Okay, so it's weird when there's progress but it's all internal and there isn't an obvious, quantifiable thing I can point to and say "HAH, I'm getting better, bitches!"
But I think the internal progress is even more super important and bueno.
And I honestly think Sparks is really, really, really retarded. SO doofy.
And I'm getting sterilized. Which is amazing, and I feel so excited, and like I can't believe this is really happening. I've been fighting for so long, and I was afraid I'd have to keep fighting for years and years.
PSA: Fuck abstinence-only education, fuck don't ask, don't tell, and to hell with idiots that think faking orgasms is a good plan.
I think I need a little gnome with an MD who can watch my nipples 24/7 and tell me every 5 minutes that they aren't infected and are healing fine so I don't worry for no reason.
I understand that you have very stressful job. Remaining intact while helping to propel an enormous metal death-contraption is a huge responsibility. I appreciate the work you do every day; helping him get to work, not splodinating out of spite, helping him deliver to me the sexings... Really. I appreciate you.
I would appreciate you more if you wouldn't be the kind of fucking pansy-assed bitches that keel over and die when confronted with crazy-metal-road-debris. Yes, I know the seemingly intact car bumper was scary and sudden. Yes, I know you aren't technically qualified to handle that kind of workplace stress. I get it.
That said, I require that you give, not 110%, but 111,735,819,111,831!!!1!%, when entrusted with the safety of my most beloved boyfriend. I know that's over a trillion percent. I DON'T CARE. Aforementioned beloved boyfriend is an excellent person, and I require an equal level of excellence from you.
Sincerely,
Eviloverqueen
To the two surviving Tires,
You guys fucking rock. I will henceforth imagine you with badass tattoos, various medals awarded for bravery and valor, trailing somehow-impregnated supermodels crying in your wake. When you die, presumably in battle and with my boyfriend not in the car, you shall have a funeral pyre to make a viking hero shit himself.
So, I hear a lot about how "we were all kids once" and that people should judge each individual kid as a person and not dislike them all. You know, that it's offensive to hate kids.
Minor shot of adrenaline = Remember that I used to be functionally intelligent
I used to be smart. I used to be able to think my way through a simple thought before I'd forget what I was thinking about. And I used to remember things. And not get distracted so easily. It's like I'm constantly in a ridiculous fog, and it's NOT the meds; I've been off them, and I'm still like that.
I think it's a coping strategy I developed to deal with the sensory integration problems and anxiety. If I can figure out what exactly is up, and how to deal with it, maybe I could be able to think again.
Deathsplode?