Today I realized that I should not hate the way I look.

I look like the Earth herself; my insides are reflected in the outside. I am round as the Earth is round. I am full and generous, spilling light like the bowl of the moon. I am sensual and giving. I am the soil that longs for the rain. I am summer and winter and all the seasons between. I embrace those that care for me in return. I provide, and I repay.

I need to go and get new clothes when I’ve the money to do so. Out with everything frumpy and/or in ill repair. Let me know everyone (always in a tasteful way) that I am a force of nature. I am a Renaissance beauty. I am filled with mystery.

There’s a low undercurrent in all this, of desire and melancholy, of reaching for joy just beyond one’s grasp. Saint Cloth makes the best music of the spheres for this sort of emotion. Used to be his hymns were angry and his psalms rebellious; now they are more often reflective and melancholy. Often I’ve wanted to ask him why the change. Is it the simple matter of growing older (as some saints manage to do, if not martyred first)? Was it some horrible event that he’s still dealing with? A shift in the world, a birth or a death, a love or a hate?

But these may be pert questions to ask of a saint. I don’t know whether he’d smile or frown or turn his face away from me.

In this last month I’ve felt a fear of my saint’s return. His teachings demand bravery of his adherents – they require life to be lived and not merely endured. They cause one to embrace all that one is.

And sometimes it’s hard. It’s hard to be brave.

But I am brave. I realize this now. I’m still breathing, even after all the times that I would have ended myself, even after all the times I wanted to die and I got no help to live. I go on with my art and work towards my dreams, despite discouragement in my youth from those that should have supported and uplifted me.

Were my saint here with me today, I’d be far from these walls. I’d love to sit with him by a fountain, and share a companionship like that of the rumored Messiah and his disciples. I’d tell Saint Cloth a thing that will not surprise him: that it’s easy to ride a white tiger, and difficult to dismount from it. But what would life be without these various addictions?

And should he ask me my drug of choice, I must respond in low tones: the only addiction that fuels itself and is never satisfied.

Then I would close my eyes and pray.

Some cravings last forever. All we can do is ask the gods for patience.

We’re wild when we run, when we dance. Saint Cloth commands a crowd of Maenads; always a moment away from tears or an instant away from mayhem. He plays our heart-strings like a harp of agony. We are bound; we are crushed; we are flagellated by his catharsis. Never have I wept such joy to be beaten thus.

And when the relief hits, I sigh. I stand in the cold and light a clove in the darkness – the star in my hand calling the stars in the sky.

I alternate one vice with another, the stars with the waters, and between it all the motion of my soul.

There’s something delightful about the emptiness. The dark in the sky is reflected in the dark of the streets. The light of the stars finds verdant mirrors in my eyes.

I wonder if the saint completely understands the carnival at his control. “Carnival” has a root in “carnal”, the flesh. It is a delight to everything sensual, everything worldly. When I’m poised between the light and the dark – when I’m an empty flask filled with only his voice – that is the sensation that binds like a rope cutting the skin.

It’s then that my saint presses his lips to my cheek, right at the corner of my smile.

Does it free me? Does it chain me? With a glint in my eyes I can answer: does it matter? All I know is that I still crouch, overwhelmed by the memory, in my own religious ecstasy.

Saint Cloth, come bless me once more…

And this straight white man said, right, because it’s Christmas. It’s not “the holidays”.

I said: Do you know to whom you speak, all the time? Perhaps they’re Jewish, Kwanzaa celebrants, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Hindu, Buddhist, Taoist, Pagan, Agnostic, Check-marked “Other”, or Just Plain Don’t Care.

He said: This is a Christian country, and it’s a Christian holiday, and so we should say “Merry Christmas.”

I do so love straight white men with their easy sense of entitlement and their occasional bouts of astounding ignorance. Especially if we define “love” as “find myself mortified, embarrassed, belittled and enraged by”.

We (the Christian White Men) were here first, he said. I replied that I didn’t know he was Native American. He responded that even the Native Americans got here from Russia/China. I didn’t know that the Native Americans massacred and displaced a indigent population to take over this continent, but I kept *this* thought to myself.

And the first 13 colonies were Christian colonies, he said. Trying to keep more and more quiet, I thought yes, maybe, but they weren’t the RIGHT Christians in the eyes of the lands they left (amazing how often that happens) and so many people came here in search of religious freedom. Other popular reasons to come to America were love of money and conquest, and because you didn’t have a choice (referring to the English criminals who were planted in the prison colony of Georgia, and all slaves of all colors).

