What Brought You Here?

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Please Don't Donate for Christmas

Everybody wants to volunteer at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving or Christmas. These are the two times a year when everyone feels generous (perhaps to their own detriment) and larger-than-average donations of food, clothing, money, and household items come rolling in. *However*, it's important to note that U.S Thanksgiving and Christmas span scarcely one month each year. Poverty spans the entire twelve months.

Please don't get me wrong, we appreciate everything you give. (Okay, TBH I don't appreciate the ground turkey, the ubiquitous beef stew, and the 7,000 extra jars of peanut butter I've amassed. Or the canned beets)

But do you want to know on which days it's *really* cool to get some unexpected treat amongst the government commodities?

National Nothing Day (1/16)
Tuesday, the 14th.
Groundhog Day (2/2/)
Mardi Gras
International Women's Day (3/8)
Spring Equinox.
Gay Pride Day (6/29- additively, Nat'l Coming Out Day 10/11)
Bastilles Day (7/14)
Rat Catchers' Day (7/22)
Roseanne's Birthday (8/10)
Hobbit Day (9/22)
Rosh Hashanah
(the dubiously named Canadian) Persons Day (10/14)
Friday the 13th,
Saturdays in any month the letters "R" or "U"


I was filling out the application and noticed that each
adult membership included kids. They never specify on the application
itself whose kids they must be. The only information they ask of
potential members is name, sex, and DOB. So I went ahead and listed
my younger brother, figuring there might be a program here he'd enjoy
or he might like to come swimming sometime.

Of course *inside the program guide* in tiny tiny print they
elaborate on "kids included" tacking on "dependents as defined by the
IRS". On page 3 they give themselves of standing ovation, "In support
of the YMCA's goal to connect families in meaningful ways, dependent
children living in the same household are included at no charge on
all Adult or Two Adult memberships."

I guess another one of YMCA's goals is to separate non-traditional
families in alienating ways. The "household" rule definitely cements
the non-custodial parent the less invested (read: less loving) parent.
I have to wonder whether Heather would qualify under her 2nd mommy's
membership in the many states that don't allow for same-sex adoptions.

After that rant I realized that _the timeline fits_ for me to be
his mother.He was born in the interim between my first and second
years of college. Admittedly, my DOB doesn't reflect that, as I
was 17 at the time. But at this point in my life unwed knocked-up
teenage dropout is a helluva lot more believable than crumpled
ingenue. Furthermore, neither pleading no snooping on their
behalves will turn up any recent tax return forms for me. Among
the manifold benefits we folks living off the government
on SSI enjoy is government-sanctioned tax evasion. Er, that is to
say, we receive less per annum than a standard single deduction.

So, let's see.

In summary, the YMCA wants to

  • Alienate children from their non-custodial birth parents in the case of divorce

  • Foster hostility amongst steps and half siblings


  • Singlemindedly thwart my attempts to maintain a relationship with my brother

I never would have discoverd all this if I'd just filled out the
application without glancing at the flyer, as I ordinarily would.
I would have simply entered his information with mine and forgotten
about it.

I want to leave it.
But in that case, should I leave our mother as emergency contact?

N.B. Forgive the format, this is a tweaked-out rant on an e-mail copypasta sent to my mother, who is getting me GYM for exmass.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

I brushed my hair today

The is an event, because it was the first time I had done so this year. Well, in this year of my life, anyway. November was a month of neglect: I've been reduced to reusing the same serrated knife (for slicing cheese and bread, but also for smearing them in mustard and margarine), plastic Taco Hell spork, and pyrex one-quart liquid measuring cup for all of my domestic needs (not to mention my designated "bathroom" cups) as I ignored the mountains (and probably-by now- unique biosphere) that filled my sink by the beginning of the month. I just didn't care. Now? I sort of care- I'm sick of my binges being limited to generic boxed stuffing, day-old baked goods & Lil' Debbie knockoffs, and gigantic bags of store-brand potato chips. But now it's grown to more of task than simply washing dishes and finding adequate space/facilities to dry them. Now I fear it would involve an obligatory relocation program for the community that have surely hosts a variety of (hopefully not sentient) life-forms.

