[Journal] Procrastination

Firstly, wow. I am majorly behind in my blogging. The last month and a bit whizzed by me in a bit of a blur. I worked until 2am every night up until my biggest market event and put everything on hold – social life, games, comics – then I worked over the weekend of my big event with the help form some very special people, and then I hit the drop after the event where my body reminded me exactly how hard I had been punishing it. Of course, this is the end of week 2 after the event and I’m only just getting some time to myself. The entire week after was supposed to be my “off week” and just happened to be filled with every appointment known to mankind. By the time I finally had a spare moment to jot down a blog entry or comic, my body turned around and laughed at me.

I’ve more or less spent the last two weeks dealing with the nuclear fallout of pushing myself harder than I should have had to, but without my normal 12 month runup to the event, I had to do 365 days of work in just under 2 months. I was NOT happy. To further my frustration, almost every bit of equipment I needed died in the arse. My PC? $1000 fix. It’s a long story, trust me, but I couldn’t really avoid the cost. The embroidery machine more expensive than my car? Eating projects to the point where it couldn’t be used. My body? Well, we had the food poisoning incident. Hell, even the event itself managed to try and do us over by throwing emergency storm warnings at us and flooding the stall. Once we got back, my car tried to shit out it’s own transmission, I ended up with (thankfully!) a mild case of tonsillitis because some chucklefuck decided to share a drink with the chronically sick girl without using their fucking brain, several hundred dollars in medical bills and general chaos.

The event turnover wasn’t as awesome as I had hoped, but I made some wonderful friends over the weekend, got to spend time with both my big and my little sister, the amazing gentleman that I call my (adoptive) father and that side of my family. When we got home, I crashed pretty hard and it’s been a very hard slog to get the most mundane things done. Today is a very good example of that. I’ve been telling Manthing that I’ll wash the dishes for two days now, but the thought of standing, using the bathroom and moving in general is filthy exhausting, and even if I had some kind of energy, the pain I’m presently in rules most stuff out, too. I’d be in bed rather than writing this blog if there was some hope of me actually getting to sleep.

I’ve spent the better part of the last 3 days watching this amazing guy (if you haven’t seen Vet Ranch, go do it now) and just trying to survive. On the plus side, I found the most recent comic I uploaded in a pile of papers on my desk and also noticed that According to Abigail has officially cracked the 40 comic mark. That’s pretty damned impressive if you ask me. Getting out of bed on a bad day can be hard enough, but this is actually a really cool achievement and one that I’m keen on continuing. My honest to goodness dream is that I’d LOVE to see my comics in print some day. An actual, physical book to hold.

For now, though, I’m content to keep on doing what I’ve been doing. I’ve also noticed that there’s quite a few more followers since my last blog, so here’s a hello and welcome to those of you joining us for the first time. May I say “I’m sorry” in advance for the shameless swearing, creative descriptors and general shenanigans you will find here. For my regulars that I can’t seem to shake, you all get gold stars for putting up with me this long. You guys must be suckers for punishment or something ❤

I'm pretty much exhausted at this point so I'm going to sign off. At the very least, I hope that this post lets you all know that I'm still alive and kicking and hope to bring you more comics in the coming weeks.

Keep being awesome ❤

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[Journal] A not so short update.

I’ll be honest with you all. I have actually been avoiding my blog lately because I feel that, in order to post anything else, I owe a update of what’s been happening for me to be so quiet since my last post. To put things bluntly, all hell has broken lose on our end and I feel like I’m clutching at straws trying to deal with it all.

It started with the move from our old place to this one. For a bit of context, Manthing and I now live in a block of 10 town houses. They’re basically built on top of each other and, even though ours is one of two fee-standing ones, I can still hear my neighbours picking their nose at 3am. Anyway. Naturally we organise it all and the weather goes full retard. Torrential rain, flash flooding and weather warnings now bring up memories of moving house for me. The guys we hired worked well enough, though they decided to make snarky remarks at the new house about how tight we were, making them do their job by taking a few light shelves and boxes upstairs.