As for Christmas being a Christian holiday… really. Even though Jesus’s birth can be placed by the scripture ITSELF as being July/August due to the fact that shepherds don’t have flocks out in the fields during winter? This reminds me very much of Eostre — oh, excuse me, EASTER — where the ignorant but devoted celebrate Jesus’s triumphant return out of a chocolate egg laid by a rabbit. No, not at all pagan.

But in the end I received a flurry of denial from the straight white man about how this is how he thinks, this is how he’s going to do it, this is how it should be done, directly from the Great White God to his ear, and that’s all there is to it.

Let’s pause for a moment and imagine the welter of mortification and anger inside your humble host, Vox Mortuum. Let’s pause and consider how hotly my blood demanded a curb-stomping. Even though I should be used to such shabby treatment by those who have that *direct* line to the Big Invisible Sky Judge, it still comes as such a shock to experience it. “Never surprised, continually amazed” is my motto.

It wears me out, too. I’m hyper-vigilant and easily provoked, as are most of the people who share one of my many psychological conditions. As he was muttering his rant forcefully under his breath my hackles raised, adrenaline coursed through my veins and I prepared to fight or run. Being at a civilized office environment, however, means that one can do neither. Even if your feelings and sense of self are belittled or lessened by others.

But still I demurred, as a well-trained Southern Woman is bound to do, and backed away from the topic. There’s no convincing the ignorant, the red of neck and belligerent of mind. I’m sorry that I did it now, that I rolled over and didn’t stick to my guns. I’m sorry also that I don’t have the bravery to report him to HR. I don’t want to make my workplace hostile, and when you are a minority of whatever flavor that is sadly always a possibility.

Now I’m sure at this point all the family members and my thousands of ex-husbands stalking mefollowing me through this journal are wondering: Just what does Vox believe? “Does it really matter?” I would respond. Opinions are like sphincters; everyone has one but usually it’s better if we don’t share them with others.

I can tell you *A* belief though; a story, a myth, a dream just like all other human beliefs.

The earth, the mother of us all, grows tired and weak after giving the bounty of the harvest. Her energy recedes. The leaves fall, the sap sinks, the grasses die, flowers fade, and the weather grows cold. She dies her annual death and on the darkest longest night of the year her god-husband sacrifices his life to revive her, lest we all perish with her.

We remember this yearly event by the arrival of the man in blood-red, bearing precious gifts in the snow. Unfortunately in this consumeristic saccharine age we’ve gelded him and his sacrifice, and we call him Santa Claus.

I bemoan this weakening of our primal heritage, at the same time I say “Could I have a Nintendo DS game?”

Merry Godsdeath, ya’ll.

So I did what I always do when I’m nearly down to the wire: I cleaned like a mad woman. Today I’ve picked up, sorted, stacked, put away, wiped, washed, thrown out, and made up.

It started with organizing and moving things off our coffee table. Then I decided to pick up the floor around the table so that the husband could vacuum later. Then I started throwing things away that we don’t use often or that were damaged or beyond date. Then I picked up the books that need to go back on our (already overflowing) bookshelves to organize later.

An hour or so of hazy madness later, I have a surprisingly clean house.

I apologize if this entry’s a bit scrambled; I keep seeing things that I could adjust/organize/throw away and I interrupt my writing to do it.

All my stuff’s up off the floor; I’ve gotten rid of two bags of crap I wasn’t really needing. I’ve got a stack of books ready to be integrated. I’ve got things more organized than ever. I’m so domestic I’ve got a crockpot of no-peekie stew simmering on the counter, and I’m seriously considering making my family’s brunswick stew recipe (at 1/6th the volume; they used to make it for church lunches).

The husband’s been such a big help, as he always is. It’s so odd to have a partner who will clean and organize alongside me. I’ve just about worn him out with some serious labor today and I love him more than ever.

I do have to watch out for a tendency towards hoarding. The members of my family are prone to holding on to random and meaningless stuff, although we give different reasons for it. “Collecting.” “These might be worth something someday.” “I can’t throw it away now; I might need it down the line.”

Even a vague sense that we *are* our things. I know I once had that feeling.

