Daily Archives: February 19, 2016

Coptophobia: Christian Heads Also Fly


Along with Jews (“descendents of pigs and monkeys,” according to Islamic State propaganda), who are clearly the root cause of everything bad, and Hindus, Sikhs, Baha’i, Muslims who refuse to join their ranks, and anybody else who isn’t them–IS has been quietly conducting a campaign of genocide against the already tiny population of Coptic Christians, who once thrived in Egypt, albeit as dhimmis after the Muslim conquest.

As dhimmis, Christians are to be protected under Shari’a law, in return for a special tax on top of the customary taxes due from Muslims.  However, IS has declared that existing Shari’a is not “authentic,” and have taken it upon themselves to rewrite the law.  The well-vocalized aim of IS is to impose a new Caliphate, and this appears to include re-writing the Qran and Hadiths, to the exclusion of laws extant since the seventh century C.E. (Common Era).

If there is a reason that the venerable Ban Ki Moon chooses to ignore this unconscionable injustice, and allow this entire people and their rich culture to be  wiped out at the whim of a rogue faction, I cannot fathom it.

If a tiny fraction of the news and rhetoric currently devoted to the current crisis in the Land of Israel  were used to publicize the dire situation of the Coptics, it is my fervent hope that the Christian world, at the very least, would come to the aid of their brethren in Egypt.

No doubt the spectacular art and architectural masterpieces of the Coptics would be lost; but there are lives and culture and traditions that, if not saved, and quickly, will be lost forever.

Unlike the good fortune of the Baha’i, who managed to escape the harsh persecution of the Persian regime and found sanctuary in Israel (then called by the Roman name “Palestine”), the Coptics find themselves pinned down with nowhere to go.

Already the Christian population of Nazareth and Bethlehem have found themselves under the “leave or die” policy of the Palestinian Authority.  Many have been outright murdered.  The rest have fled to the PA-unoccupied portions of The Land, where they live in safety.  But the Copts, that is, the few that remain, are unable to leave Northern Africa.

It would take an operation such as the Israeli airlifts of Ethiopian Jews to rescue the Copts.  Unfortunately, that would involve bloody battles in which additional Coptic, and many Israeli, lives would be lost.  And in all candor, I believe that the teeth of the once fearsome and heroic Israeli commandos have been blunted out of fear of “world opinion.”  Today, I doubt whether the spectacular 1976 rescue of over 100 Jewish hostages at Entebbe, Uganda, would have even been considered as an option.

Did you know that according to the website adherents.com, which in my opinion is the least biased of the world religion tabulation sites, there were, as of 2005, 2.1 billion Christians (as a whole), 1.5 Muslims (although, since it is the fastest growing religion world wide, the numbers are many more today, while Christianity is slowly decreasing), and a mere 14 million Jews–even fewer than “Spiritists” (sorry, I’m not familiar with that term) and Sikhs?

So why does it fall to Jews to rescue who needs rescuing and take the blame for who needs blaming?

I call upon Christians, both religious and by tradition, to hear the cries of your brethren who are being slaughtered by “a new Pharaoh…[who] has arisen in Egypt” (paraphrase, Exodus 1:8).

May they be delivered in time, and may their oppressors vanish.

Movies & TV Shows with Bipolar Disorder Characters

moviesThese movies and television shows are not in any particular order.  Some are fictional and other movies are more factual including some biographies. 

Some of them do a better job of depicting someone who struggles with bipolar disorder. 

