Friday Sucked #AngryPony

Disclaimer: I'm about to use the word FUCK a lot.  If you think it reflects poorly on my writing skills or myself, then you can fuck off.  This isn't about YOU, it's about ME.  I have a right to offend you, you have a right to be offended and then I have a right to be offended that you're offended and then I find some little girl wearing a vagina t-shirt to hold a sign that says, "Feel your Fucking Feelings!!!"  I provide no refunds on feelings.  The blog reads as is, no warranties implied.

Let us begin.

So, I'm a mess, we've established this an infinite number of times over the years. I've been crying, can't control my anxiety, worrying about stuff and so I need to figure this shit out.  There is stuff going on that the Rug Doctor can't address.  I don't want to go on and on about what is currently going on with my body, but let me just break it down on a general level, as to give you an idea of why I'm doing what I am.  Basically, I could be dying.  Or, it could be a stomach ulcer, my gall bladder, endometriosis, uterine cancer or it could be a hang nail or any combination thereof.  Suffice to say, I'm getting stuff checked out. 

In starting the process of elimination on What's Eating Angry Pony I had a doctor appointment with the girlie doctor yesterday. She got all up in my business and checked things out.  Then she ordered a bunch of other tests for me to go have done and then talked to me about Weight Watchers...a lot. Clearly, she drank Oprah's Kool-Aid (sugar-free) and is all about that.  No offense to any WW fans out there, but it's not my jam, you know?  I know it isn't, so don't hold my naked ass hostage on the table talking about it.  Look at my bits and then let's wrap this up. 

While I felt okay about the girlie visit, I wanted to talk to someone that I felt would be more in touch with what's really going on in my body, so I arranged to see a naturopathic doctor that I had seen years ago.  I knew that she would do a deeper analysis with my blood work and that she would be able to help me find natural resolutions instead of jacking me up on a bunch of pharmaceutical candy for the governments profit and enjoyment.  I was very excited she could fit me in today, so I took the day off to go see her and then I was planning on getting my nails done later in the day.  A vacation day used for the betterment of Angry Pony.  Sounds great!

First of all, fuck you, Friday, you piece of shit.  I get up early and am filling out the bazillion pages of info that Dr. Nature (not her real name) wants to know and it asks if I have called my insurance company to verify naturopathic coverage.  Well, I went to my insurance website yesterday and she is in-network, isn't that enough?  No, it isn't.  So, I call.  Long story short, I find out that my fucking insurance doesn't cover naturopathic medicine.  You know why?  Because my insurance fucking sucks.  That's right, I said it.  All they fucking care about is sending me to the fucking doctor, collecting my fucking co-pay, getting my mother-trucking deductible, and hopefully, if they are lucky, the doctor I choose will hopefully put me on some fucking drugs to cover-up whatever is really fucking wrong with me so that they can give me more drugs to fix the problems the first drugs caused. And then they hope I die.  That's right, they want me to take a lot of drugs and then they want me dead.  That's all that makes any sense to me.  Why cover a naturopathic doctor that might be able to help me get healthy?  To help me enjoy my life without chemicals and shit?  Nope, NOT TODAY! Not the fucking government and healthcare we have.  The government allows and condones the poisoning of our fucking food, then we are sick, then we need drugs and then we die.  On top of all of that, they build a bunch of fucking houses and business all over our agricultural areas, they make it hard for farmers to survive so pretty soon there won't be any REAL food left to eat and we will all be living off of Cheez Whiz in a can and some sort of Pop-Tart crisps.  It's going to happen.  I'm not even making this shit up.

Now, don't think for a minute that I don't know there is at least one of you that is thinking, "at least you have insurance, look at the people in poor third world countries that don't have it...or even my uncle Joe, he can't get coverage."  You know what? Fuck off.  I'm not talking about that right now.  What I'm talking about is the fucking quality of our insurance here in the mother trucking U-S of A.  I am thankful I have it, but for the love of God, can we do some shit that makes sense?  I'm living in a fucking country where women put on vagina costumes and have their head poking out of their clit and asking their children to carry obscene and vulgar signs and telling me to "Feel my Fucking Feelings!!!"  Well, you got it girlfriend, I'm fucking feeling those feelings!!!! If women can march in vagina hats in an effort to lower their cable bill or whatever else is on their mind, I can be a voice about better insurance.  I'm not wearing a costume, but I did spread my legs for a doctor to look up in there, so same difference.