Manthing made his own snippy comment about how I had a disability and that’s why we hired them, otherwise we’d be doing it ourselves, and the eldest asked what it was. Manthing simply said it was like Arthritis. Of course, the mover couldn’t shut his mouth, so he said that he had Arthritis in his knee and took Prednisone and that fixed him right up, that I should try it. Manthing said I did and not only did it not help, that it made things worse. That shut them up. It really upset me, though, and for two reasons. One, we were paying their wages. The least they could do was keep their asshole opinions to themselves, or hold their tongues until we were out of earshot. Mostly, it was the fact that everyone seems entitled to comment on MY health lately. These guys moved my mobility gear. They shifted my scooter and my wheelchair and asked who it belonged to. They knew it was mine and yet still decided to act like my health was somehow their problem. Like I wasn’t affected enough to pay someone to help us make our lives a little easier. I could go on, but if I get bogged down in this, I won’t get to the rest of the update.

After that fiasco came the Unpackening. Living out of cardboard boxes is not what I’d call fun. It’s like trying to use the bathroom and knowing the toilet paper is in one of sixteen boxes. You really need to pee, but you can’t until you go through and hope to god you find the bog roll in time. Every square inch of the garage was filled by boxes and property. The lounge room, the bedroom, the office. All boxes. There’s standing room for maybe three adults (with no concept of personal space) in my office. Everywhere I look, cardboard boxes are grinning at me and we can’t do a god damn thing about it (see: I’ll get to that bit of the story).

We had been in the new place two nights when a friend came over to visit. He mentioned that it looked like someone had put mud on my car. Turns out some shitbags had not only covered my bonnet in coffee grounds, but either they, or some other assholes, had also broken into my car.  They had gone through the glove box, thrown shit around, tried to take the radio…  Two nights and my car (which had been parked on the street under a street light right near the driveway to our complex) had already been broken into and vandalised. Straight after that, I got an alarm fitted to my car. In the two weeks we’ve been here, it’s been set off three times. One of which was by a very loud truck driving past and another by one of the residents here reversing into me and driving off like the spineless fuck they are.

At this point I’ve got that “I’m done with this shit” feeling. We hadn’t even made it to our first week and already had shit going wrong. I didn’t want to see where we stood by Friday if this was how things were going. That week, we found out that the previous tenants had sanded the walls here rather than washing them. I learned this the hard way. When we moved in, I simply thought my allergies were due to some external force. We had actually picked this place due to the tiles and low-pile carpets being brilliant for my allergies because they didn’t hold onto dust well. In fact, the whole property is pretty damn new and that all worked in our favour. Anyway, I was unpacking and hanging up stuff in the wardrobe. I had changed my mind about where a hanging rack was going and moved some clothing, only to find white all over the raised crinkles in a skirt. I thought WTF. I remember throwing this in the wash. Another dress had the same issue. They had been touching the walls. I touched the wall myself and my hand came away covered in stupidly fine white powder. I touched another wall. The same thing. I went through the house, rubbing my hand on all the walls and found that for 80% of them, it was the same story. We were living in a house filled with micro particles of paint dust. They were in the carpet, on the wall, in my clothing and in the bedding. You couldn’t walk without kicking them up. I tried to vacuum them, but even my HEPA filter couldn’t cope and I had an asthma attack on the stairs. We decide for our own safety, we’re not going to unpack anything else. We’re already going to have to clean a fuckload of stuff once the issue gets fixed.

We report this to the real estate. Two weeks it took them. Two weeks with me crawling up their arse every few days. “Oh, can you send us some photos?” they said almost a week after I reported it. “Oh, we’ll get back to you” the following Monday. By this point, I’m having to take antihistamines every night to just sleep in my own bed. I’m waking up with nose bleeds. I’ve got all the signs of a sinus infection and I’ve got a serious cough. I’m fed up with their inaction. I walk into the office and the woman sees me. Gives me the “Oh fuck you’re actually here” look and proceeds to tell me that she was just about to call us, honest. The landlord has decided he’s “unwilling” to take any action on the issue. The agent looks at us and says there’s nothing she can do. I look at her utterly dumbfounded. I’m almost CERTAIN my rights as a tenant are being shat on here, but I’m not 100%. She says we’ll need to get it done ourselves. We walk out before I hit rage mode.