  • Touched with Fire:  Two poets who have bipolar disorder meet in a psychiatric hospital and fall in love. Ref
  • Infinitely Bipolar Bear: Cameron takes care of his two  daughters while his wife attends graduate school out of town.
  • Silver Linings Playbook: Pat has bipolar disorder and has moved in with his parents after he is discharged from a psychiatric hospital.
  • Mr. Jones: Mr. Jones has bipolar disorder. During one of his manic episodes he jumps up on stage during a concert and ends up being arrested.  He also struggles with suicidal depression. Ref
  • The Hours: Virginia, who has experienced several nervous breakdowns and suffers from bipolar disorder, feels trapped in her home, intimidated by servants and constantly under the eye of her husband who has begun a publishing business, Hogarth Press, at home to stay close to her. Ref
  • Shameless: Ian, like his mom Monica, has been diagnosed with BIPOLAR DISORDER and  he currently refuses to visit the doctor and does not believe he needs to take medication. For these reasons his behavior has been erratic and out of control, worrying his family. Ref Ref
  • Michael Clayton Arthur is the lead attorney in a class-action case.  His struggle with bipolar disorder makes things harder for his colleague, Michael, as they deal with the case. Ref
  • Call Me Anna Patty Duke plays herself in this movie.  Growing up she struggled with bipolar disorder, but was not diagnosed until 1982.  Patty Duke’s Biography
  • My Friend Paul: Paul is diagnosed in prison with bipolar disorder.  After he is released, he moves in his friend and filmmaker Jonathan. However, Paul’s manic rantings threaten the filmmaker’s own equilibrium and  he begs Paul to return to the psychiatric hospital. Ref
  • The Informant! Struggling with bipolar disorder, Mark confesses to the FBI that he and his company are doing illegal business. The stresses of having to wear a wire and organizing surveillance cause his meltdown.
  • The Flying Scotsman: This story is based on Graeme Obree, an amateur cyclist, who struggles with crippling bipolar disorder.
  • In the Best Interest of the Children A woman struggling with bipolar disorder while raising her five children eventually leads to the children being taken away from her.
  • Shine Biography about pianist David Helfgott who had bipolar disorder and spent years in mental institutions.  Ref 
  • Surviving Family As Terry struggles to rebuild her relationship with her older sister, she learns that her niece has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Her aunt helps her  begin to come to terms with the truth behind her mother’s life and death, and her father’s alcoholism. Ref
  • Sweethearts Arliss meets Jasmine on a blind date at a coffee house, but it turns out Jasmine has bipolar disorder and is  carrying a gun contemplating suicide.
  • Black Box (tv series)Catherine Black  is a famous neurologist who secretly has bipolar disorder  and the only person who knows is her psychiatrist who has been a maternal figure for Catherine  since her mother, who also suffered from bipolar disorder, committed suicide. Ref
  • Homeland  (tv series) Carrie is a CIA officer who, like her father, struggles with  bipolar disorder. Her dad also has bipolar disorder.  Although her family knows, she is able to keep her illness a secret from others for a long time during the season.
  • Empire (tv series) Andre, the oldest of the the Lyon family has bipolar disorder. He’s power hungry and hopes to run the empire some day. Leah, Dwight’s deceased mother, also had bipolar disorder Ref
  • The Big C (tv series)  Sean, Cathy’s brother, suffers from bipolar disorder starts and taking medications because he wants to be more stable for his unborn child.  He was homeless and refused treatment up until then. Ref
  • ER (tv series) Abby has a mother with bipolar disorder who comes and lives with her.
  • Law and Order SVU  (tv series) Elliot’s mother has bipolar disorder and he finds out his daughter has it too when she has a manic phase and ends up prison.
  • Six Feet Under (tv series)  Billy, Brenda’s brother, has bipolar disorder
  • Shutter Island Marshalls, while investigating  a psychiatric hospital come  across Daniels who might have killed his bipolar disorder wife after she supposedly killed their three children. Ref
  • Next To Normal a mother struggles with  bipolar disorder and attempts to not let it affect her family Ref
  • Manic  Chad has bipolar disorder and forms a friendship with Lyle while in a psychiatric facility. The two make plans to go to Amsterdam with the money from Chad’s trust fund.

Below are other movies that are believed to be about bipolar disorder. However, the viewer has to come to that conclusion on their own based on the plot of the movie and its characters.

A Fine Madness

Blue Sky


Splendor in the Grass 

Rocks in My Pockets 

Prozac Nation

Tamil Films: Aarohanam and 3




Thank You For Your Kindness

My last post was from the heart, and also from the pit of despair.  Man oh man, did the Support Posse show up!!!  In droves!!  I don’t know how to express my gratitude to all of you for all of your advice, support, and incredible kindness.  Wow.  There are some really great people around here.  I am proud to know you all.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.  I hope I can return the favor.  I will try.

Filed under: Bipolar, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bipolar, Hope, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader


The Problem I struggle with memories. Actually, it’s worse than that. My memory sucks. Oh, you’re probably thinking, well sure, my memory sucks too. Now, I’m not trying to one-up you, but unless you are taking some kind of medication or have a health problem, I’m probably out-doing you. Three of the six meds that […]

The post Memories appeared first on Insights From A Bipolar Bear.