But. I. Digress.

Anyway, I talk to Dr. Nature and she's talking to me about my girl stuff and thinks I'm low on progesterone. Oddly, she didn't mention anything about thinking I might be low on testosterone...I think I may have ample supply of that...and then we talked about my guts and what is going on there and the fact that my body is not absorbing the nutrients it should.  Insert a lot of other information here, but bottom line, if my body isn't absorbing that stuff, no wonder I'm tired and my insides are a hot mess.  She suggested I get a nutrient IV which basically by-passes my guts and all the plumbing that is currently not taking the time to pull anything good out of the food I eat.  I ask her how much it costs since, clearly I have to be a cash customer since my fucking insurance is shit. It isn't too horrible, so I ask how long it takes.  Mind you, my appointment was at 10am.  I arrived at 9:45am.  Dr. Nature finally took me into her office at 10:35am.  I was wrapping up with her at 11:31am.  She says it should take anywhere from 40 minutes to 90 minutes. I told her I had an appointment at 2pm in Stanwood, could I be done by then?  She said yes, so I agreed. 

I was parked in 90 minute parking out on the street, so I went and moved my truck, came back in and sat there and waited and waited.  Finally, IV Chick comes and gets me at 12:30pm.  She gets me in position and then says, so you have to be somewhere at 2pm?  I answered that I did.  She says that will not allow enough time. Well, this is problematic.  I said I would call my nail girl and see if she could bump me out.  I called and she couldn't, so I went back and told IV Chick, who now had Dr. Nature with her, that I couldn't stay.  IV Chick gets all a-twitter because she has already mixed up my nutrient IV and so doesn't know what to do.  Dr. Nature then proceeds to say, "Is getting your nails done really a priority right now?  You came in about your health.  I think your health is more important than your nails, and maybe if you get healthy, you won't have to get your nails done for a while.  I mean, it's up to you, it's your decision, but I think your nail person would understand how important your health is and she would also want you to put your health first."  Holy shit.  I feel sorry for her kids, she is Guilt Level - Expert.  I felt dirty and shallow for wanting my nails done.  What a whore.  I call nail girl back and let her know I have to cancel my appointment.  I wasn't that upset about my nails, but that is how nail girl makes her living, that isn't cool to cancel on her last minute. So, now I had that guilt, but I also felt confident she would have someone fill that spot as it is a Friday and someone will want their nails done.

So, I'm laying on the table and it takes forever for IV Chick to get me all hooked up, in my hand no less, since my veins are safely residing in cellulite deep within the safety of my arms.  She leaves me in a position that is not super comfy and I have to hold my arm just right so that the IV drips continuously. She left the room and said she would be back later to check on me.  I laid there and watched the dripping of the IV for a while and then tried to close my eyes and relax.  Pretty soon all the dripping of the IV and the ticking on the clock was making me have to pee.  By now, it was a slow time in the office as I can only hear the receptionist up front.  I stand up and I drag the IV stand to the doorway.  I'm like, "helllooooo...."  Nothing.  So, I grab my IV stand and shuffle down the long hallway to the bathroom, all the while the IV stand making noise, squeak-squeak....squeak-squeak....squeak-squeak..."OUCH!" as I run into a cart in the hallway...squeak-squeak.... No one fucking hears me.  I make it to the bathroom and take care of business and head back.  I see IV Chick in one of the offices, but she doesn't see or hear me, apparently.  I squeak on back to my room.  

By now, my lower back is killing me and my elbow is, too.  I try and turn on my side and that is when the biggest injustice of the day happened.  I felt a pain directly under my right boob.  That's right, my size B cup boob was so angry, it busted out of a size C cup bra.  It took out the underwire and now it was stabbing me in my boob.  No worries, I only have to lay here another fucking hour!  I tried to remain calm and shove some of my shirt between my busted bra and my boob.  As I lay there, I just felt so angry.  My whole day off, ruined.  The IV was going slower than expected.  It was now 1:50pm.  I started to get mad and then I started to cry.  IV Chick comes in and says, "I know, it's a long process, but we'll get there..."  I stared up at the ceiling, angry tears streaming down my face and said, "WHEN?? IN TWO OR THREE MORE HOURS??!  I'm probably getting a parking ticket right now to add on to everything else I didn't plan for today."  I think I may have startled her, but I'm not sure as I never looked at her.  I just stared at the dripping IV.  I was so angry.  I wanted to channel my Dad and rip that bag off of there and rip the needle out of my hand and then call everyone a Mother Fucker and then tell them they could shove this whole son-of-a-bitch right up their ass. (To those of you that knew my Dad, you know he would have done just that.) But, I didn't.  I sat there and lay in my self-pity and then anger at myself for not being thankful for this process that is supposed to help me...and the people in third world countries without insurance...or clean drinking water.  Fuck that.

