Life Sucks, Then You Die… Waaaaah

So I’m driving into work this morning thinking about how much I hate fibromyalgia, how fucking exhausted I am and how much my body hurts – as if a thousand pissed off Marines hopped up on PCP and coke were beating me with sticks backed up by a couple of dozen really pissy dwarves with great huge pointy metal bits and good aim after keeping me awake for a week just to get me in the mood – and I realized that life sucks, then you die… so waaaaah.

I have a friend who just got out of the hospital after falling off his roof and breaking his pelvis, elbow, shoulder, and leg. Thankfully not his neck. He was already full of metal from multiple back surgeries, and now he’s got a few new plates and pins to add to his collection. The man’s got such a great attitude that he’s been accepted into a very packed and exclusive rehab program as one of their potential star patients. Go Sarge.

I have another friend who’s spend the last week praying with his partner that their baby isn’t born at 23, now 24 weeks… she’s holding her breath and crossing her ankles, on total bedrest in the same hospital the first friend just came home from. They are under strict orders not to deliver any time soon, not only because the baby would have a piss-poor chance at a normal life this early in and because an 8-week-early preemie is a happier event than a 16-week-early preemie, but because I just can’t get a baby blanket crocheted that fast, and Little Doode will need something soft to be snuggled in that doesn’t reek of antiseptic. I add my prayers that Little Doode will quit head-butting her cervix and enjoy his next four months safely in the womb. Go Nicole, Jerel, and Little Doode.

I have not a goddamned thing to complain about. So there’s some pain. Nothing’s broken, I can walk, and I have no pins or plates. So I’m tired. Not as tired as a 6-month pregnant woman fighting for her baby’s life, or as tired as the man who loves her and can do nothing but go to work every morning and come home to her side at the hospital every night.

Life does not suck. Above ground, outta jail and not on fire. It’s all good. The Sarge is gonna be fine, Little Doode is gonna be fine, Nicole and Jerel are gonna be fine. I’m gonna take some Advil and quit whining.

On a slightly more surreal note – my quiz results:

You scored as Special Ops. Special ops. You’re sneaky, tactful, and a loner. You prefer to do your jobs alone, working where you don’t come into contact with people. But every once in a while you hit it big and are noticed and given fame. You’re given the more sensitive problems. You get things done, and do what has to be done.

“owww…….(slump)”Which soldier type are you?
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What’s really scary is that right below it is another quiz called, “Are You Normal?” I’m afraid to take that one. Sticking with the Vulcan Neck Pinch, thank you very much.

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