Okay, I lied. I do have something to blog about. I neglected to mention that my boyfriend broke his brain on Monday, because it was upsetting and I thought it was a bit too personal to blog about. Then I changed my mind. Which I am allowed to do. Read his account of the 'sode first to better understand roughly my train of thought as events progressed:
Eric is being a big whiner about his stupid blurry email.
Eric needs to change his contacts more often.
Whatever. Eric needs to take a little walk or something.
Um, Eric's IMing me a bunch of gibberish.
Holy shit! He did it again!
Oh my god! Eric can't talk!
Braintumorbraintumorbraintumor
Shit, shit, shit! Even Allen's freaking out and Allen never freaks out! Well, he's not "freaking out," but he's all for taking Eric to the ER! Hey, Eric's name starts with "ER." Weird.
Shit!
Braintumorbraintumorbraintumor
Oh, now his HAND IS NUMB?!
Strokestrokestroke. Hey, that's actually better than a brain tumor, right?
Okay. Eric's talking again. I probably don't need to drive to Berkeley behind a police escort.
Why! Doesn't! Somebody! Call! Me!
I have to pee and what if I go to the bathroom and accidentally drop my cell phone into the toilet? Say, don't cell phones cause brain tumors? Oh, wait, never mind. Eric's just had A FUCKING STROKE! No big deal! Who doesn't like a nice little STROKE every now and again?!
I'm going on the Internet because the Internet has all the answers. About people having strokes. Or migraines.
Should I be driving to Berkeley behind a police escort right about now?
I'm not freaking out. There is no point in freaking out. Freaking out is not helpful. Besides, there's nothing to freak out about. Except for that whole stroke thing.
Anyway, there was a lot more of this, and then I left work to pick Eric up and drive his contactless, half-blind, probably non-stroke-suffering, possibly retinal-migraine-having ass home. We've got an appointment with the neurologist on Monday, and since the CAT-scan and blood pressure reading came out fine, we both feel a whole lot better.
Now, I realize that the above account may at best sound blasé, at worst, downright insensitive. But you know what? Fuck you! Sorry. That was also insensitive. I did completely freak out and imagine the worst. I did have stupid, pointless, shallow, lame thoughts at the same time. I am going to continue to waver between dismissive optimism, despairing pessimism, blissful denial and sardonic humor until we see the neurologist on Monday. Possibly after.
See, you can chalk this up under the too much information column, but I lost my dad to cancer six years ago on Sunday, so I'm quite familiar with all the profoundly inappropriate weirdness that takes up residence in your head when you simply cannot reconcile the facts at hand. And I have learned to embrace the profoundly inappropriate weirdness because my father, my uncle, my grandmothers, my friend and countless other late loved souls no longer have the unique pleasure of experiencing this profoundly inappropriate weirdness.
Think of this post as exhibit A.
You can find more of the interesting word usements I structure on Apple.com.
Read my article, Better Writing Through Design, on No. 242 of A List Apart.