At any rate, I started with something (minimally) less daunting: brushing my white-girl-dredlock-prone nap. My hair is getting long. It's also almost back to a natural color. And here's the clincher: while using the Jaws of Life to clean out my brush after this act of self-inflicted violence, I came across an entire hank of abnormally light hair. I couldn't tell in the darkness of my cave whether it was totally devoid of pigment, or just one of those random *really* light blond streaks that decide to grow randomly out of my head to help me retain my status of blondness as my natural hair color has metamorophosed (and nearly fallen off the Map of Blond) with age. I realized that what I was looking at could actually be grey hair, sprouting in streaks.

That's when I decided to revoke my moratorium on dying my hair unnatural colors. Sure, I may looks silly as I progress through my 30s with _Vampire Red_, _Azure_, and the inevitable _Ultraviolet_ sticking out from under my hood, but at least I won't have to subject myself to the horrors of _dying my hair its own color_ in order to remain in denial. Of course, with flourescent hair the denial may be a bit more outwardly obvious, but it's easy for me to believe I'm still punkrock.

(I was never punkrock. I was a gothic hippie.)

In other news, I believe I have officially blown my one remaining median cubital vein. This sucks, but on the other hand- it means no more trainee phlebotomists when I get bloodwork done. Ever.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Intensive Carpet Survey #7154

This is the part I hate most, I think. It reminds me of my brief foray into the world of crack at 15, and how smugly sure I was that I'd never wind up on my hands and knees weeding crumbs out of the carpet to administer to myself. How- in desperation- every little piece of crud becomes a potential barge to salvation: can I smoke this? sure, it's a fleck of popcorn but it won't kill ya. . . can I smoke this? nah, better not. its consistency is alarmingly similar to drywall and the taste confirms it. I made fun of our friend's little brother as he begged his elder for a taste of the ambrosian-smoke Dave still had stashed away. I'll give you a six-pack, I'll pay you 50 bucks on Monday. . . "Please Dave, I'll suck your dick," I mocked Mike because I was 15 and knew everything.

Conclusion of Survey- God, I need to clean. This place is getting seriously disgusting and I need a neutral backdrop for spotting leftovers from whatever leads into I.C.S.#7154.

What Goes Up. . .

. . . must come down. And this is the part that sucks.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

My crappy new add-on

Мнe хοτeлоcь пробовать новый ađđ-on abcTajpu, ĸοтοрый кстати оказался нe совсем нравится. Дело в том, чтσ впервые нужно «печатать» текст показанной на экране клаватурой а не по-человечески нажймать кнопками. Слушь, несмотря на то, как я пытаюсь тереть язык этот, οднако печатаю на ней совсем не плохо-даже несколько палцами ,бывает. Но вот этой хреновой фигней нужно заниматься покрайной 5 мере дольше, чем бы ТОчНО ТАКУЮ САМУЮ ЖЕ ФИГНЮ οбыкновенной кирилиџской клав-ой. Это правдивое говно честно говоря. Навек потеряласъ человечеству можливость познатъ сколько недописнной мною эрунды.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008


I'm seeing a drug counselor. But shhh, it's hush-hush, because I don't actually do drugs. Or at least that's what I, and my parents, and the public health system, and God and my Country would like to believe.

Friday, August 15, 2008

A mixed cd

Heart Shaped World- Chris Isaak
Manic Monday- the Bangles
Life is a Highway- Tom Cochrane
Son of a Preacher Man- Dusty Springfield
Hot Child in the City- Nick Glider
Devil Went Down to Georgia- CD Band
Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald- Leo Kottke
Don't it Make My Brown Eyes Blue- Crystal Gayle
Killing me Softly with His Song- Lauren Hill
Sunrise- Donna Godcheaux

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Would-be to-do list

Sweep bathroom and kitchen at old apt, with use of force when necessary. (I pancreas a well-made scrubbrush. Pick up rubbish from carpeted areas by hands, catch the detritus with the bissell. Mop kitchen & bathroom floors. Scrub entirety of bathroom, floor, walls, commmode, underneath those places most people are lucky enough never to even acknowledge, let alone repeatedly apply caustic chemicals and liberal elbow grease to tamp down the level of nasty stench.

So I'll hit all the "bulimic arterial spatter" points as well, out of courtesy. You know what I'm talking about- those sprays that inadvertantly wind up 8 feet up on the wall behind you. And who hasn't experienced a rousing game of "what's that stuff stuck to the ceiling, and how on Earth did it get there?"

I need to absolutely sterilize this new place, though. I grow accustomed to the rank odor of cat piss after spending an hour or so back home, but the stench is magnified a gugelplex entering the bathroom.