After what seemed like forever, IV Chick cautiously came into the room and told me it was just about over and together we watched the final drip into the tube and then the final liquid going through the IV line into my hand.  "All done!" she said.  It was now 2:50pm.  She then says, "I bet you're hungry and I always get even more hungry after I have one of these."  I said, "Well, I haven't eaten anything yet today because I didn't plan on the hostage crisis happening."  Oh, and I'm so glad the treatment makes a person hungry.  That's fucking fantastic. 

I head up front and tell the receptionist, "The hostage situation has ended, I'd like to leave, please."  My doctor was long gone and no one really knew what to do with me, but they did remember seeing me at 10am.  They finally got the bill together, I paid it and left.

On the way home I thought I should probably stop at Kohl's and get a new bra and as luck would have it, there is a Carl's Jr. there in the parking lot, so I could get something to eat.  I don't really like Carl's Jr., but at this point it was either that or Taco Bell, also in the parking lot.  I didn't want to shit out all the nutrients just put in, so I chose Carl's.  I ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke, got my food an then drove over into Kohl's parking lot to eat my burger and calm the fuck down.  I take my first bite and the burger tastes gross.  Then, I take a swig of the Coke and I don't know what the fuck it really is, but it isn't Coca-Cola, it isn't Coke, I don't even know if it was Diet Coke.  I'm pretty sure it was some sort of cleaning fluid that the cook took a piss in, then spit some Copenhagen in there and added ice.  Today just isn't my day.  Look, I know the burger and Coke were a bad idea.  I get it, but for the love of unicorns and all that is magical in this fucking world, I just wanted a mother-trucking moment of something good.  Fuck. This. Place.

I did manage to find a bra that won't fit very well, but that will keep my boobs from looking like moobs. I have zero expectations for this bra or the bra experience.  It will suck like all the others before it. When expectations=standards, that's where the calm lives.  I headed home and immediately removed the broken bra and now, as I sit here blogging, they have morphed into blob status and are hanging out partly in my armpits and partly comforting my belly with a boob hug.

So, where do we go from here?  I sure as fuck don't know, but I will do the testing that the girlie doctor has recommended and check things off the list.  If it all turns out to be nothing, which honestly, is a best case scenario, then I think it will be time to look into witchcraft, becoming a Wicken, or start going to psychics for future guidance and health advice.  I just need my body to stop being a bitch.  Because, fuck her.

A New Problem Just Popped Up

I think I have a problem.  I know, I know, that is the most ridiculous statement ever as I have a variety of problems in my arsenal of life experiences, but this one is new.  This is a problem I never expected to have.  I had heard of it happening to others, but I didn't think it would ever happen to me. And no, it's not gingivitis or incontinence.

Here's the deal, it all happened innocently enough.  I was flipping through the channels on television Monday night.  There was nothing on.  Seriously, just a bunch of crap I didn't care to watch, but then, I struck GOLD!  A show called Dr. Pimple Popper caught my attention.  Shark Bait was sitting next to me reading Lord only knows what on his tablet and so he was oblivious. I took advantage and watched the show. 

I found myself fascinated. The first gal had this huge growth under her boobs, so it was like a third boob.  No one else seemed to be able to help her, but Dr. Pimple Popper came to the rescue!  The doctor pulled out some huge sack of fat lipoma. Changed her life, really.  The next person had two huge bumps on his back and this other lady had cysts all over her head.  That doctor fixed it all!

I felt weird watching it, so I confessed my weird fascination with the Boot Bitch Gang. I mean, we talk about everything, so it's a safe zone, you know?  I was immediately relieved to find out that Top Knot Pony was also addicted to the show. She informed me that not only was there a television show, but a You Tube channel and an Instagram page.  Within moments I was signed up for both.  My evening just filled up. 

