Ya know how you spend your entire teenage angst energy dreaming of moving out of the house and finding a constant party outside of the confines of the parents?  And how when you left / were kicked out, you found yourself facing a stark yet very happy reality?  How it really was better to be able to drink beer in your undies for breakfast at 4pm right before Ethics 101?  How it really was a much better thing to eat pizza five days a week?

And then you visit the parents, or you move back after X amount of time, where X is, like, more than a while.  And you try to grab some of that old energy and all you find is emptiness and a strange sense of having missed an entire generation of madness?

Well, I went back to Dell yesterday after lunch to talk to a guy about a thing.  And my visit to the lab was bizarre and thankfully short.  Walking in the front door, having to check in with $friend, who then bought me coffee in the new cafe (it's actually quite nice compared to the old prison version).  Walking the halls and seeing familiar faces, most of whom were tertiary to my existance and thus were unaware that I'd left, that'll fuck with ya. Have I left?  What am I doing here?  Where is the exit?  Is my heart racing because I am about to die?

Got into the lab, where the same people were doing the same things at really high rates of speed, and damn if it wasn't the same thing as always.  I can't tell you how strange it was, mainly because it wasn't very strange, really.  The thing is, I felt like I could pick right back up and start writing issues again, like, right now.  Much to my happiness, I did not have to.  I did get to speak to a couple of subject matter experts, which made me feel a lot better about a particular proposal I'd written up for my new bosses.  I had to leave in a hurry, though, which was bad, since I'd wanted to talk to a few other folks.  Had to get back to my job, though, and present my proposal.

My Back, Part Ten Million.

Yeah, I'm worried.  I'm worried about the amount of painkillers I have to take still.  I'm worried most about that, actually.  Next week I have a trip to my GP for some anti-depressants and a whole slew of refills, and I'm going to get a schedule from her for stopping vicodin and starting nothing.

My wife and I are at somewhat silent odds.  I know my thinking is very fucked up what with the pain and all, and I am exhibiting some real bastard tendencies, but she's also not helping.  Told her I'd probably be starting withdrawal next week, and she was sort of "oh boy, just in time for my birthday!"  Now, that's a rat bastard situation, because I should have waited another week.  What's one more week of pain killers when, ya know, you're in a lot of goddamn pain?  Well, I don't have a week's worth, and I don't want to get another refill, and a short course only makes sense if I am cutting them out, and you don't want to do this all at once cold turkey style when you're already fucked from the pain.  So.  I have a tough decision to make, and my instinct?

Well, that's what's fucked up: my instinct is to capitulate.  And not just with this, but with everything.  I don't think I've ever stood my ground with her.  And that's OK if she is willing to negotiate, but she's not, not on any of the big things or most of the small ones.

So.  You see?  I mean, two weeks ago everything looked fine.  But all this goddamn anger at something as un-targetable as pain...it turns every little thing into a struggle as it is.  I can't get my goddamn socks on half the time.  Mornings are the absolute worst, and by the time I get home I'm either chemically happy or wiped out from having to deal with each breath.  Some days, see, are worse than others.

Today I woke up sneezing.  You can probably imagine how much that hurts.  But it's nothing like what it was a month ago, when I could barely think through the pain, when I was having to take a tight schedule of pain killers to keep up with the pain.  Now I take maybe 2 a day, but if I don't take those 2, I am useless.  Pathetic and angry all at once.

It's getting to me, kids.  I'm almost losing my ability to deal with this.

So, that's why the antidepressants.  Give me another little chemical leg-up, help me cope with the small shit, and numb out the bright bits on both ends of the spectrum.  Yeah, I'll be in a lot of pain still, but I hopefully won't be emotionally overwhelmed by it, by the thought that in twenty years, I'm still going to be dealing with this, surgery or no.

Massage Girl Turns Creepy.

Part of my PT is a therapeutic deep tissue massage.  The girl who does my massage is a recent grad of massage school, but she's good and takes verbal cues well.  She, like everyone I've dealt with save one woman, does not use enough force.  The very best deep tissue massages are just that: goddamn deep.  They should be 30 minutes of sheer agony followed by a day or two of real nice endophine boosted wonder.  She's learning, though, and yesterday started this thing with her elbow down either side of my spine that released my left hip.  I walk almost straight now.

I mentioned to her that everyone except one neurosurgeon and my chiro were recommending surgery, and told her that I hoped in ten years there'd be some real cool advances in back surgery.  She said "Yeah, either that or maybe God will come back and we won't have to worry about it!" and sort of laughs...not a "boy that was ridiculous" laugh but a strange sort of nervous "did I just say too much?" laugh.

I chuckled, said "well, in the meantime, maybe we can find a decent surgical technique.  That way I can stand tall while I'm getting my judgement on."

The Infernal Order of Snacks.

I am eating a snackpack sized bag of Teddy Grahams, which I am enjoying with a cup of very dark coffee.  I just recently started drinking caffeinated beverages again, and find them to be much more enjoyable with a graham cracker flavored thingy nearby.  I have to tell you, these Teddy Grahams?  Oh my god, these Teddy Grahams, oh my god.

A question for you British and British-speaking folks.

Do y'all have any comparison to the emotional ties us Americans have to our foods?  For instance, did y'all realize (any or all y'all) that we actually have holy wars and gang fights over, say, pizza delivery joints?  I am, just to give an example, a believer in Papa John's thin crust pizza.  For delivery from a large chain, there is no better crust or toppings.  However, for smaller chains, if there's a Sarpino's nearby, I'll move heaven and earth to purchase a large New York Deli pizza from them...they are the pizza equivalent of what I imagine crack to be.  My sister-in-law is a true Dominoes pizza fan, which I find to be repulsive and a mark of low caste and poor judgement.  She and I haven't spoken in years because of it.  And that's just pizza.  Being from New Mexico, I have a definition of Mexican food that most Mexicans can't understand.  Border Mexican food is simple, rustic, and perfectly balanced.  It has primary colors, no pretense, and simple preparation methods.  It is the perfect food, and can be asembled with ease using even rudimentary kitchen objects.  I once made a pan of enchiladas in the middle of the Gila wilderness using only a cast iron stewpot and a fire I started with whiskey + the sun.  No better enchiladas have been made by human hands, except for the enchiladas my mother (God bless her) makes without a second thought to how completely extraordinary they are.

And don't get me started on doner kebab.  I've got a Lebanese joint down the road from my house, none of y'all would believe how good they are.

She acts just like a nurse with all the other guys.

I am at odds, then.  You can see how fucked up things have been on very small scales for me.  I don't ask for your help or pity, but I am interested in You and how You are and what it is that You and I can do to change...the world, each other, or anything in between.  Because, you see, you are more than a little important to my daily grind.

I wish you nothing but peace.