I was a kaleidoscope.

Update on Lisa's pancreas: the cocky physician's assistant said that nothing showed up on the CAT Scan or the ultrasound, as far as stones and such go (hooray for five hours at the hospital and the bills that go with it!). So I'll have to have a tube shoved through my digestive system and, eventually, get whatever the hell is clogging my bile duct out. But that won't happen until February. In the mean time, I get to take eight large (and expensive) pills a day and be on a low-fat diet. Which is a bitch, especially during Christmas. Especially when you're about to go to Michigan where mayonnaise is a food group unto itself.

The saddest thing about this is that the only thing that really bothers me is all the fucking medical bills. Not the pain. Not the pills. Not the fact that the nerve that was hit by the IV needle still makes my hand tingle when I touch it. Shouldn't the body be able to heal itself or something? You'd think after millions of years of evolution we might have thrown a little preventive maintenance in there. *shakes fist at genes* I'm so fucking stingy. I get it from my parents.

Just a few thoughts...

Why do people pray? If God is an omnipotent, all-knowing, all-seeing, planner of the universe and its fate, then what's the point of some feeble human trying to throw the whole "plan" out of whack for their own benefit? I asked my sister. She told me that God listens and cares how we feel and what we think. Therefore, we should communicate with Him as much as possible to feel his love. And then I punched her in the face.

No. I didn't really do that. Although, sometimes I wish I had the nads to. But seriously, what's the point of telling him anything? He already knows. Plus, words are so... limited. I've always thought a language that consisted of music would be much more effective. And kick ass.

I'm losing weight, and I really don't like it. Personally, I wouldn't mind losing a little facial fat, but the next thing to go will the boobs. And I like my boobs. If they weren't so voluminous, I couldn't do that thing that I do so well. And then I'll have no milk shake. And without a milk shake, there's no way in hell I'm going to bring any boys to the yard.

And they're like, "It's better than yours."

Damn right.

Point being, I love my curves. Fat chicks kick the non-existant ass of skinny chicks.

More like "phat" chicks.

Ok, I'm done.

So, the other day I was writing. And then I suddenly asked myself, "Why do I write so much?". And then I proceeded to write about it.

Maybe it's because if I do it enough, eventually something good will come out. Then I can milk it for all it's worth and live off the profits and fame for the rest of... the month.

Or maybe it's just my school supply fetish calling out. It's true. I try to put on the whole dominatrix-bondage facade, but, as stated before, I haven't the nads. But whip out some freshly sharpened number two's and notebook and I'm totally suppressing a metaphorical hard-on. So, me wasting paper and ink for thoughts that are as generic as a batch of cloned Asian babies is roughly the equivalent of... me jacking off. Yeah, let that one soak in for a minute.

Or maybe I'm just making sure there is something left of me after the prophecy has run its course.

I haven't shaved my legs since Thanksgiving. It's great, because when I look down, the calves say "man", but the feet say "woman" (pink nail polish will do that). And then I get all confused and call my therapist.

That's all.

Best Christmas present... ever.

I'm going to Cornell. After weeks of anticipation and preparation for the dreaded "deferration", I got in.

I always had this theory that after I did get accepted somewhere, I would enter into this kind of "Senior Pergutory" where I just lay around hating highschool and wishing that I were anywhere else. But it's almost like I've just come out of that feeling. After years and years of loathing Brazoswood, I can finally rest assured that I will be far far away in nine months.

I'm kind of scared that I'm going to die now. Now that there's something to live for in the future, it seems a likely irony that I should trip and get a rusty nail in the heart or have some heavy object dropped on me. Oh god, I'm turning into my sister.

CAT Scans are really not as fun as they sound. And Barium shakes taste like chalky orange juice and look like jizz. And getting stabbed with a 20 gage needle is a bitch. But iodine in the blood stream is delightful. And ultra-sounds tickle.

*Dances*

"If I was a unicorn, you'd be dead."

I wish I was a unicorn. Then I could impale people with my horn, but feel no guilt because I would heal them with my magical tears. And then we would both laugh about it and... I don't know... frolick.

The word "frolick" is composed by the words "fro" and "lick. Hmm.

The diagnosis is in! Again! From a doctor! Or two! I have pancreatitis. Which, from what I understand, can be caused by a few different things (one of them being gall stones). This also explains the painful lump that I found just a little too close to my boob (which freaked the holy-loving-piss-shit out of me). But it's just a freaked out lymph node, apparently they don't like it when organs get enflamed. Who would have thought? Judging my enzyme count, the doctor said I should be in the hospital right now throwing up everything I eat and writhering in a pain that is worse that child birth. But for some reason I'm not. Probably because Jesus loves me or something.

Apparently, word is going around that I'm jewish. And I'm totally diggin' that rumor.

And just on a side note, David, why do you come here? I tell you all of these things already.

There are a lot of cool people that I have just now met this year. Which makes me wonder, have they been cool all along or has something come together this year that hasn't been there for the past three? Dylan and Trace and Sarah and Monideepa and Ross and Adam and Michelle and Travis and Stephanie and Oscar and Erin - who keeps me from killing all the prepubescent boys at fencing... *ponder*.

The diagnosis is in!

... granted that diagnosis was made by myself... and I know nothing about medicine or the details of the digestive system... I totally have an ulcer. Yes, after three weeks of random exclamations and twitching of pain, a pound of antacids, and a few bottles of Pepto-bismol I'm calling ulcer. Until, of course, I go to a real doctor and they tell me I have some horrible parasite living in my stomach, gnawing away at the vitals and such. I haven't been in this much pain in a very long time. I'll call her Francine (the ulcer... that is). She sho' be a bitch.

Oh god. While typing in the dark, I just found a crusty bit of unidentifiable... residue on my keyboard. *cries*

I apologize for an disgruntled-ness that I may have burdened the world with this week. I tend to have these moments where I trip and lose all sense of purpose and happiness, but I usual rebound some time later that day. For some reason this time I tripped and hit my head on a sharp object before landing on the pavement and being trampled by a metaphorical passing crowd of pedestrians. To one person specifically, sorry about that.

I'm off! to do... whatever it is we crazy kids are doing these days... ... *shrug*