I'm also meant to change my address with the post office, SSA, HFS, and- oh! unpack my own shit. God forbid. And I've decided, on my second night here, that my top household decoration priority will be drapes. Stringing up networks of scarves from Russia and the Far and Middle East has a certain kitschy charm, but it doesn't make it nighttime indoors whenever I need it to be. Further, the uneven nature of using random cloths (even if some are quite large) as window coverings is that they never*quite* fit, leaving totally unjest individual rays to hit exactly one third of the face.

More importantly, I think, is that such curtains leave such a wide opportunity for nosy sniveling snitching peepers. Mom's coming up this weekend, my freedom depending, and I would love toenable her shopping complex. (It's generally quite tempered by my stereotypical late-20th century American Jew genes.) If I had anything to contribute, I could almost say that we balance each other out. In actuality, we haven;t down much "recreational shopping" (yes, drs. do this) since I lost my TAship in 2003. And I guess I'm not as much fun to shop for, when my response to every item proferrred is "and what exactly does one do with that?"
I don't need five new pairs of shoes at a time

I will write more on how much I love my new neighbors later, but for the time being I think I'd better do my TaeBoe before another crisis comes up.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

I don't feel good.
I am not happy.
It's not okay.
Everything is wrong.
I alone am not acceptable.

I don't even really want to eat. I just keep bingeing because that's the only way to remember who I am. Forget who I am. Without that protective barrier of cakecrumbs and puke between me and reality I will fall into the abyss. There's no oxygen and no light there.

The only places worse have the words "mental health" or "psychiatric" in their titles.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Woe is me, car owner

Are there precision tools and advanced technical training required in order to shatter the idiot panel in your modern American locomotive? Or do you think I could do just as well myself with calm hands, a steady eye, and a mid-weight hammer?

I've never had a car with such a yen to fortel doom- and such bad timing with it- before. "Low tire"? First of all, how the fuck do you how many PSI are in my tires? I'm just dicking around here, but I'm willing to bet we could pull out a tape measuring and determine that you-IL "low tire"- are actually further from any of my four tires when I am properly seated and buckled with hands at 10 and 12. Further-fucking-more- why didn't this come up a couple of months ago when it was discovered that one of my tires was as low as 15PSI? Is that not low?

Or are you telling me about my spare? You know, I may be 10 feet away from the spare tire, but you're 11. I think I have a greater level of sensitively.

Of course so as not to leave "low tire" feeling exposed and awkward, "antilock" lit up at the same time. Where the fuck did all these lights come from? I've had the piece of shit 3 years now; if this were the result of a group of drunk Chinese New Year revelers staggering in late, I could almost understand.

Yeah, almost. I'm sure this sure of thing happens all the time at GM.

The one neat thing about brakes I've learned from driving my way through 4 used American pieces of shit is this, though: anti-lock, shmanti-lock, brakes pads, maxi pads, brake lines, sprinkler systems. . .it only really matters if you plan to stop.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Institutionalization is not Housing

Attention! The Good Ship Lollypop has registered a direct hit! All personnel to the Reality Tugboats and paddle for shore!

Yes, my lease is running out. Yes, I was foolish enough to bring up my housing situation as a conundrum with which the county mental social worker might help me. No, hospitalization is not a housing option. And fuck what you want to say about my health, you can't look at me and make a prognosis.

I've already addressed this. Fuck "supportive housing". Double fuck a nursing home.

I swear to god I thought your job description- attached to the "Our Vision, Our Mission" section of the facility for which you work- was to foster the maximum possible safe level of independence for us fuxtored people. You know, in accordance with the most popular beliefs about how mental health care being practiced today?

I've read a lot of the propaganda. Nowhere does it advocate revoking any aspect of an adult's autonomy to promote progress or even tease out stability. So quit swooning at me over every shitty boarding house with a nursing staff that has a free bed. I'm still a fully enfranchised fucking adult; stop suggesting I forfeit the right to un/lock my own door or I'll. . . I'll. . . I'll run away goddamnit!

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Encore of the Living Dead

Ahhhhhhhh! The first of the month, finally my foodstamps have been reupped. I am waging a losing battle to restrain myself from going out in public looking like a seriously hideous unwashed stinky food zombie and blowing a large chunk of them on things that make the self-righteous and uber-frugal go "tsk". But fuck them. I'm not ignorant white trash, goddamnit.

I know that it's imperative not to go grocery shopping hungry. *Honk if you get irony.*

Discuss amongst yourselves.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

So I was having a chat with Mickey Mouse last night about politics. . .