I spend the next two days calling up the tenancy advice line, fair trading and the works. I find out that not only am I in the right for asking the landlord to clean the house, but it’s is his legal obligation. Inaction on his part is a breach of both the tenancy agreement and our lease in three different places, and that our real estate are utterly spineless.

At this point we have three options.
1. We foot the roughly $400 cleaning bill to get the carpets wet/dry vac’d and shampoo’d and stay quiet, good little tenants.
2. We take the landlord before the tribunal so they can force him to clean the place. That’s going to take weeks at best, and all the while I’m living in what is effectively a toxic environment.
3. We give them a termination notice which states that the landlord has broken the lease in these places so we’re free to break the contract ourselves without having to pay the two thousand dollar fee.

We were advised by another real estate run by a friend’s parents that number three is our best option. If the landlord has already broken lease in the two weeks we’ve been here, imagine what shit will go down over the year we signed up for (which is another no-no on the part of our present real estate!). I have to agree. The complex is filthy. The bins are constantly trashed with rotten food thrown everywhere, nobody seems to care. In the lease we’re entitled to a quiet and clean place to live.  I’ll get to that point in a moment. But yes, three seems like the good option, even if it means we have to move again so soon. The problem is that it’s not quite that simple. You see, if we put in our notice of termination, the landlord HAS to agree to it. If he doesn’t want to clean the property he’s legally obliged to clean, I can’t imagine he’s going to want to have his source of rent leave. Which, by the way is $430 a WEEK. Yeah, that’s about the average house price here these days.

If he doesn’t agree, the matter STILL has to go before the tribunal and then they allocate the 14 day in which we have to leave (all the while still living in this dust nightmare). But guess what. We need somewhere to live lined up in those 14 days. Most places here take a week to process your application and then another week to actually sign you up for the lease, and nobody is going to accept someone still in a legally-binding clusterfuck like this one. So, basically we’re screwed if we do and we’re screwed if we don’t.

In between this mess, I’ve been organising a competition to help raise money for a charity that works for people with depression. Amusingly enough, my depression hit again the night before the event. The day was a complete and utter fuckup. As one discerning gentleman put it, it was a “blender in a brothel”. The woman that was supposed to organise it didn’t, I got flamed for 45 minutes from the organisers of the event we were at because our tiny little costumers group didn’t have fucking tanks and an airship. Where the fuck were we going to get them!? The whole thing was a nightmare. We got rained out by a freak storm, chased out of the mountains by a fire and then came home to more bullshit.

Yesterday after the fiasco I had to call the local police station about the kids next door. I won’t go into specifics, but there have been 4 families moving into the four units at the front, and one next to us. Each house has something like 4-5 children. Yesterday they ALL decided to play in the backyard of the place next to us. Now this isn’t an issue for me. What caused an issue was when they started throwing rocks at our corrugated steel fence, across the driveway at the neighbours house and at their god damn car. I mean, who the fuck does that? Anyway, I was out hanging up washing in the backyard when I heard the rocks being thrown. It was fucking loud. I asked the kids not to do that. Naturally the little fuckers didn’t. At some point they had thrown a ball into my backyard so I took it around to the front door to return it and also speak to the mother. Four doorbells later, she gets her arse out of the garage (where they had loud music blaring) and answers the door. I try to explain to her (because English isn’t her first language) that her little darlings have been little arseholes and are about to smash someone’s window and piss off the neighbours. She denies the whole thing, even when I show her the rocks in the driveway and under the car. The kids, all 7 of them, pile out into the driveway and deny everything. I go back inside, defeated. Not five minutes later the rock throwing starts again with rocks being pelted at the fence and at my back window, as well as the other targets. They also start screaming like blue murder, bring out recorders and blowing them until they screech and generally carrying on like feral animals in a backyard that’s less than 3m from my own. I put in a formal noise complaint but don’t ask the police to show up because they’ll know it’s me and I’m honestly afraid of retribution.

So right now I’m tired, fucking angry and stuck between a rock and a hard place with all of this. I have no idea what we’re going to do and, given that it’s Sunday here, I’m stuck with a day of inactivity where I can’t sort anything out because our agent doesn’t come into work until Tuesday. This isn’t including the fucking horrid pain flare I’ve had through the lot of it.