I Could’ve Been A Clapper! (The Tao of Boston)

  Okay, that title isn’t about what you might be thinking. I’m not referring to someone with the dreadful disease known as “The Clap” nor to someone with an unsavory job… I’m letting you all know, officially and with a chunk of chutzpah, that I can clap really well. I clap very clearly and loudly when it’s necessary … Continue reading I Could’ve Been A Clapper! (The Tao of Boston)

Anybody need a little WOW!?

Check out @TRAKGIRL’s Tweet: https://twitter.com/TRAKGIRL/status/695318632369356800?s=09

I am in awe and so inspired!

If this young woman could overcome her abuse as a child, I am sure I can too. Not only is she gorgeous and intelligent, she is strong, amazingly strong! I will write a detailed account of my abuse too, not to horrify anyone, but to get my power back. And once again I say, if she could overcome what she did, then so can I. I thank her for writing this and for inspiring me and scores of others as well, I’m sure.

These were her words that inspired me the most: “Though I still suffer my share of flashbacks and emotional scars, I live with a determination to experience as much peace and joy in adulthood as possible. Until now, I have been afraid to share my story. I’ve been afraid to allow readers to see my tattered clothing, my scars and vulnerability. I’ve been terrified of admitting that I come from such an ugly and painful place. But fear should be faced head-on and if I am going to fight it, I will do it in a forum that allows the opportunity to help anyone who can relate to it find the courage to move past the past or reach out to get help to escape a painful present.”

Wow! Brilliant!


Healing The Scars of Child Abuse: ‘Until Now, I’ve Been Afraid To Share My Story. But Fear Should Be Faced Head-On’

“Don’t move or your head will roll!” warned the man with the cold, loaded .22 to my 8-year-old temple. Paralyzed with fear, I stood with stone legs, praying they would not shake as they always did when my father got this way. Though he’d tell anyone who would listen that he had fought in Vietnam, the truth was his drunken “flashback” episodes were merely delusional fantasies brought on by watchingRambo a dozen too many times. His penchant for violence was common and notated by the bite marks, pinch marks and blood-filled welts that covered my body on a steady basis. He seemed to enjoy the power that came with seeing me in a state of terror. Tonight was no different.

His eyes were bloodshot and the heavy, thick foam that had formed around his mouth from the saliva that had accumulated while he was screaming made him look like a mad dog. I responded to his questions with one-word answers, all the while fearing I might say something wrong and lose my life. After standing motionless for what seemed like hours, I suddenly felt the hot sensation of skin being yanked from my skull as I was dragged by my hair and thrown against a wall for being “born bad.” This was a favorite excuse of my father’s to beat me. Second only to the fact that I was not the boy he wanted me to be (though that did not stop him from calling me “son”). I often wondered if my being born Brendon instead of Brenda would have prevented him from tormenting me the way he did.

Adulthood has answered this question.

On most nights, while my peers took baths and watched television, I was being bullied and told that I was a “bad seed” who was destined to make mistakes. He explained that it was his duty to keep me in line since I was so inherently bad that I would fall by the wayside, regardless of my intention. If I complained, he’d remind me that my mother had left and he could put me up for adoption, after all, so I should be grateful. He likened his “spanking” to a natural preventative measure such as taking a multivitamin. “Get daddy’s belt,” he would demand. If I garnered up the courage to ask what I had done to deserve a beating, the answer was always “in case you do something tomorrow.” I do not remember much else of what he yelled at me that night, but the sensation of the inside of my arms being pinched, my pinkies being bitten and the warm blood dripping down my forehead as the result of a belt buckle smashing into my eyebrow is a memory that haunts me whenever I look into the mirror and see the scar it left behind.

Though violence had been a part of my life since birth, I never lived with the impression that what went on in our home was normal, nor did I feel responsible for my father’s behavior. I saw him as a demonic presence that somehow found its way into the lives of the innocent people who surrounded him. This was mainly myself, my grandfather and whatever woman my father happened to be married to or dating at the time. To me, my father was the ultimate culmination of all things I had been taught were “bad and unholy” on my Sunday trips to church with my grandfather. I often felt I was living out the stories I would read in the Bible, where good took on evil — only in our house, the good never seemed to stand a chance. The “good” in my house was my grandfather, a man so honorable, gentle and caring that I based my ideas of the God I read about on his disposition.