And on topic. People who experience the world in 2-D, who assume that she who plays devil's (republican/ recovery/ MIA queen/ recipient of disability accomodations/ devoutly religious/ nurse-who-made-a-triggering-comment's advocate must be the devil (or the republican, the recovery nazi, the MIA queen, the receiver, yadda yadda) irk me. I don't know, maybe its a fault and my brain is hyperextending (soon to implode on release, I'm sure). But wow- is it really that hard to process one or two additional bits of information on a subject that might greyscale it? Is it really that unusual to despise some of a person's beliefs while truly empathizing with some of his experience?

When a person appears to exist only as a bundle of compulsory idea/ action- devoting most of his time, thought, and energy to a distasteful pursuit like recovery/ eating disorder/ converting to Catholicism/ watching television I have to believe that he is using a new obsession as mental protection against some thoughts/behaviors that might be far more dangerous. Clearly this can only go so far with something like an ED. But if attending the seminary is somehow filling your ex-boyfriend's life, and blowing his brains out has ceased to be a viable option, maybe Catholicism deserves a break.

I mean, honestly- how can one make complete sentences without the capacity to hold two ideas in one's head simultaneously?

Monday, February 4, 2008

Hyacinth House

So, before I was derailed by the threat of unexpected disenfranchisement, and caught up in the urgent need to employ as many words, in as many different places, as possible in the umpteenth reiteration of my All the Viable Candidates Suck platform (conveniently forgetting that independent, critical thought is rarely born in the eleventh hour) and spewed my unpolished endorsement all over the internet- before I bored at least 2 of my 3 possible readers off to more shameful pursuits or straight into a bag of croissants - I was starting to write about how my life came to be measured in milligrams and cubic centiliters. The History of High According to Miss Delusional, and the evolution of its role in my life.

Unfortunately I keep getting about this far- 8 or 10 lines- and running out of. . .

Another Electile Rant. . .

Of course everyone knows who's going to take the D-nom
in Illinois, but it would be nice to make it clear (to
both remaining candidates) that at least a few of us
have witnessed their in/actions and words in context.
Refusing to vote odds might convey the message to the
2008 dem presidential nominee that he can't get away
with blowing smoke up our asses about social welfare.

God forbid elected officials should actually devote
some thought or attention to the concerns of their
(proposed) constituents.

Lord knows Hillary Clinton refuses. Of course I wouldn't bother with the ramblings of the unwashed and disassociating masses either, if I were that deep in the insurance industry's pockets. Hell, I'd write limericks feigning concern for the state of public health while simultaneously evading the issue of mental illness myself.

Barack Obama doesn't even know the scope of what he's overlooked. It's not bad enough that the man has failed to distinguish between Medicare and Medicaid. His regurgitation of the party line regarding the inadequacy of health care for vets truly flops when he skips the record on the particular dearth of mental health facilities for treatment of PTSD and other mental disorders available to veterans.

It's hardly as if the nation is flush with psychiatric beds or workers, with care being denied disproportionately to veterans. Veterans aren't getting adequate mental health care because the resources de facto do not exist. It's ridiculous to propose "breaking down the barriers" to care before anyone has even proposed "laying down a foundation" for the facilities which would provide that care. In a neighboring county seat, one finds the office of the two psychiatrists serving all public needs and most private for a population topping 80k. This is not exceptional, such figures can be found throughout the US. This is a national crisis, but Barack Obama should at least have an inkling of a clue about the status of his own backyard.

It will be a disaster if either of them wins the
nomination on PR and good looks alone- as far as I'm
concerned both need to undertake some serious
education before either belongs in the White House.

Please use your vote this Tuesday to give support to the candidate whose beliefs you want in the White House, electability be damned. Let's shake these two up. We know damn well by now the danger of a complacent leader.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

Live Fast, Die Young, Leave a Good-Looking Corpse

I was fourteen when I pledged myself to alcohol in the name of poetry- an idea excavated from unexceptionally critical reading of the Jim Morrison biography,No One Here Gets Out Alive. Over the next year or two, the background literature for my plan diversified and grew, as did the procedures and processes.

