Otherwise known as the answering machine.

Noticed the red light was flashing on our answering machine ^[1]. Normally, I tend to ignore that signal because my complicated psychological issues make me freeze up at the possibility of having to write down a message for someone else and then take responsibility for making sure they get it and then it’s become a whole thing.

And we all know that things becoming things is the worst possible thing.

But that is, to put it mildly, silly. Getting messages to people is no big deal. I did it all the time as a kid. I actually kind of liked it, despite occasionally getting flak from the recipients about not asking the right questions or whatever.

Plus, to be honest, the vast majority are going to be for me anyhow.

Turns out when you body is falling apart, your social calendar really heats up.

So I pressed the red button and got my message. Turns out I have a phone appointment with the nurse at the Diabetes Clinic at Richmond Hospital tomorrow.

Wow, imagine that.

I missed what time the meeting was the first time I listened to the message, so I hit play messages again. This played all I stored messages, of which there was 4.

All for me. No surprises there.

So I deleted the three that were obsolete. That was also an act of assertive decisiveness on my point. To be able to confidently decide that this message was no longer needed represents progress on my part.

Which is sad. Good. But sad.

Turns out it’s at 1 pm tomorrow. Not entirely sure what we will be talking about. I am already under the care of Doctor Caswell. Not sure what else I need.

Speaking of whom, I still have not gotten the FreeStyle Libre working. According to the reader, the sensor was implanted improperly. So it can’t get a reading from it.

This is probably a result of Doctor Craswell implanting the wrong one, then removing it, then implanting the right one right above where the other one was.

So I am planning on implanting the one remaining sensor I have left on the other arm, right on my upper forearm so it’s easy to see and access.

I’m the sort of weirdo who likes the idea of having this mysterious metal disk stuck to his skin and people asking what it is.

I might call Caswell’s office first to consult with her receptionist first. Mostly, I worry that there is something to sensor removal besides just peeling the thing off.

Then again, I could just leave the stupid thing there.

Well, I just tried to apply the sensor and I think I broke it. 🙁 Or I am still doing something wrong. Either way, no joy for me yet.

God damn it. This is why I can’t have nice things.

More after the break.

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I’ve been sensored

Yeah, still no luck on that front. Grr.

I am going to have to find Caswell’s number and give her a call and ask for another sensor, and this time, I will read and follow the instructions in minute detail.

I am pretty sure the one I have is fucked. There’s a little wire that sticks out – this is presumably the part that actually sticks into my body. And my numb-fingered handling of the application process has bent that wire every which way.

Probably not good.

Then again, it might be that I somehow screwed up the stage where you mate sensor to applicator and there is some mysterious way I could still get them to work.

But to be honest, probably not. I could try again, but I don’t think I have the wherewithal.

I am sure I will get the goddamned thing working eventually. It’s just so damned frustrating to be so excited by something only to have the door slammed in my face by petty little bullshit.

It’s very disappointing, and as patient readers know, I don’t handle disappointment well. It always totally deflates me and makes me wish I never got excited about stuff ever.

That would be a bit of a harsh solution, but the sentiment remains true.

The sane solution would be to cultivate my ability to bounce back from disappointment. I know I have the potential to be that kind of person. The kind of person I admire because they stay with the feeling for as long as it takes to process it, then pop back up with a surge of energy, ready to put their dukes up and take on the world again.

I’ve never had that kind of resilience. My inner burdens keep me down too much. I am not capable, on my own, of generating the kind of energy burst it would take to lift my sodden bulky self back onto my feet.

So I mope in endless fog instead.

I could do it for something or someone else. I am sure of that. If a person or situation needed me to take the blows and keep on fighting, I could totally do that, because then I would be inspired. I would not have to generate the energy myself.

Plus there is always my defiant spirit. Hey, fuck you, bad things trying to happen. You’re going to have to go through me to do it,

DO NOT TEST MY RESOLVE.

IT WILL NOT GO WELL FOR YOU.

Because I’m fucking crazy. And incredibly intelligent. And very very determined.

Oh, and creative enough to come up with tactics that will make you shit yourself with shock because they are original. effective, and fucked in the head.

Imagine you just fucked with the Joker crossed with Hannibal Lecter. Except without the handicap of being evil.

So um. Take that, cold and unfeeling hand of fate!

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.