I started out easy, you know, watching the blackhead extractions.  Did you know that some of the blackheads come out and they are considered ombre?  Like, they are black on top, but as you pull them out, they gradually change color to a yellow or white.  Fun fact, right?!  But then other blackheads look like your skin is literally excreting feces.  Some of it is even greenish-brown.  So amazing.  Not near as much pus as I thought, just crazy shit coming out of people's skin. Dr. Pimple Popper said that sometimes it even smells bad.  So gross! Oh, and then this one chick had a big 'ol whitehead inside her ear!  The doctor put her extraction tool in there and holy crap, it looked like a happy ending at one of those special massage places with all the windows blackened out on Evergreen Way in Lynnwood.  Shark Bait looked over and said, "What the heck are you watching?"  I looked at him, possibly with crazy eyes, and said, "Dr. Pimple Popper...it's AMAZING! And, so therapeutic!" He looked at me like he had just caught me playing in poop or something.  I said, "Seriously, this is so fascinating!  I can't stop."  He shrugged it off and went back to his tablet. I'm sure he was relieved I wasn't bored and asking him personal questions about how he feels and what he wants out of life. 

I got braver with each video and I was drawn to every extraction.  I'm sitting here like, "oh, you missed that one, why didn't the doctor take that one?  How does she know which ones to take and go after and which ones to leave?  How long does that take?  Oh my God, that guys face is like the Milky Way of blackheads...we must save him!"  I was getting anxious when she left some behind.  I wanted them ALL GONE.

I reluctantly put my phone down and went to bed.  I woke up and wanted to watch more videos, but no, I had to go to work. As luck would have it, I had a shitty day at work on Tuesday.  I of course can't go into it because of all the delicate people in the world that might get their feelings hurt.  And, because I need a job.  Anyway, I came home Tuesday night, sat in my chair and went straight to You Tube.  I needed to see some blackheads and some extractions, STAT.  I watched video's for about 30 minutes before Shark Bait came home.  He walked in the door and said, "You're still watching those videos?"  I'm like, "yeah...it's calming me down." 

I think it was at that moment I realized I may have a problem.  Why am I fascinated by this?  Is it the idea of inflicting pain on people?  No, that can't be it, because, I think I'd rather give someone a kick in the junk or in the cooter if I really wanted to inflict pain.  Or, I'd just make them be an admin.  So, that can't be it.  Could it be that watching people get disgusting stuff forced out of their body is like me watching an exorcism of internal impurities and it makes me think of my personal impurities that I need to detox from my own system?  Well, shit.  If that is the case, I'm going to need more than that zip-popping tool and a small scalpel. Which reminds me, in one video, I saw a zit vacuum.  I'm not even lying, it is this little contraption that suctions to your face and you drag it around and it pulls all the pus, blackheads and zits out of your skin.  The clear container attached to it just fills with all that body excretion, it is SO COOL.  It's kind of like that one scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark and the bad guy gets his face melted off because he opened the ark thing.  Except, it doesn't rip your skin or eyeballs off, just pus, oil and blackheads.  I'm digressing, though.  Anyway, I don't think that is it, either.

So, what else could it be?  What does all this mean?  Am I mentally ill? (Don't answer that) Do I secretly want to be a Dermatologist?  Do I just want to fix the world one zit at a time?  No blackhead left behind?  Why the anxiety and concern when she didn't take all the blackheads out? I don't know these people, why do I care if they have ombre blackheads?  Oh, that reminds me, again, there was this one girl that had some cyst thing in her armpit and the doctor pulled out a hair that was very likely 3 feet long.  I'm not even joking.  If you don't believe me, I'll find the video and post it to my FB.  Oh, and ingrown hairs, epic shit there.  That is so cool how the doctor digs around in there, gets the hair upright and then yoinks it right out of there.  Such a relief, right?  You don't even know what you are missing.