I need a hug.

Blogaversary!

Well, today is apparently one year since I started According to Abigail. It’s a bit of a milestone for commitment for me, since I’m horrible when it comes to procrastinating about getting a blog post done (in case you haven’t noticed) and find ways to put things off. The last few weeks have been a great example of this what with the pain flare more or less ruling my life.

The last pain flare is what I would describe as the worst one I’ve experienced. Daily highs of 8-9, lows of 6 if I’m lucky. Averaging 2-3 hours sleep a night, can’t stomach food, etc. I’m physically and emotionally worn out from it. Even now that the majority of the flare has packed it’s bags and hauled off, I’m still left feeling like a packet of poo tickets and just want to crawl into bed and sleep the day away.

I’ve also managed to go and bung up my left knee with some kind of soft tissue damage, so sitting at the computer desk for long periods of time is a no-no unless my housemates feel like hearing me do an awesome godzilla impression when I eventually stand up and make poo-face as the muscles and tendons realise they’re being forced to move.

I’m well on the road to sorting my shit out, thankfully. In contrast to this time last year, I now know what my diagnosis is and I’m actually starting to fight back and take control of my illness. Bitch, I’m going to make it work for me, or at least give it a DAMN good run for it’s money. I’ve found a Hydrotherapy place nearby, got my pool floaties (shit yeah!) and got my dr’s clearance form. Now all I need to do is get my ass down to the pool and float around like an angry meat muppet in the pool.

I had a podiatrist’s appointment the other day where I was both horrified and impressed with the amount of dead skin she removed from my feet thanks to my psoriasis (she was also rather cute, so that helped), I’ve seen a dietician recently to help me combat my case of the fatties and I’ll be seeing my exercise physio next week to work out what I can do that won’t kill me or my joints, so to speak. Thankfully all of this is under Medicare for the moment. With the way our government is going, I wanted to try and cram in as may beneficial appointments as I can get on this scheme before they nerf it entirely. As it is, I’ll be paying almost $10 a doctor’s visit (not including scripts or anything else) under the new scheme. For me, it’ll be tight considering how many times I need to see my GP for pain scrips and the like, but I’ll manage. There are others out there that will likely actually die with this new fee because they just can’t damn well afford to see someone. It’s a seriously screwed up situation.

(On a side note, there was a protest in the city today. I couldn’t be there due to mobility issues, but my housemate could so I sent my sign with him. “Gay, disabled, foreign women – still better off under Joffrey”.)

I also have an appointment with a specialist in July that may be able to help me with the big issue of pain management. I love my GP. She had a patient move up from the coast that sees this particular specialist and immediately thought of me when she heard that he does a lot of work in the area of Fibro. Interestingly enough, the ‘new thing’ in pain management is apparently Ketamine infusions. Yes, you heard correctly. They’re going to pump me full of horse tranquilizer. From what I know, it’s a very low dose and it’s administered via a drip over a course of several hours so you’re not likely to get any of the ‘street high’ the drug is commonly used for, rather it tells your nerve endings to calm the fuck down. The added benefit is that you’re also able to perform a perfect trot and have mad cravings for carrots and apples.

Unfortunately, his initial consultation is going to set me back almost $450.00, disregarding any follow ups or how much the actual treatment may cost. I frankly don’t want to think about the cost of the infusions, but you have to do what you have to do I guess. I’m willing to try just about anything at this point if it gives me a chance at having a semi-normal life.

In the mean time, I’ve managed to keep myself busy with a bit of work on my end. This is positive in two ways. Firstly, it allows me to very slowly save up for my medical appointments and whatnot, and it also keeps me focused and busy so that when I’m having a mega poo-brain day, I can still do basic things like sew my squid beanies. I’ve booked myself in for a big market event on the 31st at a fancy-pantsy school so I’m hoping I can cover the $80 stall fee and bust a few sales on the day. I’ve also been doing some business fanciness and have been contacted by a shop in the mountains that’s interested in stocking my gear, a photographer that wants me to be involved in some pretty awesome photo shoots and I’ve been working in the mean time with a client to get a LARP costume together for them.

