The Bloody Doors Off

Had a tooth extracted today. And that was a bugger. Didn’t wanna come out. At all. When your dentist is grousing about its stubbornness, you know it ain’t good.

Thank the gods for nitrous. The only think that kept me in the chair.

Just wish I wasn’t in pain now. This sucker’s making its absence felt.

Jeebus, I haven’t written a single word since Monday.

Part of it writer’s block, I guess. But Tuesday and Wednesday I worked 8-10 hours which put my design brain to the test.

So, as I sit here watching a flashing cursor on my screen.

Maybe that ratio is more lopsided towards the former.

When was the last time I wrote anything other than in this blog?

If only I could shake free the ideas for stories I’ve shelved.

There was an initial spark; I just didn’t fan the flames.

You know how old that Idea was?

I hadn’t met Marlo yet.

The latest InDesign was CS5.5.

For eighteen months I was a writing machine. So many short play ideas sprang up. It’s tapered off these past six months.

I don’t like this.

I don’t like this.

And I don’t know how to self-correct.

(Author’s Note: This was written earlier this evening when I was balls-deep in… something. I can’t call it a panic attack. But I relayed this to my lovely wife and her simple act of listening lifted any fears I had for my sanity.)

(more…)

There are moments that truly surprise.

We (Marlo and I) have been struggling all week with the decision of whether to send the boy^TM to school on Monday. With Omicron rampant, and feeling that the provincial government hasn’t done enough to address the safety for our kids, we leaned towards remote learning.

We brought the boy^TM into the living room to discuss. We told him we were in favour of remote learning; he’s only going to be in this semester another nine days, and the grades (which can only be improved upon, says the Board) are locked.

He wants to go. At least for tomorrow. And reassess at the end of the day.

How fucking proud am I of this kid? He’s nervous, as anyone would rightly be, but he cares about school and wants to do good.

I guess that means I’m waking up at 6:30 am tomorrow to get things ready for the day, including making his lunch.

And I’m fine with that.

The good news is, I don’t have Covid.

I’m pretty sure I don’t have Covid.

Marlo’s tested negative three times now. We’re not going to waste one of our last rapid tests on me, not when we have to think of the boy^TM_.

But I’ve had headaches all week, and the sore throat comes and goes.

Plus, I’m going stir crazy in self-isolation.

I did go out the other day to pick up a package from the post office, and a few groceries from the market. And yes, I took every fucking precaution.

One of the things I picked up was a piece of veggie lasagne from European Delight. They didn’t have any meat ready (it had just gone in the oven) but they had a spinach and ricotta available. Me, loving lasagne almost as much as Garfield, gladly took it home.

I just took a bite.

Nope, can’t do it. Too much spinach. I promised Marlo a bite so she could see if she would enjoy it. I’ve given her the entire piece, and am heating up a TV dinner.

Because our order from Mister GoodMeats never arrived. (They allegedly deliver pre-cooked items you can reheat. I say allegedly because, as I mentioned, it didn’t show up today, and no one has answered our fucking email.).

And a panic attack just kicked in.

—–

Gosh, that was fun.

This week feels like a long series of minor setbacks. Not “throw you to the ground and knock the air from your lungs” moments. Just enough to feel like you ran a 5K marathon in your pyjamas.

—–

The food arrived this morning. Hadn’t heard the door knock. Don’t think it had been sitting outside the apartment long, as the contents were still very cold.

You know what? I’m gonna stop trying to squeeze out this blog post.

We’ll see how I feel later. ‘Cuz right now, it ain’t good.

I’m so into you
But I’m way too smart for you
Even my henchmen think I’m crazy
I’m not surprised that you agree
If you could find some way to be
A little bit less afraid of me
You’d see the voices that control me from inside my head
Say I shouldn’t kill you yet

Johnathan Coulton, Skullcrusher Mountain

It’s definitely a ‘dry’ January.

No ideas sparking in my brain. Blogging brings hours of staring at a white screen, begging for a subject.

The best I can muster is a mildly clever play on words for a title.

And I took two minutes to figure out whether it was ‘mild’ or ‘mildly’.

Still not sure, to be honest.

