Green tea and gluten-free pancakes with blueberries and strawberries on top. That’s what we made for breakfast. Sammy opened everything- the container of blueberries and the box of green tea and the jar of homemade honey. Somehow, I managed to crack an egg without using my thumbs. Impressive, right? So you know, I’m also typing this with only one finger from each hand. That’s a step up from when I was typing yesterday with chopsticks wedged between my middle finger and my ring finger.
My hands are swollen and red, especially between my pointer finger and my thumb. In some places, I have little blisters. I can’t really bend my fingers much, and I can’t bend my thumbs at all. Do you know how much you use your hands? I use mine a lot. To type. To read. To lather soap when I shower. To open doors. To take notes. To rub my kittens head. To sweep. To make popcorn (which I shouldn’t have, I realized today, because it has corn in it, which produces inflammation in my body. The world is unfair). To scroll through my twitterfeed. To water my plants. TO DO ALL KINDS OF CRAP. LIKE, EVERYTHING.
This weekend, I’ve been looking for an intensive, critical, real, grounded, no shit experience. I’m extremely tired of the surface chatter. I’m having zero trouble deleting sentences filled up with useless verbiage from my dissertation. I can’t deal with the mindless jibber jabber, the pointless charade of small talk, the endless chatter about nothing at all. I am tired of it. I want something real. I want something raw. I want something else.
I’m angry everyone is so wrapped up in the super bowl when young women are dying from breast cancer. I don’t want to hear your argument about how its meaningful. Peoples’ lives mean more. Don’t tell me I’m cranky. I’m not. What I am is pissed the f*ck off. That’s a whole lot more serious than cranky. And my hands hurt, and there are little blisters on my thumbs and my palms, and the soles of my feet and my toes.
Yes. I’ve thought that disability services can maybe help me find someone to type for me. But it occurs to me, that won’t work. I think as I type. I can’t dictate this crap. Ice. Write. Ice. Write. Ice. It must be this way tonight.