Last night, I had to stop watching and go to bed.  I walked in the bathroom and washed my face as I do each night.  I remove my make-up, check the super-magnified mirror to see if I have any zits coming in or any unwanted hairs.  It's a routine.  I don't get this baby face from not taking care of it, you know?  Anyway, I was sad I didn't have anything to extract.  I looked very closely.  Nothing.  Just then I remembered I have this one little spot on my back where there is an open pore and it sometimes gets a blackhead in there.  I called Shark Bait in, "Shark Bait, can you come here?  I need you to help me, I have a situation."  He comes in wondering what I'm up to.  I said, "I have a blackhead on my back, I need it out of there," and handed him the extraction tool.  He's like, "Seriously, now you have to extract something just because you watched all those videos?"  I said, "This is serious.  I need that out of there."  Dutifully, Shark Bait takes it out and shows me.  I was so excited, it was ombre!  I begged him to look for any more that may be back there.  Nothing. Sigh.  Damn it. It was such a rush for just a moment.  I guess maybe I wanted to see some grotesque back skin and then have the satisfaction of making it beautiful...but with pock marks.  This would not make a sane person sad.  I'm seriously messed up.

All I can say is, Thank God it is Therapy Thursday this week.  I don't know what the Rug Doctor is going to say about this, but I hope she has some insight.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have videos to watch.


Here is a really tame one if you want to watch...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVEVl-g8p8s

This one a little more graphic...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTmaf0jggF8

Go ahead...join me in my obsession...

2017 Year of the Mid-Life Crisis

As I sit here on New Year's Eve in my fleece onesie unicorn pj's, I am reflecting on the past year.  This year of 2017.  It seems to have been a tumultuous year for many people.  I can't say it was especially cruel to me, personally, (nothing died under the house) but it was a growing year in many aspects of my life.  I feel like I back-pedaled on personal progress, however, if I look back and give the year the credit it is due, I have to be honest and say, I may be in a better place than I'm willing to acknowlege in spite of it all.

First, let's address the elephant in the room, my stomach.  I did not lose any weight this year.  In fact, the last quarter of 2017 was full of angst, stress, change and then finally disappointment leading to a depression that was pretty damn intense.  Thusly, I didn't give a flying fuck about my weight.  I threw in the towel and said, "you know what, you ride this out, do the best you can and just get through it."  And so I did, one piece of chocolate at a time.  I'm not proud of that, but it's done.  I have noticed the changes in my body and in the fit (or not fit) of my clothes, so I know I have done considerable damage. Even my Spanx just said, "you know what, we give up, we can't contain this anymore."  And then they just released their will to live and now they slide down all the time.  They refuse to even try and contain all that is me. This morning, in a sad moment of despair, I changed the scale to read in kilograms so I could feel good about life for a few seconds.  And then I faced the reality.  Time to start over.  Again.  For the bazillionth time in my life.  At least I know how to do this part.  I'm a mother trucking trained professional in starting over.

When I think back to the beginning of 2017, I started off the year with the greatest of hopes about life in general, but the first couple months of the year were emotionally exhausting.  The whole United States was in a social media war about President Trump and there was no safe place to turn without constant fighting. I'm not going to spend any time talking about him, because, frankly I don't want to go there.  I lost a life-long friend over a question I had asked on Facebook regarding the women's march that happened in January.  I shared a perspective and it was met with all the hatred and single-mindedness that I was, in turn, being accused of expressing myself.  I mourned that friendship. I couldn't understand how someone could be so hateful towards me.  Someone I thought I would always be connected to.

I found myself absorbing everyone's angst and worry about the future.  I worried about me.  I could not seem to change things and I felt helpless.  I was 45 years old and my best years were behind me.  I found myself reaching for any change that would make me feel better.  I got brave, or maybe it was desperate, but I finally got a tattoo on the inside of my arm.  It is a horse head in the shape of a heart.  No regrets.  I'd always wanted to get one and now, there it was.  But that wasn't enough, right after that, I went to get my hair done and while sitting in the chair, a voice inside of me said, "I've always wanted to try red hair."  And so, I said it out-loud to my stylist and she obliged. I had a tattoo and red hair.  I was a freaking bad-ass.  I thought I was really living it up.  I was finding myself, or so I thought.

