Melancholia.
Thursday marked my 22nd birthday, and everything went pretty well. I got presents from my mom and dad and brother (a Graphire3 tablet, which is awesome), and Genie got me the manga and the full DVD set of FLCL (my favorite anime of all time bar none), and I even got money with which I bought the Photoshop Bible. Life on Thursday was good enough that I ignored the pain in my lower abdomen and back.
Not so on Friday. It hurt so bad I risked life and limb to go to the infirmary. The infirmary is known for such medical exploits as offering someone cold medicine. And a birth control test. For everything. However, after I was violated several ways by the probing fingers of science, it was determined that at no point have I ever had a urinary tract infection. (I was diagnosed with a UTI in December and took Cipro for a couple days. Then over Christmas I thought I was relapsing. Now this.) Instead I have prostatitis, an infection of the prostate gland that, lo and behold, will not go away after a few days' Cipro. Try a month.
So I head over to CVS and grab my prescription and realize again the idiocy of name brand medicine. 60 pills of the generic was 20 bucks. Had I filled it namebrand, it would have been $330. That's ridiculous. So I call my mom and when she picks up the phone I know she's been crying. Dread hits my gut and I'm not in my car--I'm four years old and I've done something wrong and I know the bad things are coming. My mom asks me what's going on, real nonchalant, and before I can say anything she tells me the bad news.
One of our cats, Mildred, who is 12 years old and the sweetest cat ever, has a mass in her lung. It's inoperable. So odds are they'll have to put her to sleep. My brother got Mildred and her sister Vivian for Christmas 12 years ago, and I don't talk to him on Friday because he's just aimlessly driving around. The news has made him sick. I talk to my mom about everything and hang up. Then I call Genie. And I lose it. Because Thursday night when I was driving to Genie's place I saw a cat on the road, dead, and he looked just like my tabby I had when I was little. I miss him so much. And it hurt so bad to see a cat that looked like him on the road. So I just break down when Genie's on the phone.
Friday night was good, though. Kyra and Zollman and Jim and Komal and Genie and I go to the Melting Pot, the fondue restaurant, and we have cheese and chocolate. Kyra and Zollman forgot my birthday present, which turns out to be Home Movies vol. 1 (excellent).
Saturday we found a new apartment, that Kyra and I will share for 3 months or so. I've been working on my resume today, and working on a DVD project for my Chinese Arts Group, and trying to ignore the horrifying pain I keep feeling.
Being 22 sucks.
Not so on Friday. It hurt so bad I risked life and limb to go to the infirmary. The infirmary is known for such medical exploits as offering someone cold medicine. And a birth control test. For everything. However, after I was violated several ways by the probing fingers of science, it was determined that at no point have I ever had a urinary tract infection. (I was diagnosed with a UTI in December and took Cipro for a couple days. Then over Christmas I thought I was relapsing. Now this.) Instead I have prostatitis, an infection of the prostate gland that, lo and behold, will not go away after a few days' Cipro. Try a month.
So I head over to CVS and grab my prescription and realize again the idiocy of name brand medicine. 60 pills of the generic was 20 bucks. Had I filled it namebrand, it would have been $330. That's ridiculous. So I call my mom and when she picks up the phone I know she's been crying. Dread hits my gut and I'm not in my car--I'm four years old and I've done something wrong and I know the bad things are coming. My mom asks me what's going on, real nonchalant, and before I can say anything she tells me the bad news.
One of our cats, Mildred, who is 12 years old and the sweetest cat ever, has a mass in her lung. It's inoperable. So odds are they'll have to put her to sleep. My brother got Mildred and her sister Vivian for Christmas 12 years ago, and I don't talk to him on Friday because he's just aimlessly driving around. The news has made him sick. I talk to my mom about everything and hang up. Then I call Genie. And I lose it. Because Thursday night when I was driving to Genie's place I saw a cat on the road, dead, and he looked just like my tabby I had when I was little. I miss him so much. And it hurt so bad to see a cat that looked like him on the road. So I just break down when Genie's on the phone.
Friday night was good, though. Kyra and Zollman and Jim and Komal and Genie and I go to the Melting Pot, the fondue restaurant, and we have cheese and chocolate. Kyra and Zollman forgot my birthday present, which turns out to be Home Movies vol. 1 (excellent).
Saturday we found a new apartment, that Kyra and I will share for 3 months or so. I've been working on my resume today, and working on a DVD project for my Chinese Arts Group, and trying to ignore the horrifying pain I keep feeling.
Being 22 sucks.
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