Tuesday, March 25, 2008

ill but not ill enough, apparently

why the fuck can my new doctor not give me an appointment? First it took me three months to register - they want two utility bills. Hello? Student? I don't get utility bills because my electricity is on a fucking meter. So I change my bank, and have to wait until I get two statements through. Then they don't like it because it has my bank's address on it (if she actually read it, it says my name and address in BIG FUCKING LETTERS on it) and they don't like my passport because, well, I have pink hair now and not in my passport. Pu-leeze. Well, they gave in, and I can register. Except I can't get an appointment until next week, but I'm away next week for uni and I need a prescription for my meds. But they don't give emergency appointments.

Sometimes I think they'd turn me away if I had the fucking plague, but then again I don't look ill, so I can't compare. I've been trying to stretch my meds out, and I know it's affecting me, but I don't want to have to go cold turkey (again) while I'm halfway up a sodding mountain in scotland. Because dizzy fits and nausea are not good while I'm in London, let alone the arse end of nowhere. I fucking hate this, I know I can deal with my depression when I'm medicated, but I can't if I've not got the meds taking the edge off. Sodding doctors.

2 years!

Sir Peteykins McFluffbum The Rabbit of Doom is two. I knew easter was good for something beyond zombified deities.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

like a woodpecker, except not.

My tattoos are as much a part of my body as well, my hair, or my eyes, or the veins in my wrists or the freckles on my... never mind. Yes, I put them there, they're not genetic and they're artificial, but they're me. I could have a nose job and a boob job and so much plastic surgery to change the way I look, and I don't think people would react in so much horror than they do to me putting a little ink into my skin. I've hardly got "cunt" tattooed on my forehead, have I?

They mean something to me; a period in my life I want to remember, and perhaps more importantly, marking my body as mine, accepting the way I look and becoming comfortable in my skin and myself. My legs, my arse, my face. So I'm not some generically "hot" girl; I'm not a blonde middle-class princess (well, I am blonde, and I am middle-class, but I can stand on my own two feet thank you very much) and I like who I am. Getting a tattoo is my way of saying "I love myself", marking myself as my own individual.

So don't tell me "it's not so bad", that at least I've not got sleeves or a chest-piece or something visible. You wouldn't tell me I was fat on the second date, would you?

Oh no, you did.

Sunday, March 02, 2008

essay fun

I have a sort of intellectual overload, ideas and wordswordswordswords spinning around in my little brain until the only recourse is to go away and not think for a little while.

Excuse me while I go find something intelligent to say about gender as spatial performance. I think my brain is going to melt.