Sadly, the tattoo and red hair did not help me get to the gym, it didn't help me lose weight, it didn't help me out of my rut. To top it all off, I found out that because I was an artificial red head, I couldn't even steal souls like other gingers could.  Hmph.  As my ordinary life went on, more changes were in store in my world.  At the Glass Palace there were leadership changes made.  I changed up bosses a couple of times, actually.  I began to feel weary, so tired of constantly starting over with new bosses.  And then, one day I was walking in to work and one of the other departments Director was walking beside me.  She said, "Cassondra, why don't you come work for me?"  She had a job opening in her department.  Maybe this was the change I needed?  It felt right.  My boss had just changed again and I needed to start fresh somewhere, I needed a new start.  This would be the perfect addition to my mid-life crisis!  This would change my life.  Everything would be different.  I could tell every person that had bathroom problems, needed help with the copier, had food stolen out of the break room fridge, wanted me to write a funny email, etc. to go to hell.  I could hide away in my new job and life would be amazing.  I would feel better about myself, I would make more money and I could focus on my health and not worry about all the Glass Palace bullshit that never was my responsibility in the first place, but was bestowed upon me anyway.

Luck was on my side, I knew it. This time was going to be different.  I'd get my hopes up for this. I had my second interviewed for the job on September 1st and felt like I had a seriously good chance at getting the job.  And now the waiting began.  I didn't tell but a couple people, but as things go at the Glass Palace, nothing is a secret for long.  Not long after that, the next cycle began, "did you hear anything?"  "are you leaving us?" "you can't leave us, what would we do without you?"  "you don't want to take that job, that would be a big mistake."  All the mind games began from those that didn't want me to go, but then encouragement from those that did want me to leave.  I was an emotional mess.  I felt obligated to stay because they need me, but at the same time, I needed to do what I wanted to do.  What did I want?  I didn't even know anymore.  It was so exhausting and the conversation about it was constant.  I scarcely had a day when someone wasn't working on my psyche to one end or the other.  All the while, I wondered what I really would do if they offered me the job.  But would they?  Weeks turned into months and I still had not heard anything other than HR saying, "we should know by the end of the week..." but they said that every week.

During all of this, I reached out to a psychiatrist to help me with my increasing anxiety and depression.  I had the Rug Doctor to help me every other week at Therapy Thursday, but I needed a professional to help me with medication.  She was pretty amazing, this psychiatrist.  Within our first session, she had me completely sized up.  She didn't miss a beat with my sarcasm and defense mechanisms.  I was in awe of her.  She just came out and said it like it was.  I took away a couple of nuggets from my appointments with her.  For example, she told me, "Just because something is comfortable, convenient and easy, that does not mean it is what is best for you. Staying where you are is not what is best for you.  Whether you get this other job or not, it is very likely time for you to start thinking about finding a new place to work."  She isn't wrong.  She also told me that I am very good at using my sarcasm and negativity to protect myself and to stay in control.  She flat-out looked at me and said, "You know, there is no medication that can fix the negativity.  If you're not willing to try and change your thinking and outlook, you will stay exactly where you are."  It wasn't like I didn't know that, but the way she said it, the way she cut through my bullshit and shut me down right there and got so real right in my face, it was a life-changing moment.

After analyzing all the financials and talking to the people I could truly count on, I decided if I was offered the job and the salary was right, I was going to take it.  I needed this.  It was important.  But the waiting continued.  It was making me crazy.  And then, finally, I was told that they pulled the position and would not be filling it this year.  Maybe next year.   I was devastated.  I was angry.  I felt cheated. It figured that I finally put myself out there, AS USUAL, nothing ever went my way.  I went through a good week or so of mourning it.  I made an agreement with myself that I could be sad for a short time and then be thankful I still had a job and to just to the best I could to survive the holidays.  No pressure, no guilt, just me doing whatever it took to engage in self-care and survive. That was my plan. 

I decided for my birthday in November, that I wanted a get-away weekend to the ocean.  Self-care, check.  I decided to let my horse Lola go to a new home (long story, lots of reasons) and took on a new project horse my mom had.  I decided to name her Hope.  I decided I would allow hope back in my life.  Self-care, check.

This mid-life crisis was teaching me how I didn't want to be, sad and not living.  Those moments when I got the tattoo and changed my hair, they may seem silly, but I took a chance.  Maybe I need to take more chances. Which leads us to the grand finale of my mid-life crisis in the year 2017.