Candy being a darling and helping me out with the fitting process

Candy being a darling and helping me out with the fitting process

I have to admit, I’m pretty damned proud of the way the outfit turned out. I’ve mentioned a few times now that I run a small business. Part of what I do is costuming and reenactment gear involving both sewing and leather work. In the awesome little image to the left, you can see my housemate/minion Candy being an utter darling and helping me out by holding still and ignoring my mockery while I took a picture of him in the outfit. I needed to make sure it would fit the client and he’s more or less the right size, so it’s a win/win! The client gets to see what his costume looks like and I get to call Candy a hobbit since he’s just a little too tall for the outfit to work properly.

Since I don’t get to talk about my work very often, the costume is entirely hand made and comprises of a cape/short cloak, a tunic and a pair of pants, all of which I designed myself from the concept stage, all the way through to finished item. What you can see in the picture is only about 80% done. If the client is willing, I may ask for a photo of the finished item on them so you can see how the tunic looks when fully hemmed and with the split up the front. All in all, I’m really god damn proud. It’s been quite a few years since I’ve made a tunic like this and the fact that I’ve still got it all upstairs enough to run a project like this actually makes me feel really pleased with myself. I figure that alone makes this little story worth sharing 🙂

Also, yes, before you ask, that is my LARP sword and it IS Glamdring. Ten internet points for those of you that remember what Glamdring is 😀 Anyhoo, I figure this post is long enough as it is at this point and you’re all probably greying while reading about it. I’m also in the process of getting my shit together for more comics and a few blog posts as well, so I am active and alive, just a little gimpy right now.

I should also point out that I DO love ideas for new comics. If there’s something you want to see immortalised in the Abigail style of comical shenanigans, let me know and I shall see what I can do!

Well, that’s all for me for now.

Much love, chickadees. Remember, we’re taking over the world for our Overlord Abigail, one day at a time!

 

Back from outer space: Part 1

After a few days downtime after my big event, I’ve finally reached a point where I can do a big of blogging about my adventures. I’m still damnably sore and stiff and I’ll be fatigued for another week or so, but it was worth it. As it is, it’ll probably take me a few sittings to finish this blog post, so behold! My work and efforts and stuff 😛

The theme of the event was ‘Life on Mars’. The best way to explain to you all what this event is like is to think of a Ren Faire. Big event, lots of stuff, primarily ‘living history’ stuff and lots of emphasis on people getting dressed up. We had jousters, falconry, canons and tanks, drones and borgs and R2D2 made an appearance. We had stalls and displays, blacksmithing, belly dancers, aerial performers and acrobats, a cosplay contest and so much more. To my knowledge, this is my states biggest event for this kind of thing. For those of you that aren’t aware, I run a small business based off my crafts and hard work. I was lucky enough to have a stall at the event thanks to my adoptive father and his magical ways.

We left on Thursday night as the Friday was a half-day/setup/get your shit together day from about 12pm onwards and the more time I have to sort myself out, the better. As it was, I think it took something like three or so hours for a nice, relaxed setup with me swearing and limping as my knees went full retard on me and Manthing and Candy looked on. But I digress.

Thursday night was fun. I decided to be brave a drive up with Manthing my passenger. I don’t normally drive of a night, so this was both exciting and a little confronting for me since I also had a metric fucktonne of shit in the car. I literally couldn’t see out my back window. I also have a little Lancer wagon, so that kind of gives you an idea of how much stuff I had packed into that little beast. As it was, we played the tetris theme while packing. I also discovered that I am a GOD when it comes to playing car-tetris. Seriously. I’m bloody magical at fitting stuff into small spots. Maybe I should hire myself out as a sex therapist.

