Mad as an eel. (Plus a mini Throwback blog post from July 19, 2012.)

Multi-millions dream of winning a multi-million lottery jackpot. The odds of this happening are 1 in 14 million.

I bought a lottery ticket once: I had an optimistic ex who would purchase a ticket once in a while. “It’s nice to dream sometimes.” Neither of us won. For me, that dream wasn’t worth $10, but I get his reasoning.

Lately, my anxiety has gone into overdrive. Instead of fantasizing about winning the jackpot and buying a small house in Victoria, my mind gravitates towards more probable–and dark–scenarios. I imagine getting hit by a car while cycling or swerving to avoid hitting a deer on a descent, smearing 80% of my skin on the pavement. I think about choking while at home and being unable to get help because I live alone.

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up! Why did I have to cancel my LifeCall subscription?!” *shakes fist and then dies*

The likelihood of any of these things happening to me is much higher than 1 in 14 million, yet there is no benefit to envisioning these things happening. My imagination has gotten disturbing and intrusive.

When I saw a doctor last week for a physical ailment, she noticed how anxious I was and set me up for a follow-up appointment for my mental health. That’s tomorrow. I have reservations about going on drugs as I’ve tried three different anti-depressants and reacted poorly to them all. Citalopram, in particular, made me suicidal. I’m anything but suicidal now: I’m terrified of dying. I need these thoughts to stop: they’re consuming me. Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m going insane.

So, that’s how I’ve been! That’s partly the reason I haven’t been posting. Also, my previous post got very few views which I found discouraging. Sunny Skies, Not Disposition, on the other hand, got double the usual views, and that was a long post about my troubled brain. I don’t understand my readers’ preferences.

I met up with Zoée last week and got into a discussion about how we take it personally when a hearing person shits on the internet–figuratively, of course–and says things like, “I could live without the internet.” For Zoée and me, the internet got rid of the communication barrier we’d been dealing with daily. Yet, some of our deaf friends never really got into it, such as that friend who pretended that she knew what “get laid” meant. (Yeah, you’re going to have to read Lavender Blender.) We hypothesized that this was because these individuals already had a tight-knit group of friends and perhaps didn’t feel the need to branch out to strangers on the internet.

I haven’t discussed this with Gator yet, but she’s the other deaf friend I had who got deep into blogging, and I suspect she was into it for the same reason. They both have blogs again, but neither of them posts regularly. I tried luring Zoée back into the blogosphere after she shared some long-forgotten events that she’d remembered upon reading her old posts. “If you’re glad your past self wrote these posts, do it again to make your future self happy!”

Alas, hardly anybody interacts with our posts. I like to think some people care or are interested, as is sometimes implied by the view count. Imagine, after giving a live presentation, the audience doesn’t have any questions; they don’t clap, laugh, or even boo you! Then you’re expected to show up to do another presentation for yet another unresponsive audience? Fuck that. I get why Gator and Zoée haven’t been posting.

The internet: are people even connecting anymore?

For the sake of making this post slightly less distressing, here’s a short throwback post.

Prelude: I don’t believe having my birthday memorized is a good indicator of who’s my friend. I must’ve been crabby that day.

Just kidding. None of you are my friends. Do any of you know my birthday by heart?

Didn’t think so.

BC Health Care is not my friend either–they got my birthdate wrong when they printed my Care Card. Whenever I visit a new medical center, they’re constantly verifying my birthdate, and every time I’ve corrected them, it always reverts to the incorrect date, which is ten days too early. BC Health Care also threw an extra “e” in my middle name for good measure.

The Vital Statistics Agency messed up even harder: MY BIRTH CERTIFICATE IS ALSO WRONG. They didn’t just re-print it but instead mailed a signed error correction form to attach to the original certification of birth.

I come with an error correction form!

For urgency’s sake, I need to start living with the government’s mistake. The next time a doctor asks for birthdate verification, I’ll just say “sure.” Then we’ll just get on with the diagnosis, for which I’ll receive a drug permission form to take to a pharmacist, who will then ask me for my birth date too. I’ll just spit out another “sure” and be on my merry way with my medication.

Has anybody else heard of the “Kabalarian Philosophy”? If not, you can call their headquarters toll-free at 1.866.489.1188 to inquire, and to tell them that their website desperately needs a redesign, or at least more diverse stock photos. Right now it gives the impression that only white people are crazy.

Right… So the Kabalarian philosophers? They’re a society of crackpots who believe your birthdate says something about you. This is what a group of random people think of me and everybody else who shares the same birthdate: “Your role is to lift and inspire others through development of self-expression and a broad understanding of life.”

Also, because I’m a Laura, “Obstacles and frustration can give rise to feelings of impatience, intolerance, and depression.”

Duh.

“As long as you have a sense of freedom from monotony and drudgery, and can see progress being made, you feel buoyant and optimistic.”

As long as you wear a scarf, your neck will be warm!

On that note, I am now an accountant and P-O is a worm and cricket specialist. How’s that for progress?