My faith in the fundamental utility of (at least a few random) mind-altering substances had long since been confirmed as well-placed. I'd yet to try the amphetamines so innocently sought as a 12-year-old bulimic, but in the mean time I swallowed, inhaled, and drank questionable concoctions (truly toxic or merely disgusting?) in (usually successful) attempts to change my mind. There wasn't any peer pressure to get high, I recall early attempts at ego-obliteration as being my primary objective and motivator. I was yet to even much experience social inebriation. I just wanted to lose myself, mostly. It was emotionally redeeming to find "insanity" sanctified as a defining characteristic of true artistic temperament. I had accepted that I was insane (or sane in an insane world), and now I had a realistic model for how to execute a brief and beautiful life.

Just like Janis, Jimi, and Jim- I was going to be a public crazy genius, and I was going to go out in flames at 27 before I could rot away. I almost made it out at 28, but the rot had long since set in.

Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse? Mendacious marketing propaganda from peddlers of dead-rockstar biographies and anorexia memoirs.

Friday, January 18, 2008

And it seems, schizophrenia

". . . but our 15 minutes are up. We'll talk in a month."

Thanks Dr. Freud. I'd love to have an extra month to ruminate on this on my own.. Best of all would be if we could allow it to disintegrate beyond the point of no return. Let's wait years, actually!

What a nice psychiatrist. I really hope they keep the ECT machines well-maintained here. I just can't do. . . anything. I can't make these calls, take a shower, god-fucking-forbid I attend my stupid adult day care groups at the mental health center. And the therapist wants me to move into the goddamn group home.

I'm glad I won't have to care too much longer. Hell, if I started smoking again today betcha I'd be outtie in less than a decade- no questions asked.

I am so cold. It was so clear talking to my social worker last night that my life is over. M*A*S*H

Saturday, January 12, 2008

We Interrupt this Miserable Life To Bring You Barely 21


In the event that you had forgotten, this is what the weekend used be for.

Beer and bongs and board games near xmas break 96 from UF . I didn't really need to be on acid. But not everyone does coke, right? Only so many people can possibly work in the restaurant business. . .

Right, um. As you were.

And now I proceed to reveal my face without my flesh

Yes I received your letter yesterday
About the time the doorknob broke.
When you asked me how I was doing-
was that some kind of joke?

Yes, it actually bothers me to be seeing a psychiatrist who believes my biggest struggle is Special Olympics "anorexia" (say this in your head in a sing-song voice,) then "depression". Yup, you got it. For the first time in as long as I can recall, I made it out of a quackologist's office with no Axis I complication of my affective disorder beyond "depression." Not even the vaguest attempt to force atypical anti-psychotics on me as treatment for my flaky skin, sleeplessness, flat affect, irritability, (inexplicably) depression and apathy, unresponsiveness, or anxiety. The doctor didn't even halfheartedly attempt to consider a lifetime of recurrent severe major depressive episodes as a cycle of some sort. Clearly, he had been kicked off of Seroquel's payroll1. My last set of schizodiagnosticians had been in bed with the Abilify folks. Clearly, madly, passionate. In fact- I was threatened to be cut off altogether should I refused to ackowledge my "gradually emerging schizophrenia" and take Abilify (AAP # 5, IIRC. . . but anti-psychotics number 7.)

I refused.

And, for the time being. . . I refuse to continue. I'm filliing up everything Iwrite with non-sequitors this afternoon due to too many days with too little sleep. I also must now go to Wal-mart and return the crochet hoops, glittery spools of colored macrama twine, multiple feet of lovely, lovely trimming, a few feet or really ugly trimming (who needed blue leather braid on clothing? Why?). . . and odds and ends of fabric that I'd truly prefer not to. (all that fleece. . .chiffon, satin, corduroy. jeez, people!)

Maybe I'll pick up some actually embroidery thread at the actual hobby store as I was meant to on my way home. Gasp, shock, awe.

1.To be fair, I only later recalled reading of him drinking seroquel-flavored soup. But also in the name of honestly I must assert that he did not at all appear to be a risk at this point. Perhaps a company rep had dropped by just then to let him know how much she'd enjoyed her visits, but that she had to move and would never, ever, be coming back. The assorted caseful was sort of goodbye present. And the kids? That they had managed to escape icecream-flavored anti-psychotic soup is testiment to the patience that pink elaphant must possess to sit and wait years in the closet before emerging, and his unique traits that make him recignizabable even to the youngest of children who know that talking to invisible creatures is not worth free sweets.