We got as far as our dinner stop on the Thursday night when I checked my phone. It turned out that the motel we were staying at had tried to call me. Of course, the number they dialed on was not the number I had to phone to reach them, so gogo digging through to find my paperwork and booking. Upon calling them, I found out that they had decided on the night we were staying with them that my booking was now invalid because their contact for the website that I had booked through had some stick up his arse and hadn’t paid them. Disregard the fact that I booked back in JANUARY with them. First week of January, to be exact. No, it had only come up as a massive issue now that I was on my way to the actual event. So, there I am looking mournfully as my Happy Meal gets cold (yeah, I get them every now and again. Don’t judge me) while I’m on hold to the website customer support and being told that I’d need to repay the $600+ that I payed for the room back in January – motel room for 5 people for 3 days. Not bad when put into perspective – to have somewhere to sleep for the event. Long story short, they sorted their shit out and did some kind of double hop like cancelling my online booking to the motel and, instead of refunding me, they refunded the motel so they technically got their money and we still got our room.

By this point, we were half an hour behind time and needed to get to the motel about an hour’s drive away before reception shut at 9pm. I needed to ask them a few things and we needed to get the keys to the room, so the convoy set off. By convoy, I mean Manthing and I were in one car and Candy was driving his own behind us.

We eventually get to the motel at about 8:20pm and find that reception is locked up tight. Not a peep. There’s a sign on the front door with a poorly spelled rendition of my name, telling me to go to room 27. We head around the back to the room and try the door. Locked. Fair enough. We look inside the breakfast hutch. No key. In fact, we hear voices from inside the room and decide to knock on the door. Lo and behold, it’s actually the wife of a friend and fellow vendor that pops her head out. Her and her family are assigned to that room. It’s clearly not ours.

By this point, I’m more than just a little disgruntled. We walk back around to reception in the pitch black and I scramble through my bag to check my phone. Naturally there’s no reception out there at all. Not even a bit. However, I do have another two missed calls on my phone. Interestingly enough from the same number as before. I check my voicemail and it’s reception calling me to tell me that we’re in room 26. The keys are in the breakfast hutch. I’m somewhere between wanting to curse out these guys and their offspring and just wanting to fall into bed after all the shenanigans. We make our way back to 26, apolgose to 27 for bothering them, and start unpacking the car. About 15 minutes later, Candy shows up. He had managed to take a wrong turn on a road that’s nothing but straight for miles and miles. That’s WITH a GPS. I don’t even.

It also turns out that we’re in the same room we stayed in last year. Nothing has changed. It’s still as crap, but it’s a roof over our head for the weekend. I forgo the shower that night in favour of just flopping into bed. As I go to climb in, however, there’s a bloody great Bull Ant making himself at home under my pillow and is more than a little annoyed that I’ve bothered him. He meets his maker, and I check the rest of the bed before climbing in with more than just a little paranoia. It wasn’t my bed, it wasn’t my pillow and I try not to think about all the potential things that had happened on a bed like that out in the middle of nowhere. Needless to say, I got very little sleep that night.

And now on to the first day of our adventure and ‘part 2’!

 

A long day’s night

Good lord I am tired. In fact, if there’s something beyond the feeling of tired, then I am that. I am utterly exhaustipated (n): – too tired to give a shit.

Yesterday took it out of me more than I thought. I admit, I was really stupid for taking that market on like I did, but there was a lot of good that came of it all. I made a slight profit (which means I covered petrol and stall fees. This is very good!) by maybe $10, but baby steps. I got to use my new marquee. I got to see old faces and I got to dress manthing up while he fell asleep. The drive home in the rain was crazy and there were too many accidents. I ended up just falling into bed once I saw my friend/stall minion for the day off home.

Had to get the car in for a service today and I haven’t been able to brain since. Woke up at 8:30am, groan, drool, yawn, etc. Drove in, manthing drove me home. I had intended to get about and do stuff, but body went “No, we’re sleeping NOW” and I passed out until 1:30pm. Woke up, yelled at lazy ass hat housemate who didn’t go to work because of excuses (don’t get me started on that bullshit) and had to get my stuff together to feed the two new baby birds in the house. More stuff to do. Can’t brain. My head feels like it’s made out of wet concrete. Massive ow flare, went to get it massaged out (my little treat on a blue moon) and it’s only 7:41pm and I am ready to pass out on the keyboard. I’m in pain, I’m shit-for-brains, I’m irritable and I am so, so, so exhausted. The kind of tired to the point where my hands aren’t coordinating and I can spend a good thirty seconds looking at a digital clock and still not know what the time is. I have to retype every other word at this point, but I haven’t had dinner and manthing won’t let me go to bed on an empty stomach (I love him to bits) so I need to wait another 40 for the oven to do the thing where the food is cooked.