When I was little I kept my room in a glorious state of clutter. No real trash and absolutely no food leavings, but my belongings were spread over every square inch of floor and horizontal surface. Even the bed was a zoo of stuffed animals.

Part of it was loving to see what all I had, to be inspired at any moment. Colors of toys or combination of light and shadow could send me off into a fugue, dreaming about everything and nothing in particular. Part of it was security device; if anyone wanted to bother me they’d have to do it over a mine-field of various slippery, sharp, pointed, loose objects.

I remember when various family members would come into my room and clean it. I remember sitting on my bed crying broken-heartedly as they patiently organized, removed, repatterned. To me it was an attack, an invasion and an assault. Other people… touching my belongings. Putting them back in an order that meant nothing to me. I wouldn’t be able to find things that I wanted until my fantastic haphazard filing method reasserted itself.

I recognize some of this as the start of mental illness.

What with better medication, better understanding of my own mind, and the love and support of someone saner than I am (or at least differently crazy) I have had only occasional clutter.

And now I don’t have even that. I have a Clean House.

There’s an Orange Clove candle burning on my coffee table. There’s the lovely smell of home cooking in my kitchen area. I’m a happy hooker.

Thursday, day 1: Within 5 minutes of eating the contaminated food I was nauseated, cramping, and having brainfog and overall numbness. My fine motor skills were entirely shot and I was shaking so hard you could hear it in my voice. I couldn’t think to save my life; I spent the rest of the day on the couch under a blanket, playing easy DS games and watching mindless DVDs.

Friday, day 2 of severe glutenation: Nausea, migraine, shaking, stomach pain, fatigue and muscle weakness. Also, some paranoia. I was on my feet a total of eight times that day — once from the bed to the couch, three restroom trips, and once back to the bed from the couch.. It’s a short walk that took me about 5 minutes each way; my legs were so weak I can barely stand.

I could not drive, or walk, or stand up for an extended period. Early in the day I could not even hold a crochet hook because my wrists and arms hurt so badly.

Saturday, day 3: Still nauseated, weak and tired. I remember that this was the first day I was even strong enough to sit up unaided or without being propped up by pillows. That stunning achievement was reached midday, for several minutes at a time.

I was not able to walk or drive for any length of time. Thank gods a good friend of ours was able to come by and take the husband out to get groceries and other needful things for us.

Sunday, day 4: Still flu-like symptoms, short temper, still very weak. I did however have the strength (by the end of the day) to stand up long enough to take my first shower since the glutening. If you do the math, it’s not pretty.

Monday, day 5: My immune system and digestive tract are fired. Woke up sore all over; weak and in pain. I went to my doctor who made soothing noises (she is a joy and a comfort) and gave me steroids to stop the over-reactive immune response. My herbalist (also a joy and a comfort) gave me oregano to prevent a fungal infection — steroids have that effect sometimes — and peppermint oil for my ongoing nausea. All the driving nearly did me in, however. Went to bed early and happy about it.

Tuesday, day 6: Stuffed full of steroids. About 60% back to “normal”. Head hurt, thoughts racing, and crying jags like whoa. Fun! I think I made the right decision to stay home, no matter how worried about money I am. When a scene from “Death to Smoochy” makes me tear up, I’m in no condition to deal with the outside world.

Wednesday, day 7: Went to work, like the brave little toaster I am. Still pretty sore. Pretty nauseated (but the peppermint oil does certainly help). My head does weird things if I move it too quickly. I’m tired and I have no appetite — probably for the good.

All this peppermint is making me want Mint Chocolate ice cream, though.

It sounds so incredibly simple and trite when I write it all out like this. Nothing can describe a full week of feeling like I’m in a tumble-dryer full of rocks for hours on end.

And I can’t do this anymore. Luckily I will get paid for the holiday, but missing 3 days of work is a substantial amount and I can’t afford repeats of this happy little adventure. I’ve got to keep my food safely under my control. If that means not eating with family or not eating out at restaurants or not eating at work functions or parties with friends… then so be it. Any amount of transient personal embarrassment or even a little hardship between me and other people not as supportive of my condition is worth it rather than face a week of hell and another 4-7 days of discomfort.

I’m amazed that some people think that celiacs are doing this “just for attention”. I would like to give such ignorant savages some attention in return.

With a baseball bat. For a few hours.

