Punks don’t get old, We just stand in the back. (Be warned. Grammar is dying here.)

I turned 30 this year. I can finally say it out loud. After the mild heart attack and the panicked stock I took of my life (Which mostly consists of me screaming at myself in my head about the things I haven’t accomplished) I’ve realized the truth. I’m ONLY 30.

I think I may say things like this until I turn 100. “I’m Only 100 – Fuck you.”

I found myself in possession of a brand new Kindle Fire HD as well. The holidays for me have always been a weird parade of pageantry that I don’t quite understand. I typically try and go do nice things for others and keep tally of the people who maybe are falling a bit far off that reality ledge (Maybe I should clarify, Being a writer around the holidays is like getting all of your material handed to you with a nice, neat little bow – All you have to do is sit back and watch the fireworks as people go slowly insane.)

Other than my post birthday surprise this year – Which, unfortunately for me came in the form of a few hospital trips, where the lovely well paid professionals took vials upon vials of blood and basically came to the conclusion that my body is staging some kind of hostile takeover coup (Starting with my right ovary leading the charge.)- there is nothing they can do. I get nice big bottles of pills to “Make me more comfortable.” and they all come with warnings that “Drugs are bad…mmmmkay.” and “Don’t share this with someone else.”

On one of my stays that lasted longer than the others, they were a bit understaffed, and the nurses were dealing with a (literal) parade of carnage…(It was a busy night in the ER I guess) – I got to meet Bryan. Now, aside from being the differently spelled name of one of my siblings, this name is incredibly special to me because it is also shared with my male soul twin (That’s right. Freak out. There is a man walking around in Canada right now that can finish my sentences and upstage me at every turn with ridiculousness. I’m not kidding. I keep threatening to record our Skype calls but at some point it would just be off color sex jokes and euphemisms for bongs – I’m not a complicated woman, just a highly inappropriate one…)


Bryan the man nurse. He came into the room and introduced himself, and I think I told him right away in my state (They had given me more than a few milligrams of crazy pain drugs at this point – so there was LESS of a brain to mouth filter) that I was adopting him. I believe I also started talking about how I would not put him in a cage, unless he asked me to. This is usually the point where people kind of check out with me. Their eyes glass over and they start pretending to listen. This guy just laughed at me and responded “Oh dear, You couldn’t afford to keep me like that. I’m an expensive bitch…”

The lights went off in my head, and it’s like the two of us understood each other. This would make whatever tubes had to get shoved into me, or onto be, much easier. As we got to talking, like I often tend to do with strangers, I found out a lot about my dear man nurse. He did four tours in Iraq as a medic, and because our system is fucked on it’s ear – he had to go back to school for two years to be a nurse. Apparently, he’s capable of taking care of dying soldiers, but not okay to work in a civilian hospital. We had a nice long conversation about why The Clash will never EVER get old to hear, and why he felt weird since being home. He took really good care of me, and I got to listen to someone for awhile that seemed to understand me. It’s little passing moments like that which bring me comfort.

My body may be a train wreck. My mind may be a train wreck. I may still wake up with nightmares, and I may never be ‘normal’ – no matter how many mood stabilizers they put me on. I may be completely insane – But I am not the only one. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

I wrote him a dirty limerick before I left and signed my name with a flower over the “i”.

The next time I had to go in, he was on duty and he made sure I was in his rotation. I don’t think they are supposed to do that, but it made things a lot easier.

That about covers the last month in things that have happened (Well that I am legally or morally allowed to talk about).

OH…My fixed male cat keeps trying to have sex with my younger female cat…And missing. He’s humping her back again…I have no idea what the hell is happening here anymore.

I don’t do new years resolutions, but 2012 was the year of fake friends. 2013 will be the year of the Real Life Unfriend button. I’ve already used it twice this year on people who I game with who tried to start fights. Fuck them in the ear. I don’t need people in my life like that.

I’ve also decided that if I have to walk around in a haze like Dr. House all the time, I’m going to start to talk like him. To everyone.

Consider this a warning. I’ll update again soon.


One thought on “Punks don’t get old, We just stand in the back. (Be warned. Grammar is dying here.)

  1. Oh the surprising-yet-unsettling power of Google searches! I found this post while randomly searching for what happens to punks when “punks get old”, and it made my sleep-deprived night/morning. An entertaining read indeed!


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