I’m pretty much symptom-free now; if it was Covid, I’ve burned it out of my body. (Though I’m pretty sure it was a head cold.) But Marlo is still under the weather, and we continue to self-isolate. I think I’m going a little squirrely. It’d be better if I had some work. Last week looked promising, but it’s the opposite today.

Goddamn this is boring. Gonna cut bait.

Might be back later.

Considering how fast the world is changing, my orbit feels impossibly slow today.

Third day of symptoms. The nasal drip has subsided, but I still have a raw throat and low-grade headaches.

A friend graciously offered to make a pharmacy run for my prescriptions. I held a Zoom call with Scott and Sam (collectively, “The Council of Guys^TM“), I emptied and stacked the dishwasher, washed the pots and pans, put away our groceries when they arrived. Even had time to watch Volcano (with what’s-his-fucking-name — oh right, Tommy Lee Jones — and Anne Heche) on TV.

And it’s only 6:40 pm.

This is gonna be one helluva night.

‘Cuz something is coming.

I can feel it in my bones.

But I won’t know what it is until it smacks me in the face.

Allow me to rant a little.

I am experiencing symptoms. Sore throat, headaches, runny nose.

According to the doctors, I must self-isolate, even though I cannot access a rapid test or obtain a PCR test (unless I want to pay upwards to $300.00). It’s possible I just have a cold. But without a test, I have to assume the worst.

So fuck you to the Ontario government for that.

I self-isolate. There is no choice.

However, I need two prescriptions. One for my diabetes, one for the issue with my tongue.

I called the pharmacy just now. They won’t deliver to our address, despite being one fucking kilometre away. (A compounding pharmacy at Sheppard and Leslie, where I have a nasal spray on order (because there are no compounding pharmacies downtown) has delivered here in the past.)

Therefore, I must venture out in public, possibly spread whatever it is I have.

Because I need my medicine.

And then inform them of the possible exposure.

Yup. It’s some kind of abrasion that isn’t healing because of one of my (few) existing molars. So I get to gargle with baking soda and water, and apply a cream three times a day for five weeks.

It made me realize, I’ve reached that stage in life where I think everything is out to kill me.

Someone, please tell me this is a phase you grow out of.

I put myself through hell the past couple of days. Marlo stayed calm through it all; she made no assumptions, and waited for the ENT doctor to tell me what was wrong. She quelled my anxiety.

Which is a feat in itself.

Fuck, when did I lose the fearlessness of youth?

Did I ever have the fearlessness of youth?

Okay, maybe a mild bravado. Of youth.

I miss when I could do stuff without examining it from fourteen different angles first. I wanna say ‘yes and’ to more opportunities.

I mean, I do. But not as much as in my thirties. And when I take my shot, nine times out ten the results are positive. But it’s about taking the shot.

Taking the risk.

I’d make that my goal in 2022 (NOT a resolution, I don’t like those), but. You know.

Covid.

We’re back in a modified lockdown, whatever the fuck that means. And Omicron seems to be ripping through everyone. In the past week, I’ve read/talked to half a dozen people who caught it, despite being double-vaxxed. (And my pure non-scientific research suggests that the booster is doing a helluva job blunting the worst effects of Covid.)

And I made a colossal mistake earlier this evening. I needed to get the prescription filled from the ENT. Bundled up (it’s a cold one tonight), put in the wireless headphones and hit Spotify. Boarded the streetcar and took a seat.

Halfway there, it dawned on me.

I wasn’t masked.

Holy FUCK.

Spent the rest of the ride with my hand over my nose and mouth. Not to protect me so much as to protect everyone else. Thankfully a drugstore employee had a spare mask.

Because they’ve stopped selling them.

They stopped selling.

And the provincial government has made sure that you have to pay between $180 and $300 to get a proper PCR test. Good luck trying to find a spare rapid test. I’ve seen several Facebook posts from people begging communities for a test.

This is fucked.

This is why I’m afraid to take the risk right now.

This is why I think everything is out to kill me.

And I might not be wrong.

Great.

Fucking great.

I can’t even make it through the first day of the new year without suffering an anxiety attack.