Welcome To Hicksville; Your Life Ends Here . . .

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EXPOSITORY PREFACE

There was once a girl who was on her way to college - a smile too big for her face that she had fabricated through a steady diet of caffeine, and a head too full of ideas she had managed to cultivate in order to mollify the constant reminder that she really wasn't the girl she always wanted to be. Attribute her downfall to whatever you deem plausible, for in the end it matters little, and nothing you could say now will be able to change the fact that four days after her high school graduation, that same girl's smile cracked her face and she was driven to the Emergency Room, compliments of a very sterile ambulance and a paramedic more hopped up on energy drinks than I.

Ahem. I mean: she.

Third Person. I forgot.

Anyway - this stupid smiling girl would spend the next couple of years ruminating over what could have been if only she had faced down her demons before they began to manifest into a tangible form - and by that I do not mean something you can necessarily see on an MRI - and would then waste the next four years of her life (which were, ironically enough, set aside for a college education and a degree in nursing - for she did not expect to become the patient) hospital hopping and checking in and out of various Infusion Centers like she owned a Disney Park Hopper Pass - and she wonders if she is eligible for her own personalized parking space yet. No matter. She can't drive anyhow.

(Oxy-Coffin was never supposed to be on the menu).

She now adamantly refuses to step foot into a hospital ever again - save for every Tuesday when she must, because Head Shrink No. 123 and Neurologist No. 38576 says she has to (and if she wants to keep her medication in supply, which she needs in order to function, and sometimes simply to sit upright, she must acquiesce to - for she does not favor random field trips to the ER in the middle of the night, a time she thought would be allotted to cramming for exams and attending social parties - not getting poked with enough needles to constitute the nick name of The Human Pin Cushion).

... ah, the things they come up with in group therapy ...

So - the problem?

Her brain was swollen.

The solution?

Whatever the hell the denizens of civilization hospital deem the flavor of the week to be - if it's FDA approved, AETNA covers it. And if it's not? They label it 'experimental' - and AETNA still covers it.

At least they did until we lost AETNA.

Ahem. They. Not we. Because this is totally a third person narrative and is in no way meant to represent my own life in any way, shape, or form.

(It is here I will advocate that I am a rabid supporter of situational irony. Feel free to draw your own conclusions. I don't like getting sued for slander and defamation of character. There is a reason the Live Journal is locked, after all.)

And here we will fade to a dramatic black out - for the girl has conveniently managed to forget the past three years due to time constraints and legal purposes.

However, she recorded these years very meticulously through out her writings - so technically these memories still exist, just not in her head - but rather in binary. And she's alright with that. All the more real estate to fill up with obscure vernacular and character fodder. Who needs an IQ, anyway? Yeah, the pills help - but my acuity is the trade off. At least it makes guest appearances every so often, and I - um, we mean she - is able to update a story or two or send out an email or throw together a barely cohesive music video. In retrospect, the girl is very glad she was never tested for MENSA like her sibling - although she'd love to see how the organization would deal with someone such as herself, who happens to be the owner of a fluctuating intelligence - compliments of cocktail narcotic and the like. Have they every kicked someone OUT of MENSA before? She contemplates forgoing the painkillers for a day just so she can take the test and see what happens.

But no matter. She resides in the realm of the hypothetical - and that is usually where she stays.

Reality is a foreign concept to her. She does not speak their language.

She does not want to.



PROLOGUE

Twenty One. Potential Digital Arts Major. Previously a potential Nursing Major. (Alas - my epic health decline has pretty much bitch slapped that ambition. It's a long lost cause more so than a career option at this point. I was going to be a nurse before I became the patient. I'd laugh at the irony, but it stopped being funny). Aspiring Authoress. (Which is the nice way of saying I'm currently unemployed - but can still afford Starbucks). Incapacitated for three years and running. Is a fan of caffeinated painkillers. Is a fan of painkillers in general. Writes obsessively. Thinks Balthier is a demi-god, and should be revered as such. Does not particularly care for vegetables. Axel belongs with me, not Roxas. Thinks we should tell AETNA to shove it and hire Larsa as our own personal medical insurance. Has a little brother who compulsively nags her to update Repercussions. (It was his initial idea, which I, in turn, initially mocked.) Has a thing for blondes. Male blondes. Has an affinity with sunglasses. Thinks Zidane does not get the attention he deserves. Also thinks Fran must have one hell of a wedgie.