To say that my grandfather was the only person in my life who made me feel as though he cared if I ate, slept, lived or died would be a gross understatement. “I am your best friend and you are mine,” he would say as I sat on his lap, enjoying the candy he had snuck into my room and hidden under the pillow at the top of the army cot I slept on. My beatings hurt me, but the pain I endured was nothing compared to what I felt when I had to watch my frail best friend beaten and humiliated. Witnessing my hero receive lashings that left his glasses broken and back covered with lacerations made me feel the kind of hatred that leaves bile on your tongue. Our time alone was full of conversation and laughter, almost normalcy, but that would change as soon as we would hear the clanking sounds of my father’s boots on the pavement outside of the front door. We’d sit in fear in my room behind a closed bedroom door, both secretly wishing we had the ability to protect the other from whatever fate had in store for us that night. Unfortunately, one was too young, the other too old, and both far too weak.

Wondering if God truly heard our prayers for safety, I asked my grandfather why God had not intervened and had allowed my father to continue to hurt us. He explained to me that as long as we were good people, God would take care of us, and he instilled in me that all prayers were heard and answered if they came from those who were honest in their requests. From that point on, I started praying that my father would never come home. “I hope daddy dies,” I said to my grandfather. Stunned, my loving grandfather scolded me and told me never to stoop to such a negative and spiteful level, regardless of what others were doing around me. These words remained burnt in my mind but gave me little comfort on the nights my father would come drunk and violent, a routine as common for us as dinner and rest were for others.

Then, of course, there was the shame.

The neighbors in our cockroach-infested apartment building spoke of the “drunken lunatic” who lived in apartment 1A, and none of the children I so desperately wanted to play with were allowed to get near me. Treated with the shame that belonged to my father, I learned at a young age that the world of laughter and Barbies, a place with ice-cream cones and bedtimes, had no place for little girls with welts and tattered clothing. Thankfully, my grandfather had a childlike love of checkers and games, along with a heaping pile of patience, so I was able to play and laugh as I imagined other children did. I loved my grandfather’s company but I resented my father for his behavior and how it made my having friends an impossible dream.

I knew everyone knew of his antics, but I had somehow convinced myself that despite the bald patches and long-sleeved shirts, no one knew I was hit. That dream was shattered one night while doing my father’s laundry in the laundromat. Two of my classmates came in with their mother. I watched with envy as they giggled and played together, both receiving the motherly affection I craved but never knew. Suddenly, one turned to me and asked, “Do you know the song, ‘Dear Mister Jesus’?” I knew it well. The song was about a little girl who was beaten by her parents and ashamed of it. I had seen the video on the television and memorized the song but I dared not answer her. Before I could escape the room, the two girls started singing it. I demanded they stop, but my pleading went unnoticed as it did with everyone but my grandfather. It was the first time I was aware that my secret was not a secret at all. People knew and it shattered my spirit.

When school teachers and church members saw me falling asleep out of sheer exhaustion and unable to sit down due to searing burns brought on by beatings from leather belts, hangers, wires and flyswatters the previous night, law officials were often called in. Women would come into the school to watch me undress, gasp at the marks and listen to my story. I learned after a few “meetings” with my father that these well-intentioned men and women were excellent in coming in and repeating everything I had told them in confidence, but “protecting me” was a whole area of expertise they lacked. Keeping my mouth shut and lying about my wounds became my new specialty. When the beatings would leave marks on my lower legs and arms, I would cover up in jeans and long-sleeved shirts. My father called this loyalty. I called it survival. “You know daddy is sorry,” he would say the day after, handing me a present of some kind. “You don’t want daddy to go to jail, do you?” he would ask. I would shake my head no and secretly pray he would leave and never come home. This was a man who smashed my guinea pig against the wall and killed it in front of me when I forgot to put the clothes in the dryer. There was no room for error.

With my promises to lie to doctors and hide my welts, the only clues anyone had that my father was still as brutal as ever were the late-night screaming on his part and loud pleading on the part of his chosen victim. This was usually me or his wife or girlfriend, as my grandfather had too much grace to yell or yelp.

This continued until I was removed from the home. My grandfather got a place of his own far away from my father and remained my only light in a very dark world. He passed away a month before I was to move in with him. I found myself homeless and heartbroken for most of my teens, but also hopeful. Because of my grandfather, I knew there was a better life out there waiting for me. I promised myself that I would honor him by getting an education and making my time on earth matter, even if only to my grandpa and myself. I got up at 4:00 a.m. and took three buses to make sure I didn’t have to attend my 20th school. I slept in a storage room at USC before getting into American and attending college, and I slept out all night in front of where President Clinton was to speak in order to meet him before I applied for — and was granted — an internship at The White House. With the help and guidance of a number of mentors, I eventually realized my dream of becoming a published author, all the while building a family of friends who have more than made up for the lack of love and support I felt as a child.