Vox gotta crochet.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in this position, but if you have you’ll know what I mean. Ever done something and known immediately that this is what you were *created* on this earth to do? Ever felt that heady rush of knowing that you are a unique shaped peg in a unique shape hole — right where you need to be, at the right time, saying the right words, making the right motions? As if the universe itself could find no better thing for you to be than exactly what you are?

Serendipity. It all suddenly gels.

Sometimes I get that feeling. I know yarn. I love yarn. I can make yarn jump through hoops, sit up and beg. And while I can intellectually contemplate being bored with yarn and/or running out of ideas in about a few hundred years, I can’t actually imagine it.

If you haven’t had this marvelous feeling, I pity you a little… but I envy you too. Sometimes it’s the most frustrating emotion in the world because it drives you. It whips you like a merciless charioteer until you drop in your traces, covered in sweat and fatigue.

Today I finished a design that’s been bothering me for at least two years now: sturdy, realistic butterfly wings. Today it was like the angels singing — everything came together, and I fastened them to the doll, and they were PERFECT. And with that rush of absolute glee came three or four more ideas fast on its heels. A door has opened in this magnificent labyrinth of my own design, and there is MORE behind it.

You gotta do what you’re born to do. Anything else is a crime against your nature.

But sometimes it’s a necessary crime.

Exhilaration doesn’t always put money in the bank account. Serendipity doesn’t always pay the rent. It’s an unfortunate side effect of society that an action performed only *very well* sometimes pays much more than one performed in *absolute genius*.

Buddha does come back from Nirvana, to do what must be done. I’m glad that I can provide for my family. I’m glad that I have a RealJob(TM) and I can get rent and food and clothing and fuel and insurance and pay off old debts.

I’m also glad that my passion pays for itself, and more besides.

Ever got that feeling, that you were made for *something*, and that you’d finally found out what it was?

The government has, in its stern “Big Brother” way, decreed that one must have at least one hour of breaks in an 8 hour work period; 2 fifteen minute breaks and 1 thirty minute lunch break. My RealJob(TM) in its infinite kindness gives me ONE WHOLE HOUR for lunch. Awfully sweet of them.

But sometimes they switch my breaks around. Mostly the first break is 2 hours into my day. Sometimes it’s only one hour and 45 minutes in. Sometimes it’s even 2 hours and 45 minutes in. Usually my lunch is at the four hour mark. If they put it even 15 minutes later I start twitching.

I can’t help it. Those of us who are differently sane like our regular schedules. I am guided and comforted by the sameness of it, supported by the rigidity of it. I know when to eat and when to take my meds. My body falls into the rhythm. It saves its natural demands until the appointed times. It’s much like being imprisoned, but the pay is better.

Most importantly, however, it makes the work day that much tolerable to split it into roughly equal increments. Something difficult to swallow is easier when broken into smaller bites. At the beginning of the day, I think “I just have to make it to the break.” At the break, I think “I only have to get to lunch.” At lunch I think “Half the day is over, all I have to do is get to the last break.” And at the last break I assure myself “The day is nearly finished; I just have to survive until I can go home.”

I can’t have any middle ground; I need either absolute schedule or total freedom. The quasi-disabled side of me looks forward to the rest of a more relaxed work day; the frosted side of me looks forward to getting up and taking a walk (or getting a drink of water or going to the damned bathroom or getting a snack or ANYTHING) whenever I freaking WANT.

I think it’s a simulacrum created by corporate world; in something as big and lumbering as a massive company you can’t be monitored or managed directly for the most part. All they can see is your time. Not how well you use it, but how much you check in.

I do have an objection to this method, however feeble — I’d love to believe that the quality of my work is worth more than the quantity of my hours. But that’d take more effort to judge, wouldn’t it?

The week before springing forward holds serious dread for me. I’m about to lose a precious, precious hour of sleep, and it will be darker when I wake up, which makes it more difficult for me TO wake up. And for the week after springing forward I walk around like a zombie, always wanting to go to bed one hour later than I do; always needing to sleep one hour longer than I will. Eventually I get used to the modified schedule, my body adjusts to the different sleep hours, and life goes on. I’ve always meant to do what has been suggested by various Fibro websites, which is to adjust my sleep time by 15 minutes every night for 4-5 days before DST but frankly I’m just not that organized when it comes to sleep and I wind up paying the price.