Loves too fiercely and too much. Loyal if beaten within an inch of her life. Noted for being overtly emotional. Writes until her fingers bleed. Reads until her eyes follow suit and do the same. Her brother has a penchant for referencing his bowel movements at the dinner table. Is single. Does not particularly want to be. Has a weakness for little children and fairies. Is also a camera whore. And would make love to the new Nikon DSLR 40X given the right body parts.

Would like to meet people who are still trying to understand the question as opposed to claiming they already know the answer.



ACT I

I began mocking the medical industry some time around my seventh hospitalization. I grew tired of angsting and fond of satire - thus I birthed my aforementioned journal to chronicle the escapades of my illness and my numerous attempts to try and defeat it. I try my best to turn every hospital failure into a novella of dark comedy. I figure I will never run out of material this way.

I fic and foto. (Intentional spelling errors, by the way. I read the dictionary for fun - chances are if I spell something phonetically - or should I say, fonetikally? - I did so with intent and purpose, usually in an attempt to take a stab at the comedic - I never claimed to be successful). I also make a hobby out of embarking on various drug addled diatribes and ritalin rants via the wonders of live journal. I feign coherency and like to pretend I know what's going on. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. It usually depends on what pill is taking up temporary residency in my stomach at that particular moment. You'll know when the words need to stop. Trust me.

I am not one for brevity. You have been warned.



INTERMISSION//MUSICAL OVERTURE

And that would bring us to right about now - or somewhere within the general vicinity of the present. I am not clairvoyant, and I am not having a flashback - I don't know how my story will end. I don't think any of us do.

... Save for this one church that writes to me on occasions with eccentric phrases much akin to: 'we eagerly await your inspirational sermon once The Almighty has healed you.'

I don't think they're fully aware what they're asking for ...



ACT II

Let's pretend it started without us - like, we were all visiting the bathroom or something - and they locked the theater doors and now we're shit out of luck and have nothing to show for the obscene amount of money we coughed up to see our epic Broadway show stopper.

They were nice enough to let us in for the finale, though.



FINALE

So - I'm hoping this is far off? I would like to, um, pro create and fornicate and stuff.

Or I could just get hit by a truck tomorrow morning while crossing the street.

You never know.



SEQUEL

You mean, what will Vixen do once she kicks this thing in it's nontangible ass?

Have babies.

Multiple ones, preferably.

I don't think that's too much to ask.

May be difficult finding a willing sperm donor, though.

Should I open the casting call to all who are willing, or should I go out and attempt the feat of seduction - which is always awkward when you're situated in a wheelchair, because your direct line of vision is ...

On second thought, never mind.

I think I'll just adopt.



ENCORE

... What I really wanted to write was STANDING OVULATION and see if anybody picked up on my intentional spelling error once again, but I figured that was pushing it - as I have done nothing worthy of a standing ovation. Yet.

That doesn't mean I won't bitch slap this thing and grab the world by the balls, though.

Of course - I don't know what it is, exactly, I plan to do once I am done ... groping ... the world, but I think we've pretty much clarified my world sans the sickness I fight to not identify myself by will consist of more than a cubicle, rose garden, husband, dog, and white picket fence.

... Actually, that sounds pretty nice right about now. Minus the cubicle part.

But hell, I'll take what I can get.

And right now?

If indulging in the video gaming fandom is all I have to offer - so be it. I think I'll put in a request for just a little bit more out of life, but I should consider myself fortunate I was not plagued with this monotony before the dawning of cyberspace. Because - holy hell - I would totally be certifiable other wise. Like, think of the worst crack pairing you have ever seen in The Pit, and multiply that emotional trauma by ten. To the twentieth power. Then maybe you'll have some idea what it would feel like to be isolated from the world without the company of a computer.

I changed my mind.

Multiply by fifty. That will give you a much more accurate result.

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[ A B S O L U T E ♥ F A V O R I T E S ]




Amazing Animators



Bombastic Brushes



Clubs And Communities



Digital Demons



Essentially Eccentric



Graphic Gods



Manic Manipulators

Phenomenal Photographers



Poetic Pontificators



Radical Resources



Superior Stock

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[ N O W ♥ F E A T U R I N G ]

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[ F R I E N D Z ]

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