to pick up a meth habit.

Fun times.

So, I would come home everyday to broke shit, holes in the drywall, holes in the ceiling, glass, potted plants, dishes… just shit.

The first person I ever got into a fist fight with was my mom.

My parents were yelling and screaming at like 3 am. Usually when they would fight, it’s because the drugs had dried up and they didn’t have any money to get any more. So my dad would pull money from our mortgage payment or my mom’s car note to pay for meth.

Suffice it to say, her car got repo’d and the house got foreclosed on.

But yeah, they were screaming at each other and I told them to shut up. It was a school night. My mom attacked me. I punched her in the face. Then called the cops.

Then I went to college. Every time I asked for anything, whether it was grocery money or moving to/from the dorms to apartments etc… it was always like I was an inconvenience or unwanted.

After I graduated, I moved back in with my folks, got a job, and promptly moved out.

I was working for this contractor near the Athens area and got canned on my 90th day. See, they had me doing the work of three people and were still not satisfied. Also the cherry on this sucky cake is that the business was a Christian business with Christian morals and Christian values.

I lost my faith then.

So I asked my dad could I move back in. He’d had a couple of coldbeers and agreed. The next day, he told me that mom wouldn’t let me.

Cue six month homeless adventure.

Day 4 of said homeless adventure, my dad fell off a scaffold at work and fractured his pelvis in three places and shattered his wrist. A month after that, my mom went into the hospital with an infection in her guts. She was admitted for three weeks.

Karma’s something.

Yeah, those are the things I’m really bitter about when it comes to my parents.

So, when I meet a person who had an greater or equally shitty childhood, I kind of find it refreshing.

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That may make me a bad human being.

The Dreams and Subsequent Short Stories

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Last night, while cleaning up my computer in preparation for my annual reformat, I stumbled upon some old short stories I had written.

I have a hard time finding inspiration, but I do have some pretty insane dreams.

Because of my weird anxiety issues, a lot of my dreams involve running away or running late and forgetting everything.

A prominent recurring one is trying to get my makeup together to go to school and missing the bus.

I haven’t ridden on a school bus in 10 years.

The short story, though, that I stumbled upon was a weird one. I had a dream where I woke up in a strange, alien place. Like an apartment or flat, but not human. I was alone and I remember rifling through the drawers and cupboards and finding linen clothes made for people who had four arms. There was a chase and a getting caught. Blah blah woof woof.

When I reread it two years after writing it, it’s an interesting, suspenseful story. But now, even talking about it, I feel weird and embarrassed. Who writes about waking up on a world full of creatures with four arms with no memories?

It feels trite and cliche and silly.

I do have some other interesting dreams I should write about, but I don’t.

I’m cursed with hating what I write and being to embarrassed to show it to anyone to get validation.

Also, people who I show my stories or writings to say I write too technical. I’m very descriptive of things to a fault. But my dialogue is very tight and sparse. At least in this story.

I found another one, based of my own family, where the dialogue carries the story.

All and all, I just try too hard.

The Holiday Spirit

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Today we are having our bureau Christmas party with some white elephant. I made home made sugar scrub for my gift. I always find it hard to pin down a recipe with specific measurements because I always try to go for consistency and feel rather than precision. But, here’s what’s in it:

  • Cane Sugar (usually I use organic raw sugar but it was cheaper)
  • Coconut Oil (love Trader Joe’s)
  • Honey
  • Flaxseed oil (I know it’s good internally, but when I read that it helps rosacea and eczema, which I have both, I thought I’d throw some in)
  • Peppermint essential oil — added enough for scent, but not enough to make you feel mentholated.

I even put on lipstick and eyeliner for this one.

Still haven’t figured out Christmas. Besty and boyfriend invited me to see Rogue One with them on Monday.

They invited me for dinner last night and we had a lovely German dinner complete with roasted taters, kraut, sausage, and green beans.

And we watched Love Actually, which is now my favorite Christmas movie — mostly because swearing and tits. But is pretty darn cute

And all I really want for Christmas is my bills paid.

And a bottle of Macallan’s 20 year scotch.

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