I couldn’t wait to fall back this time around. I’m beginning to believe I may have a touch of seasonal affective disorder — getting out of bed while the sky is dark seems almost impossible. I actually felt well rested on Sunday morning when I woke up and the sky was bright; since then it’s been easy to go to sleep at night (what with feeling like it’s later than it actually is) and then when I wake up the sun is shining through the curtains and is helping to burn away the sleepies of the night.

In Gluten-Free Triumph News, I tried a new GF food today that actually TASTED like what it was supposed to be. I’ve got a box of Kinnikinnick GF glazed donuts in the freezer and heated one up in the microwave and it was heavenly. Very spongy, and the glazing was perfect. Made me actually crave funnel cake, which I haven’t had since I went GF. We may have to work out a recipe.

Here’s what I’m *nominally* working on, all at once:

Pyramid Head
Bronx
SOMETHINGVERYPINK
Anubis
Set
Isis
Light Rook
Several quilt squares
A beautiful granny square jacket (for a change!)
An afghan for myself for the couch.

And here’s hoping I can finish up more commissions this weekend, in between doing some overtime for the RealJob(TM) and driving the husband to his weekly dose of swordfighting.

I woke up this morning at 7:15, falling face first out of a nightmare that was so long and felt so real that I could have marketed it as a feature length film. Then I woke up the husband, who brought me meds and drink and stayed up with me and calmed me. That’s why he’s the husband.

So we watched Silent Hill on a Halloween afternoon, as you do, and I worked on Pyramid Head’s… er, head. I thought the front part would have to be reworked, but looking at the screen captures I have from the DVD and the “making of” videos on it, I think I’m pretty close. The back of the head needs to be longer, though, and may need to be weighted. The point of the front of the head throws off his center of gravity and makes him want to bend at the waist instead of stand upright. Nonetheless, I can work something out. Trust the Dollmaker.

Finally I had to stop with Pyramid Head due to lack of Heather Gray yarn; now I’m working on a personal project with the Rainbow Boucle. It’s a delight to work with, but it always makes me feel like I need a manicure to do anything to it. It catches on every single little bump or rough spot on nail or skin.

So now we’re watching the Batman marathon on one of the Family channels; so far I’ve been surprised that they’ve not bleeped anything but “p*ssy”. We’re into Batman Returns and lately it’s been my hobby to look up the imdb trivia page for anything we’re watching. One of the trivia items is that a scene at the end of this movie (no OMG SPOILERS here) was filled long after the rest of the movie and shortly before the premiere, in a great hurry and at great cost — over $250,000.

It’s also been my hobby lately to take the excesses of others and translate it into my own life terms. The husband and I do pretty well on ~2K a month (or less, depending on how sick I’ve been), so the cost of that scene would have kept me and him fed with a roof over our heads for 125 months, or 10 years and 5 months. Fun, eh? A 15 second scene, and a decade of happy married life…

Apropos of nothing, I can’t seem to stop glutenating myself lately. First with the medication, then with the yogurt, and today apparently with cheap pepperoni that was probably cross-contaminated. Yay, hot and cold flashes and stomach pain! Thanks also to the nice male nurse who treated me, who wrote in my chart that I should go to the BRAT diet: Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, and Toast. Never mind the fact that I’m outright allergic/intolerant to two options on that list, and a third will cause me issues due to the high fructose… Fantastic.

Anyhoo, that’s it for tonight. May try to go to the store tomorrow, get more yarn, keep trying. I missed Finished Object Friday due to abject depression and apathy caused by profound glutening; I’ll post some FO’s soonish. Promise.

P.S. I’m inflicting this fun little video on you, my friends, because it’s stuck in MY head and I want it in yours too.

I can sit in the bathroom alone. I’m not forced to answer any calls (although occasionally I do use my cellphone; yes, I’m one of THOSE people); I am not faced with any questions. I can read a book or listen to my mp3 player. Sometimes I’ll spend most or all of my break in there, happy to be behind a locked door. Far away from those that would say “Vox, I know you’re on lunch/break/etc, but I just have one more question…” A good-sized portion of my day is troubleshooting other people’s calls, fixing problems above and beyond those that run down my phone extension. For the most part I don’t mind, really. It makes me feel like I’m helping people, even when it gets a bit demanding.

But behind the door, I can escape the troubleshooting.

Sometimes when lunch comes around I just can’t take it anymore; I rush out the door to my car, drive down to the grocery store, grab something to nosh, drive back to the RealJob(TM) and sit in the parking lot with the windows down. I listen to the wind, and to my mp3 player (on it’s lil stereo speaker), and I eat and drink, and I read, and I relax.

