My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

So, once again, I go for a new trache in the morning. I’m pretty apathetic toward the whole affair, dying is really low on my worry list these days.

Last night, my brother takes me to some ridiculously weak college bar, a bar in a shopping center called, Peabody’s. They card you at the door, security all around, kids shooting darts and drinking beer, the exact opposite of anywhere I usually go. I like dive bars, goth clubs, dark places with character.

So, we’re at this lame bar, my brother and his friends, me with my black nail-polish, seventeen tattoos, Nirvana’s I Hate Myself and Want to Die bouncing around in my head, when security comes over and says that we have to go to the front and speak to the manager. Apparently, after being there for about two mind-numbingly dull hours, they’ve decided, the manager and his staff, that I’m a “liability” and they’d like us to leave. My brother, who’s quite angry, tells the guy he’s being ridiculous. I’m giddy because this is the only interesting thing that’s happened all evening. The manager then softens a little, says that I need to leave for my own safety because there are lots of drunk people around who could fall on me. He then decides that I could stay if I specifically say that I want to stay, to which I reply via the alphabet, “I-s-u-r-e-a-s-f-u-c-k-d-o-n-t-w-a-n-t-t-o-s-t-a-y.” The manager agrees, we leave.

I think I’ll just stick to my “dark” places, places that suit me. People are friendlier in the dark.

So, I’m having some second thoughts about transcription. The act of writing, at least for me, is a private, solitary act. Even when I could talk, I never wanted someone to take dictation. I guess I’m pretty self-conscious about what I’m writing until it’s more or less finished. Also, all my ideas are very dark right now, so I feel really uncomfortable sharing the process of turning those thoughts into words. 

I’m going to keep banging out words with my thumb until I can’t. The NeuroSwitch is less than a week out, maybe it will work.

So, I’ve decided that until I can effectively type again, I’m going to have my assistant, Sarah, transcribe my writing ideas by way of the alphabet whenever we’re out for the evening. For those unaware, the alphabet involves a person saying each letter of the alphabet and me signaling with my eyebrows when to stop at a particular letter. Then, each letter gets written down in a notebook.

I’ve been really hesitant to write that way because it gives me flashbacks of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, which absolutely fucking terrified me, but I have to write somehow. Creation kills depression. We wrote most of my last post last night using the alphabet, and I think it went well enough.

So, I have two problems regarding my writing. First, my hand is shockingly worse, my thumb feels practically dead. Physically, the words are getting harder to write, a new level of difficult. Second, the fact that I can hardly blog, let alone carry on a simple conversation, is astonishingly depressing. Being this depressed, it’s not easy to write anything decent, even if it takes six hours. I’ve never felt this kind of lonely.

A friend was over Saturday evening, my hand was so bad that I just couldn’t type to her. We finally ended up using the alphabet, which was pretty sad.

So, I’m back from the hospital. I could write about not breathing, and the ambulance, and the emergency room, and the needle currently in my foot, but I don’t feel like it just now. Maybe I’ll never feel like it, as these things kind of feel old, tired, written about in an infinite, tedious loop.

Right now, a friend and I are watching the end of Battlestar Galactica, which seems more important.

So, I’m in the hospital with a trache infection. I think it’s blatantly obvious that Kitty Jesus hates me. I’ll write more tomorrow.

So, I think that until I have my NeuroSwitch, provided that it works, I’m going to quit the world of social typing. I’m going to put everything into one solid blog post per day, other writing projects, and little else.

Honestly, trying to type socially is getting to be depressing, it just reminds me how ridiculously slow I’ve become. I’m going to embrace solitude and give everything to my craft. I think it’s the best way to stay fairly sane.

My thumb seems to be getting progressively worse, my hand kind of feels like dead weight. At the moment, I’m rather lonely, uneasy. I’m often lonely, but this is worse because I physically can’t make it stop. I can’t type anything fast enough for a good conversation, people who are decent enough at the alphabet aren’t around. My going out assistant isn’t back yet, nor do I have a backup yet. I don’t get the NeuroSwitch for another two weeks, but I keep worrying that it won’t work. I can’t think of anything good or happy right now. كيفية لعب البوكر

I feel like much of this situation is my fault, and it’s possibly too late to fix things. I’m pretty sure I hurt my hand back in December when I checked myself into the hospital for depression and insomnia. I was depressed and not sleeping mostly because of my break-up with Sara. الرهانات I lost Sara because I made some bad choices last summer. It’s complicated and difficult to write, especially right now, but I broke two promises and they cost me. So, here I am, and it all seems so stupid. العاب استراتيجية اون لاين

There’s so much building up in my head, so much I want to write, but I can’t. Not right now.