At this point, I’d have a bath, but I’m not even certain I could get in or out wihtout help, and might actually fall asleep in it. That would be bad. Also, thank god for spellcheck or half this would be entirely unreadable.

I’m also really, really not looking forward to tomorrow. It’s my biological mother’s birthday. I very rarely talk about family members on here, but we have a tenacious history at best. I won’t go into detail, but suffice to say there’s about 10 years of child abuse and 18 years of a few other kinds that she’s very much tied to (and could have prevented) but didn’t. I’ve gone my own ways. I can’t forgive her for what she did, or failed to do as the case may be, but I keep contact with her at a comfortable distance. She’s not at a stage with her own mental health where she can accept any of it, so there’s no point in beating my head against a brick wall. The best thing I could have done for our relationship was move out of home, and get my own life on track, and so far it’s worked pretty well. I do my own thing, she does her thing and tells me about it every other day. I keep her updated on my health when I can, she frets and frets and offers silly suggestions but it’ all her way of trying to show she cares.

Point is, my sister has decided she’s going to come back and be family again (after her stint as “I’m an eighteen year old, you can’t tell me what to do!”) and now that I’m living in a decent house, she’s decided that we should do dinner for mum at mine. I appreciate that she wants to do it here so I can be comfortable and don’t have to travel, but when someone says dinner, I think 6-7pm. Apparently that’s not going to happen and I need to expect a full house at 8:30-9pm, and I feel really old in saying this, but those few hours make a hell of a difference. Especially with how I’m feeling today. I’m praying to Odin’s hairy left testicle that I feel better by tomorrow because I sure as hell don’t have the strength to deal with this shit right now.

Anyway, I’m going to not think about it too much and see if I cant just lie down for a bit. Maybe grab one of those smoothie breafast things for dinner and just crash out. I am so tapping out of today.

That sleep thing.

So, it’s 3am. I can’t sleep because of any number of reasons, but the top on my list today are:

  1. That fucking leg pain. The kind that creeps up as a little ache at first and you think “nah, it’s not going to be an issue” so you only take one painkiller and hope for the best, but inevitably, it turns into “Oh fuck, my leg/hip/knee/ankle/etc” and you wish you had added another two painkillers and a sleeping table to the list of ‘shit I put in my mouth’.
  2. My market on Sunday. Due to both the move and then the possibility of dying, I cut out almost all work-related stuff since January. While it is one of the perks of being your own boss, far be it from something that does you any favours on days like today.  I need to do this market on Sunday or I run the risk of losing the prime position I was allocated by the very understanding market manager there. I have to remind myself that she also runs a buisness.
  3. My MASSIVE market at the end of this month. Last I checked it was still March. Now, thankfully I did something clever and put together my ‘market pack’. In there is enough stock to get in the car and go to any given market this side of the mountains, however this one coming up at the end of the month is one of those ‘make or break’ deals that you wait the whole year for. Thus far I’ve doubled my profits each year. My hard work has paid off to a degree and I get an excuse to romp around in a fancy dress. This year, however, it’s three days rather than two. You wouldn’t think that extra day would make a massive difference, but it does. And I have expectations to reach this year. Not only those of the people that see me, but my own ones. I am the most asshole boss there can be, sometimes.

I know I shouldn’t be blogging (yes, manthing, this is directed at you, you bum head <3) at 3am, but what else can I do. I’m too bloody tired to get my head together to make a comic (though I do have a few sitting pretty for tomorrow) and I’ve beat another gym and raised my pokemon all to level 45. My Charizard kicks some serious arse, by the way. I thought you should know.

Anyway, I’m going to try and go back to sleep, or at least lie there and tickle manthing and see how long it takes him to roll over and snuggle me (or elbow me in the nose. Either or.) while I give my best sloth impression. By the way, if you read this before I get up in the morning, for the love of all things holy and purple, DO NOT WAKE ME UP! Just let me get up, because chances are the rear-end of a camel will have a better disposition than me tomorrow.