Friday, January 4, 2008

Russian Music

Sorry folks. This one will require not only having your whole damn "character encoding" list ( in firefox->view->character encoding-> then digging around in the options until your find the one that makes this readable.) I've got reason to belief that it's "unicode UTF-8", a c.e. of which I know nothing. Presumably because it uses transliteration rather than the real cyrillic keyboard which just screws me up. Or- if you are on Firefox- and god only knows why anyone in the free world would be using anything less by now, go check out the wet dream list of language extension tools. Right now I'm doing fine with Anykey. I noticed much more recent loads of add-ons available, including quite a few that I could potentially *use* in entirety . . .just don't see myself buckling down with- well- *any* brand new language family right now, unless I finally opt to get my head out of the clouds of pharmaceutical shell/artificial sweetener/ high-fiber cement-like items I inevitably give in to eventually, even knowing that they are primarily doomed to end up in my lower intestine. So, yeah, perhaps it's time to find a more personalized add-on until such a time as it becomes plausible vital to get a high colonic, in order to facilitate extraction of head from ass. It appears most feasible to expect this possibility to present itself on a grand scale during

Anyhoo. In response to this poll regarding my favorite band's latest album cover, I replied to the guy who thinks a child's picture doesn't "go" with the title.

Никите- А по-моему во фотке сосредоточитя беспредельная, заязычная радость яркокраской, тянушим морем прелестьно-глупостью (огромных очков). В самом деле она точно подходит М.Кунстливому состоянию. (т.е. тому, кодга я его знала. Может он обезсветовалась, возможно теперь на каждом концерте представляется одна и та же самая списка лишенных экспромптом песень, а ни на коем случае больше не обращаются с фанками, тем более запрещены бсе "guest musicians.") По-моему такое отчуждение темперамента появляется крайне-редко, верно следствием шок-терапии.

В любом случае, обложка на албуме должна воображать музыкантов и их творчество целом. Название в конце концов мгновенный способ проверки. Нафиг обложке ему подходить? Прелестный представитель группы, которая вызывает во мне сольнечные тропические мысли и ребячливое желание смеяться и танцовать (несмотря на взгляды других). ' '

Go check out the band whose blog I linked to in my title. I discovered them quite serendipitously in March 1997, when the band on the roster at the tiny club Кризис жанра failed to show. That was the night I understood why Jerry Garcia had to die, and about the same time I realized I had to stay in Russia as long as possible.*

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Why It's Not Cool to Pick on Amy Winehouse or Other Living Creatures

"My point is that idolizing this woman or her body is ridiculous."

Your point in posting here was to underscore how ridiculous the participants are? Or to see just how many cleverly-worded chops on a sick woman's appearance you could come up with, sight unseen?

I don't get why you would be participating in a thread devoted to pictures of someone who you claim makes you vomit, has lost half her teeth,and "looks like a junky". Even more surprising is that you would belong to an entire forum populated by people who probably look very much the same, despite the status of their sobriety.

I do apologize for dragging this out. I just hate it when I see this kind of attitude perpetuated on our forum. As if there's some great barrier of sanity separating those with eating disorders from the rest of the mentally ill population that grants us some right to look down upon sufferers of other (or in this case, additional) disorders. Just as bad is our instant justification of any necessary degree of slander/censor in the name of anti/recovery Depending on the way the wind is blowing in any given season- your comments would surely never have seen the light of day on this board circa 2001, smothered by the "rule" of anti-recovery.

I'm not arguing with the sentiment- if you had voiced it so simply in the first place we wouldn't have wasted a page arguing veinous scar tissue. I agree that A.W. is unhealthy. It actually breaks my heart to read so many media forum posts stating that "celebrity X can't possibly weigh that much" when "that much"= 90 lbs.

I'm arguing with the semantics. Sick is sick. Sick is universally unhappy, systemically unhealthy, heartbreaking, and at least occasionally gross. A.W. is sick. I am sick. Most of our board members are sick.* I assume, despite your initial interactions with me in the bulimia forum last September, that you are also sick.
Sick hurts too much to shower and sick is too tired to brush teeth. Sick says too much after a another sleepless night. Sick is bloated at an eternal #2 on the kidney list. Sick is unhealing bedsores and infected ulcers of pre-amputated feet. Sick is hair and shit and tumor and bone and vomit- human waste, wastes removed, and wasted human lives. Sick is universally understood to be negative and we all know that idolizing sickness is "ridiculous."

Editorializing is unnecessary. '

*Although it's important to remember that many members deal with at least one major mental illness in addition to an ED, along with a sizeable number of members dealing with one or more chronic physical disabilities/disorders.