For those of you who haven't seen or heard of it, this is a small example of what Plurk is. Check out http://www.plurk.com/metacode for a more in-depth example. Basically, it's an interactive social micro-blogging site. Imagine posting something and then getting instantaneous responses and doing the same with others' posts. It's awesome.

The first worst day of my life was when my mom died. I knew right then that nothing was ever going to be the same.

This . . . is different.

Currently, I'm fifteen weeks pregnant. All through this pregnancy there have been problems ranging from hyperenemesis gravidarum that's landed me in the hospital to severe insomnia. And for a narcoleptic to experience insomnia, well, that's a feat in and of itself.

While there's Tay Sachs, the more immediate issue is that the kid is not even going to make it to birth and is dying in me at the moment. The heart rate is below a hundred beats and is shallow. My doc had an ultrasound on me for over a half hour the other day and tried to get it to move at all and it didn't. It's failing to grow. More correctly, it's dying in me slowly and if it does die in me before we get it out then it runs the risk of making me very, very sick, if not killing me through toxemia or stepsis - I forget the term she used. She said that the placenta should have detached and therefore caused miscarriage in this case, but since it hasn't . . . well . . . *sigh* I get to have an abortion. I looked at my doctor like she was insane when she said it wasn't so bad. Yes, it is 'so bad'. This was one of those things I could've gone my whole life without having and I don't care if it's medically necessary or not. It was on my agenda to never have one, thank you. I wanted the kid.

Because I have miscarried once before (I was at five, maybe six weeks) and because of this situation, my doc thinks that it's quite possible that I am not able to have children due to what's commonly known as 'incompetent uterus'. I go back on February eighteenth to be checked out for that. If that's the case, then it's probably in my best interest to get a tubal ligation done.

There's a part of me that really wants to rant about this, about the unfairness of it all. I just don't have the energy. I'm so fucking depressed.

So if I seem off in the next few weeks or days, well, you know why now.

(ephemeral)

Fuck smiley glad-hands with hidden agendas.

(ephemeral)

This is an exercise. It's partially an externalization of a semi-internal conversation. I'd give more on it's background (and, eventually, I'm sure it's all gonna come out, but until then . . . ), but right now I don't feel up to it. Thank you, VNV Nation for providing the soundtrack used herein.

. . . . prompts for action, force reaction
embody promise in a sheen so pure.
Hurt, the measure of blind ambition,
the testament to your singular disease.
Against all wisdom you heed no warning,
your desires giving you away.

If you got wind that something wasn't . . . well, that it could be lethal, that it could cause harm to a number of people, you'd do what you could about it. Okay, most of the people I know would. You'd probably say something, at the very least.

So, if you got that warning that something was fucked up and you did nothing about it, then the consequences of such would rest on your shoulders. That's pretty logical, right?

If I could change your mind,
I wouldn't save you from the path you wander.

But if you decided to do nothing, it's not like me or anybody else could really enforce action upon you . . .

And if you decided to do something that I disagree with on a moral and ethical level, again, the consequences are something you should be prepared to deal with.

In desperation dreams, any soul can set you free.
And I still hear you scream,
in every breath, in every single motion.
Burning innocence, the fire to set you free.

If you involved someone innocent in your wreaking of devastation . . . That raises its own ethical and moral quandries. Yay.

Your actions turn conquest to dust.
In portents of fate, you foolishly place trust.

Unfortunately, that feeling that "everything will be okay" if you do nothing isn't a guarantee. Okay, and so there aren't ANY guarantees. There is no such thing as psychic ability, sadly, either, so trusting your "sixth sense" - which may just be blind, fear-driven hope that there's some magic pixie dust solution to something that can't be fixed - against the stacked mountain of evidence that everything is NOT okay and will not turn out well . . . Well . . .

Sense fear in your broken breathing.

Fear-driven hope is rarely right. It usually is a psychological opiate for when all else fails to make things better.

I'm saying nothing for the good of myself,
but I'm still talking and you're not listening.

Sadly, not listening to those with an outside - completely outside! - objective stance can be one's undoing when you're involved in a highly charged quandry. Oi.

They'll never say they feel what you feel,
that they can see the world you see.

Unfortunately, there aren't many people who are objective enough . . . *sigh*

Goddamn it. And if I could change your mind, I wouldn't save you from the path you wander. And I still hear you scream, in every breath - in every single motion. I'm saying nothing for the good of myself. But I'm still talking and you're . . . not . . . listening.

(ephemeral)

I believe the proper response to all this stuff is "fuck this shit".

Oi.

(ephemeral)

I heart Voltaire.

Well, I was stuck on Voyager, pounding on the door
When suddenly it dawned on me - I've seen this show before!
Perhaps I'm in a warp bubble and slightly out of phase
'Cause it was way back in the sixties when they called it "Lost in Space".

We were looking for a way to make the ratings soar,
So we orchestrated an encounter with the Borg.
Normally you'd think that that would get us into shit,
But this one has a smashing ass and a lovely set of tits!

And I say
Bounce a graviton particle beam off the main deflector dish.
Thats the way we do things, lad - we're making shit up as we wish!
The Klingons and the Romulans pose no threat to us
'Cause if we find we're in a bind, we're totally screwed - but nevermind!
We'll pull something out of our behinds- we just make some shit up.

(From The USS Make Shit Up)

Hehe. It made me smile. And it got the headcrabs out of my head, FINALLY. :)

(ephemeral)

I'm not dead yet, although I kinda wish I were. Huzzah.

(ephemeral)

What the fuck. Again, I say, what the fuck.

So while I'm now on the uphill climb, it pleases me to no end - and I mean that with all due sarcasm - to have found out that one of the medications that I was given a fairly high dose of at the hospital (as well as a subsequent prescription for) is NOT supposed to be used in patients with clinical depression. By extension, this would mean it's probably contraindicated in people who, like me, are Bipolar . . . and especially people who are, more like me, untreated and Bipolar.

With it's wonderful array of side effects like tardive dyskinesia and neuroleptic malignant syndrome, this does NOT make the best anti-emetic out there. It explains why I've been more restless since they gave it to me, not to mention the chemically-induced depression - replete with full-blown irritability! - that I've been experiencing.

Seriously, next time they'd better just give me a goddamn opiate. Grrrr.

And with the half-life of Reglan, it won't be out of my system until Thursday. UUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I think next time I'll keep the extremely dehydrated, nauseated all to Hell state if that's the cure. :P

(ephemeral)

The Phenegran - she stopped working.

I got a trip to the hospital the other day. Have I ever mentioned just how much I loathe hospitals? Oi.

So now there's the not sleeping, a different form of Phenegran, and this stuff called Reglan.

Sleep . . . how I miss thee. :(

(ephemeral)