Though I still suffer my share of flashbacks and emotional scars, I live with a determination to experience as much peace and joy in adulthood as possible. Until now, I have been afraid to share my story. I’ve been afraid to allow readers to see my tattered clothing, my scars and vulnerability. I’ve been terrified of admitting that I come from such an ugly and painful place. But fear should be faced head-on and if I am going to fight it, I will do it in a forum that allows the opportunity to help anyone who can relate to it find the courage to move past the past or reach out to get help to escape a painful present.

This post is not about my strength, it’s about yours. Whether you were held or beaten, cared for or neglected, happy or sad, take a moment to remind yourself that we are not defined by what has been done or done to us, but by what we choose to do with the time we have left.

Dig out your sneakers, unless… Exercise and Bipolar Disorder

Based on the article “’It’s a double edged sword’: A qualitative analysis of the experiences of exercise amongst people with Bipolar Disorder” Wright, K et. al. Journal of affective disorders […]

Graceless Under Fire

I withstood almost six hours in the dish today before melting down. I wasn’t comfortable, I wasn’t happy, but I was…managing.

And then I had to pick my kid up from the mob scene,er, school, I stopped by the shop and R yelled at me for doing something wrong (don’t call after ten p.m. and a sleeping pill and expect lucidity!) My kid just kept yapping no matter how many times R and I chastised her. I melted down.

I was not proud of being snappish and melting down, mind you.

It just happened.

To make matters worse I am having car trouble again, this time with the brakes.

I came home and rather than find comfort…I e mailed the lawyer about tomorrow’s hearing and he tells me he is going to “ask” the donor what he thinks about paying back support. ARE YOU FUCKING BRAINDEAD? What sane person is gonna declare OH YES I WANT TO PAY BACK TWENTY GRAND WORTH OF CHILD SUPPORT!  This lawyer is supposed to be working for me and I get the feeling he is being little more than a “keep the peace” mediator. I am so disgusted and let down, I want every single perosn who pushed the child support issue, thus putting me in an unwinnable position, to burn in hell and live to feel every moment of agony.

Of course, the world views it as me bein g greedy and vindictive.

Fact is, after him doing thbis same thing to three kids…It’s a principle. Forget me, but do NOT forget that you owe a six year old who didn’t ask for any of this crap.

I wonder if I will sleep at all tonight unless I pill-i-fy myself. Which makes waking up ten times harder. Then I gotta dress appropriately with ten layers of fog wrapped around my brain…

It’s so bloody frustrating.

And YEAH, if YOU are burned out with my daily prattlings about “life is futile”…get in line behind me. I want to feel joy, damn it.

It just eludes me.

So I am gonna attempt to sleep, take triple xanax in the morning, and let the lawyer do the talking. Right up til he does the “good ole boy” routine acting like the donor’s BFF and then I am gonna exercise my free speech. Mrs. R will be there to keep me from going over the bipolar edge.

After I survive court tomorrow, I will come home and finally breeeathe.

Only to spend the weekend praying to pegacorn deities that mom’s biopsy comes back negative.

If you think about it…even without depression…it’s not so hard to figure out why I love sleep so much. I can wake up from the bad dreams.

I am stuck living this reality.

Oh My Aching….


Yes, that is a portion of my ample posterior.

Yes, that is my Sexy Sparkly Michael Jackson Stretchy Glove-type thingy.  I wear it under my wrist braces to keep my skin from wearing out.

Let’s see, now.  It’s all getting blurred together.  Thank God for credit card records.  That’s how I know where I was and what I was doing whenever I get injured.

I think the first thing was the wrist (again).  Since the last of the LEFT wrist surgeries was all the way back in 2000, I didn’t even think about the possibility of another one when I tripped over a log in the pitch dark and went ass over teakettle, making a one point landing on my left palm.

I felt the all too familiar sick crunching sensation, followed by excruciating pain.  Thank goodness I was with a friend, who helped me up, which I doubt I could have accomplished by myself, since I was upside down.

“Oh no!” He exclaimed.  “Can I do anything?”  He is a really nice man.