Christmas dinner.  This will forever go down in the books as the most bizarre experience of my life.  It was all innocent enough, my cousin was extremely...baked.  He was offering/pushing these special gummies to everyone.  No one else seemed to want them. I was like, you know what, I'm going to have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas EVER.  Fuck yeah, Clark Griswald, you and me both! Yeah, I'll have a gummy.  It tasted disgusting, of course, so I chased it down with some cheese and crackers.  Everyone was like, "WHOA, you know you have zero tolerance for anything like that!" You know why?  Because I'm always a good girl.  I'm always all straight-laced and don't drink, don't smoke, I'm not a whore (The Rug Doctor confirmed this for me during one of our sessions, I don't meet the criteria, sadly). But on this night, I'm gonna be all bad-ass, I'm all, "I don't feel anything, give me another one..." I looked at my cousin and said, "how many do I have to have to get to where you are right now?"  He looked at me through little half-closed red eyes and said, "Six...or eight...I don't remember."  I looked at my brother, who is kind of a "gummy professional" and said, "how long before I feel something?"  He says, "probably an hour, I'd slow down, sis, don't eat any more."  All was fine for a while until there was another challenge for a third one.  I ended up splitting that with my sister's friend, Thai-Dan. 

It was now time for dinner.  To be honest, I don't really remember much after this very clearly.  Everything was hilarious at first.  Like, super hilarious.  I couldn't really eat or drink anything because I was laughing so hard.  And then I was really tired,  I think,  I went to this special place.  Suddenly, that sitcom called That 70's Show made so much sense.  Like when they did the pot circle conversations?  I was like, in a special place and voices were far away.   I didn't know if anything was reality or just a dream.  And then I couldn't see.  I was waving my hand in front of my face and started crying, "I can't see! I can't see!"  My sister said, "Cassondra, OPEN YOUR EYES."  I couldn't.  And then I had to go to the bathroom.  Shark Bait escorted me to the bathroom since there was some concern about my ability to walk. As I sat in there on the toilet, I was like, "am I peeing?  I can't tell...did I already pee? or do I still need to pee?" I just stayed where I was for a while and allowed myself to sink into the darkness.  I was pretty sure I was sleeping on the toilet.  Finally, I forced my eyes open and got myself off the pot...er uh...the toilet and walked out where Shark Bait was waiting.  I felt like I had been in there for an hour, but Shark Bait said it hadn't been long. Time moves SUPER SLOW when you're on the gummies.

My sister was apparently recording my adventure on and off through the night.  I don't know at what point things were no longer funny, but I started crying.  Not like normal tears trickling down my face crying, but like I had a water hose turned on full bore coming out of each eye.  I kept asking Shark Bait, "Are you mad, Bro?"  I seem to remember him threatening to kick my cousin's ass a few times.  And, I also remember Thai-Dan saying, "Are you getting all of this?  This is GOLD."  His half of a gummy and the beer he had consumed made him super happy, too. 

It was quite a night.  I did not like feeling that out of control, but I think I finally figured out how to get through a holiday event.  In retrospect, I think consuming 2.5 gummies was probably not wise considering the high-dose of anti-depressants I am on.  Assuming that is what the crying was about.  At one point I said, "It's like a lifetime of tears is coming out in one bad pot episode!  I'm not ready for this life...I'm not ready!" And then I apparently said, "I feel dirty, like I've been in prison!"  
My sister came over the next day and showed me all the videos she took.  Apparently I get a southern accent and talk in a high voice when I am high AF.  I also have an episode of Scooby Doo playing in my head at all times as a point of reference and I believed I may have been a parrot in a previous life.  We can't even talk about my re-enactment of me thinking I was in The Matrix.

At any rate, all this random stuff throughout 2017 that felt like I was just wandering aimlessly actually taught me some life lessons and helped my growth.  I let go of a friendship instead of trying to save it, because honestly, if you don't feel like I am a good enough person to be friends with, then it is probably not a friendship worth holding on to.  I decided to stop blogging at one point because I felt like I had nothing left to say.  But so many people said, my journeys help them in some way, and even if it didn't, my blog is for me anyway.  This life was given to me to live for me, not for anyone else.  No more guilt.  No more doing things simply because someone else thinks I should.  No more being used and having sunshine blown up my ass.  I don't know how many years I have left, but I need to get on with this shit show.  Move forward.  2018 will be for me.  More positivity, less negative voices telling me what I can and can't do.

No more mid-life crisis in 2018. 

Happy New Year!  It's now midnight and the fireworks are going off as I write this last line, which is kind of symbolic, I think.  Good-bye 2017.

Cheers!
 (no gummies, just sparkling cider, I promise)