I love my car. It’s driven me away from some truly awful things, and driven me to some absolutely magical things. It also has leather interior; an option that I personally feel the gods invented as a gift to man. I feel no guilt about loving leather — if I could have, I would have followed my Native American blood and eaten the cow and made other crafts out of its parts, too.

I’ve finished up another crocheted quilt square, this one with the “Bear Claw” pattern, and I’m about 85% done with Reno from Final Fantasy 7 — got to finish eyes, hair, and goggles. I’m hoping to have him done for tomorrow’s Finished Object Friday. I’m about 60-70% done with Pyramid Head; I hope to have him finished up for next Friday. The SOMETHINGINCRECIBLYPINK is on it’s way; I’ve found yarn for the hair, so now I need to finish the wings and put it all together.

I scrapped my Halloween plans for the weekend (my costume will keep until next year) and so I intend to spend as many hours as I can sacked out on the couch in my bathrobe crocheting like a fiend.

My innards decided today was going to be MORE EXCITING.

Those that are already familiar with me know that I am gluten intolerant. It’s not like racial intolerance — I really do LIKE wheat and bread and pasta and pizza crust and breaded fried chicken and… *sighs longingly*

I *love* them.

But they don’t love me anymore.

So I have to stay away from them. And I do my best. But even an invisible smear of something with gluten in it can poison me all day, and apparently has done so once more.

We figure either a dish didn’t get fully washed (my dishwasher is 33 years old, and sometimes he can miss a spot. He still heats up like he’s supposed to, though!) or else I started kissing one of the cats right after they ate. It was probably the younger one; Dusk eats with such whole-hearted abandon that we often call him “food face”. And I think their food does have flour or something in it.

Bottom line, I think I was poisoned.

So I went to work, even though I was rumbling like a badly designed distillery.

An hour in, I knew the folly of my determination. And never am I more reminded of the fact that human beings are basically a coiled tube with 4 appendages and a brain, than when I have been “glutenated”.

Without getting gross, I was given sufficient evidence by my body that the course of wisdom would be to LEAVE work and go to a clinic and get a doctor’s note, even though I figured there was nothing that could be done.

So the nice girl at the clinic heard my list of symptoms, and very firmly told me (after the bulk of the appointment) that I should go to the Urgent Care clinic. I confirmed the location of the nearest one.

Now, I am no stranger to emergency rooms. There was a year (the same year I later discovered I was gluten intolerant, actually) that I went to the emergency room a record FIVE TIMES. I figured the intermediate step might be at least half as bad, with the wait and the boredom and the screaming small children. So we stopped by the house for me to load up on yarn and books before we went over to the grand ol’ UC.

I walked in and didn’t see anyone wearing a mask, which was great — with my crappy immune system, piggy flu would pretty much leave my bacon utterly FRIED. I didn’t see any children either, screaming or not; closest thing that might count would be the emo 16 year old in with his mom. We put in my information, and we paid the $45 copay, and we sat for an hour or so, and then amazingly we were escorted to a back room wherein I was weighed and measured and kindly asked whatever could be wrong with me.

And I told them. And they said, oh, we don’t do that here.

I said that the girl at the clinic thought they did.

And they said no, they don’t handle “abdominal pain” any more extensive than UTI’s, which I (thankfully) don’t have. Should I have a hurt ankle or a wound that needed stitching they were *definitely* my widget, but unfortunately in my current position they could do me no great service.

And then they politely returned my copay, and a nurse that was interested in my crochet work took a business card (Hi, Melody!), and the husband and I packed up and left.

All in all, I think that was the most pleasant ER experience I’ve ever had. I was not poked with anything sharp; I was not bombarded by screaming infants; I did not have to pay $100-$400 for the joy of waiting 6 hours to be seen by a random idiot who won’t listen to my concerns and who will occasionally shoot me full of MORPHINE without any sort of warning, not even an accompanying cigar. If they had cured my fibro and washed my car, I would be moving into a room there.

I think I’m okay now; glutenation is something to be endured, not cured. And I’ll go to the “real” ER should something else stupid happen with my intestines. But that’s my harrowing tale of woe. What’s worst? What with all the shenanigans and goings on I couldn’t get any serious knotwork done!