You see, Dad unplugged my scanner from my one and only parallel port, and plugged the printer in its place. He thought that all I would need to change it back would be to switch the plugs when the power is off. However, I have done this. In fact, I had him do it so that the blame wouldn't fall on me.

And fuck, I just hate when my doomsaying turns out to be right. The damn scanner won't scan. All I get are errors involving this, that, and the Twain32.dll, which makes me want to tear my hair out because I have Defiance shit to scan! I can't afford to have this damn fucking piece of cheap monkey-flinging sheep-lover's airborne shit to be breaking down on me, especially considering that it takes FUCKING FOREVER for "unessential" things to get fixed.

"Unessential" is a label for something important to me. The essential idea is, if it's something that I could actually see myself committing suicide from frustration over-- and NEED other people's help in fixing, since I have a history of getting desperate and frying electronics in attempts to rewire things from scratch-- then it will be done in about thirty years or so.

I love my parents, but I fucking hate the family power dynamic. I would not be exaggerating if I said I'd be more empowered as a serf. Serfs, y'know, get to leave the house. Ooh, ooh, and they don't have to act like a moron to get someone to pay attention long enough to maybe, possibly, get the Lord of the Manor to realize that you COULD VERY WELL SLIT YOUR WRISTS over a problem that doesn't get solved because they've got more important things to do, like reading Computer Shopper magazine. And telling you that you don't work hard enough.

It sucks hard ass to work as much as I do, then be told that you're a slacker. It sucks even worse ass to be as much of a pennypincher as I am, and then be told that I'm too loose with my money. But it sucks the most ass to have something go wrong-- because of someone else's actions --and then have to go through the whole monkey dance of ignorance and delay.

I don't mean ignorance as in stupid, mind you. I mean ignorance as in the act of ignoring. I literally have to make an immature, loud ass of myself to get my parents to realize that something is important to me. I might try to talk calmly to them about something once, twice, three times in a row... they'll forget and say I never mentioned it, and then get very indignant if I push the point.

Basically, if it doesn't involve screaming hysterics, they just don't remember it. And if they do remember it, it's considered "not as important" and delegated to the bottom of their priorities.

I probably sound stupid, but this isn't just about a broken scanner. It's like I'm a sweet little pet kitty.

I'm small, vulnerable, and powerless.

I can't go out unless the Big People let me.

I'm a great source of joy whenever I do something fun or cute-- but only if they're in the mood for it. Then it's irritating.

I always want to eat.

Kitty's opinions and wants are not an issue. After all, do little kitties want to get neutered? Do they want to be put down? It's all just what Big People want... and so, kitty can and is ignored until suddenly, kitty vomits on the floor! Oh. Maybe kitty really is sick.

It's a stretched metaphor, I know. I'm willing to bet everyone's pegged me as a whiner now.

I just want to cry.

Remember that old wound that opened up a few months ago? It eventually sealed up, yay hooray... and then in the wee hours of this morning, I accidentally ripped the damn thing open again.

It didn't bleed too badly. Only about a shotglass or so of blood, and I managed to stop it up with the usual supplies. I wasn't fast enough to stop it before some blood dripped on the floor, however. Left a nice round circle of dark red blood on top of the white bathroom tile.

I decided to leave it there as it was, and see if anyone noticed.

Nobody's noticed.

It's times like this that I'm glad Unnamed is around. Puzzled as to why the hell he'd want pay attention to me, since I apparently have "ignore me" plastered on my forehead, but hey... gift horses have big teeth. Or something.

Speaking of which, I went to the dentist's yesterday for the check-up and cleaning that Unnamed weaselled me into scheduling. Found out many things that I've known for years-- like the fact that I have horrific gingivitis, four fully-erupted and very crooked wisdom teeth, and a molar up on my upper left jaw which not only faces almost horizontally outwards, but also has four gigantic cavities that take up more space than the rest of the tooth combined.

They had me make an appointment to have the thing filled. I don't get it. This tooth is as good as condemned, and even if it was salvagable-- why save a tooth that doesn't do me any good? I swear, all it does is randomly pinch and gash my cheek.

Yes, I had braces. I had braces for six years. The braces were put on in a fit of haste before my molars grew in, and then my molars were never actually included in the mess. So they just stayed whichever way they grew in, crooked or otherwise.

My orders from the dentist are to brush vigorously twice a day, including my tongue because it's all coated and yucky, and also to floss every damn tooth every night, even if it breaks my jaw to open it wide enough to reach the wisdom teeth I don't technically have room for.

Oh. And another dentist came in, took one glance at my mouth, and declared that the wisdom teeth must be extracted.

FUCKING YAY.

Unnamed promises to be there both times so that I don't panic. After all, I need these damn cavities filled, and I can't afford to be afraid of needles. I had my teeth filled once at twelve, right? I remember that time, don't I? And it didn't hurt back then, did it? Just a little pinch, and then my mouth was numb for a couple of hours. Nothing to worry about.

...which doesn't help very much, of course.

Getting the wisdom teeth doesn't scare me as much, really. Even though I remember Kevin with his mouth full of gauze, and various other unpleasantries, profuse bleeding and pain doesn't scare me nearly as much as a tiny, hair-thin needle of painkiller.

Speaking of which, Unnamed also thinks I ought to take this here reopened wound to a hospital and get it properly cleaned and stitched shut.

Feh. I can handle it.

And now, I end this entry to start another. Hopefully the next will be less angsty, considering its subject matter...





Previous * Next