“Yes, help me up!”  At least I think that’s what I said.  He would be better able to tell you, or maybe not, as he was nearly as distressed as I.  He is a really nice man.

After a few volleys of,

“It’s broken.”
“No it’s not, it can’t be broken.”
“Yes it is, it’s broken.”
“No, it can’t possibly be broken.”

Etc, etc.  Look, we’re both Jewish, and we’ve known each other a really long time.  Thousands of years.

After a few of those volleys, he helped me back to my rig–that’s what you call any kind of a camping vehicle type thing–where I trussed my throbbing wrist up, smoked some pot, took a tramadol, which I soon regretted because, you know, the itch thing, did the dishes and went to bed.

In the morning I un-trussed my aching wrist and did a careful exam, gingerly palpating all the little bones and checking range of motion–clunk–there it was.  Not good.  I trussed it back up.

My phone rang.  It was my Hebrew Brother.

“How’s your wrist?”




“Oh, well, how long are you staying?”

Before we hung up I heard him yelling “Goodbye!” from his Jeep outside my window.  Dear soul!

I moved farther North to get out of the blazing desert heat.  Three or four hundred miles and two thousand feet of altitude didn’t seem to make it get any cooler.

But since my destination had electricity and therefore air conditioning in my rig, I decided to make it my base camp for scouting hand surgeons.  I did find one, but he wasn’t going to be in the office for a week.  In the meantime, they told me, I could go another half a day’s drive North, where they had a walk-in orthopedics  clinic.  I opted for that.

In the meantime, I was not just sitting on my ass.

The campground is situated on a completely barren stretch of dessert, devoid of any vegetation save the thorny kinds.  I recall, in my college botany classes, learning that desert plants have to have thorns in order to protect themselves from being eaten.  In that case, why doesn’t everything that grows have thorns?

It’s easy to walk your dog there.  All you have to do is go to the “Designated Green Space”


And there you go.  Actually, there the dog goes.

My dog is VERY friendly, and everyone wants to hear all about her.  You might say she’s a conversation piece.  You might not.  She doesn’t care.

A friendly couple with an aged obese spaniel were admiring her.  While chatting with them, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she had another admirer: the biggest, sassiest raven I have ever seen.  It strutted up and down, perhaps ten feet from us, uttering little raven-speak cackles and gurgles.

(Did I already write about this, or am I having a deja vu all over again?  Oh well.  A good story bears retelling.)

One moment, I am standing chatting with these nice strangers, and the next, I was hanging, suspended by invisible wires, my body parallel to the ground.  Then somebody cut the wires, just like in the cartoons, and my body obeyed the laws of physics and hit the hard packed sun baked desert with a thud.

That naughty raven got on Atina’s last nerve and it broke, and she bolted out of the gate like a two year old racehorse, forgetting about the me who had a good grip on the other end of the leash.  Before my lightning fast reflexes had a chance to unflex my leash hand, it was too late: the deed was done.  I was horizontal.

When she heard the resounding report of my corpus hitting the desert floor she came running and threw herself down beside me, plastered right up against me, panting desperately.

The shocked couple wanted to know if they could help me up.

“No, thank you, she will brace for me, it’s one of her jobs,” said I, placing my hands on her withers and pushing myself to my feet.  Atina rose to hers and flanked me closely as I hobbled to my rig.  Nothing broken.  Baruch ha’Shem.

You know how when you’ve got a headache, and then you drop a hammer on your foot, you forget about your headache for a while?

Well, first my wrist felt better, and after that my ass felt better.

Then they both started up hurting at once, and I didn’t want to drive anywhere, so I turned the AC on “deep freeze,” smoked the rest of the pot, and read escapist novels for a couple of days.

Eventually I had to (had to) take a shower, and in the course of human events I passed by the mirror and–holy mother of goddess, what in the hell is THAT???

You see that black, green, alien looking lump of dough?  That ain’t half the story.  You should have seen it a few days ago.  I should have snapped a shot then, but I was dizzy and had to go lie down for a while.

And now, just to ice the cake, I’ve been gifted with (drum roll Sheldon) a brand new thrombosed hemorrhoid!  Ain’t that nice!

Today I finally made it to Flagstaff, and called around about a hand surgeon.  I was dreading the inevitable question (which I did get):

“If you hurt your wrist days ago, why did it take you so long to call us?”

How good of you to ass-k….