This weekend was a big one. Saturday was spent dealing with hellspawn and their parents at a face painting gig. I got hired by a local shopping centre to help promote a little event they were hosting – some kind of card swap event. It ended up being a massive free-for-all with parents literally wrestling children for silly animal cards, to the point where both the parents and kids were jumping, climbing and wrestling their way across my table. If I could have gotten away with mauling someone, even Odin’s left testicle couldn’t have saved the victim.

There is nothing quite like the slow-boil rage of a 24-year old who’s had her medication switched, hates people and who’s painkillers aren’t working when she’s shoved into a corner and told to deal with the noisy, ill-trained parasites from vaginas she’s not familiar with.

English: inflatable blow up doll (sex doll) De...

English: inflatable blow up doll (sex doll) Deutsch: aufblasbare Gummipuppe (Sexpuppe) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The worst bit had to be the self-entitled parents who decided that my painting table was there purely for them to put their crap on while they crowdsurfed the throng of 8-year-olds fighting over the card for a common ringtailed possum. I’d like to point out that the cards aren’t even worth anything. They’re some promo nonsense started by the store to attract more customers. I suppose they worked.

Yesterday was the first Sunday of the month. As per usual, I was at the markets and trying to sell my wares. The mountains are a lovely place, but it would be so much better if I wasn’t godforsakenly cold. The night before was one of those horrid nights where I was in too much pain to sleep, and the more exhausted I was, the more my body complained by putting me in pain. It makes perfect sense. If I could move, I would have raged hard enough to destroy my bucket entirely last night. Unfortunately, I kind of just lay there like a sex doll for those on the stranger end of the fetish spectrum and resisted the urge to bite my partner every time I had a pain spike. I like to think that I did fairly well, all things considered.

Point is, I went to the market. After being in pain for over 24 hours straight and hot having slept, it took all my self control and stubborn streak to kick my own butt into sucking it up the get to the mountains. Fortunately I had played a game of tetris earlier and had managed to condense an entire two-table stall into two boxes, the tables, two chairs and a box for lunch. For a chronically messy organiser, this is a gold star achievement.I set up with manthing’s help (which is impressive in itself) and spent the time from 7am to 2pm trying to keep myself warm. I was wearing two jumpers, a shirt, stockings and the warmest track pants I had and I was still sitting there shivering. All the locals looked at me like I was some kind of amusement and all the children stared because of my purple hair. I felt quite the spectacle. I got through the day on adrenaline and the hope that I’d walk away with some money in my pockets. Unfortunately, I only ended up selling three items on the day – a leather cuff, a framed picture and a hand made card – and it covered my market stall costs, but not petrol or anything else. At least it was better than last month where I didn’t sell a thing.

On the upside, I did learn a very valuable lesson. If you take painkillers and have a sensitivity to them and then have an energy drink before driving home to keep you away, you WILL be sick. No maybe. No ‘there’s a chance’. You will feel like woofing your cookies. Paying homage to the porcelain god. Having a lumpy chuckle. You WILL want to puke. In hindsight, it is rather entertaining. I imagined I looked like quite a sight on the way home. Once we pulled into the driveway, I almost ran from the car to dive headlong into bed. Yup, poor manthing got stuck with unloading the car, but I was in no state to do anything more than play roadkill. I’m sure I even had the smell right at that point.

On the way home I also found out that my best friend/sister/adopted family had finally managed to babycannon a little Miss out of her cooter. I’ve seen some pretty damn adorable things in my life, but this sproglet just takes the cake. She has her mum’s nose and is cuter than a pink dumptruck filled with kittens and ducklings being driven by a Jack Russel in a sailor’s outfit. I can’t wait to finally meet the little bugger that punched and kicked me every other time I rubbed mum’s belly 😀

I forgot what else I was going to type. As you may have noticed, I’m rather… out of it. My body isn’t playing ball with the drop in medication and I have no real choice about it all, so the universe can suck my proverbial right now. I’m going to sod off and go play with some leather.

To end this journal, I figure I’ll share something that’s highly entertaining right now. Even better, because it’s about tea.

Enjoy!