Circadian Rhythms From the Offbeat Drummer

It's 5:00 am. But it's 6:00 am. Actually, that sentence took me an hour to type. So now it's 6:00, except my body thinks it's 7:00 am. I'm definitely *not* manic. I am utterly exhausted. Went to bed around 1:30 am last night, thinking "Oh hell, it's really only 12:30 am, and I get that extra hour, so I'll set the coffee to start at 8:00 am!" Reasonable, right? Except that I woke up at 4:50 am, and couldn't get back to sleep. Daylight Savings Time always screws me up, whether I gain or lose an hour.

At last online recollection, I was answering some comments on my Life Development forum, but intelligently, unlike what I posted in my last blog. The trouble is, I'll probably be boggled with hypersomnia by about 10am (if not earlier) and crumble back into bed, and I  have to get my hair cut at noon today. Oh, and write a 5-page Ethics paper (yes, APA-cited, shit).

School has taken its toll on my sleep schedule a quarter of the way through my graduate education. By Thursdays, I am clumped between the sheets for 4-hour stretches, dead to the world...a pattern that repeats the rest of the weekend. No, I don't want to hear my physician friends tell me I'm being a wuss because they survived it in medical school. They were like 25 at the time. I'm 40. I also don't want to hear it from my jet-setting friends, who return home with raging jet lag because while I sympathize, they're getting paid gobs of money. My face is caving into my Theories book on Wednesday mornings at 9am, which seems strange, as I used to go to work around that time, and I'd function just fine. But understand, 90% of my job at the medical practice was fueled by adrenaline and coritsol (the stress hormone) and Theories class is just one giant snooze-a-thon in a 3-hour stretch. PS--the next time I'm sitting next to my student therapist during the Wednesday morning 8 am weekly seminar, literally drooling asleep, it'd be super if he would do me the favor of at least nudging me out of REM stage so I can pretend to be involved.

I stayed conscious at last week's seminar, chiefly because the guest speaker from the Center for Learning and Teaching was almost screaming and throwing books at us. No joke. With an emphatic thrust, she whacked us over our heads with...

She was all "If you DON'T own this book, BUY IT NOW! ESPECIALLY IF YOU WERE AN.....ENGLISH MAJOR!!!! and are used to MLA style writing. This is PSYCHOLOGY. FOLLOW THE APA MANUAL!" After diagnosing her with schizoid personality disorder, having my laptop out, I tuned her out, went on Amazon and ordered the god-forsaken manual. I was thinking to myself, "Look here, Sister Sledge, give me 20 minutes and I could write a sonnet about what an utter cunt you're being to us right now, but I'm busy ignoring your hostile ramblings and nervously fidgeting with my piercings."

APA-style citation and writing doesn't come naturally to me. Its nuances upset the flow of my thoughts, interrupt my logic and my last Theories paper, being inked up with "RUNNING HEAD, RUNNING HEAD" on each page pissed me off for reasons I've previously discussed at length. I'd give you a "running head" out-the-door if I wasn't 3/4 of the way dead ass asleep in the first place. I'll figure it out. I'm certainly not, well, STUPID.

This week's dunce cap has to embarrassingly go to VP contender Paul Ryan, who takes reshitulous idiocy to a whole new level of achieving the moniker of "Tool." We liberals weren't duped by his photo-op washing of already-clean pots at a soup kitchen, his visionary notion of economics under a Republican presidency make about as much sense as reducing the national debt with bags of split peas, and give me a break, what the fuck is this?

Vying for the Country's Most Boring Job Unless There's a National Crisis That Grossly Incapacitates The Prez, Otherwise You Just Ride the Coattails of the Commander-in-Chief, attracting impressionable GOP youngins with his weight-curling, "I want to arm wrestle Joe Biden" publicity stunt worked against him, as both conservative and liberal, uh, sane people sat back and laughed at his clueless smirk as he tried to impress voters with the fact that Rage Against the Machine was his favorite band. (It'd be more ironic if Tool was his favorite band, but whatever.) Rage's bassist, Tim Commerford, publicly declared Ryan a "jackass" and "the embodiment of the machine our music rages against." 

Wow. That's too bad. 

I'd be really bummed out if *my* favorite band thought I was stupid. They may find me irretrievably needy and annoying at times, but one thing they know is that I'm not an idiot. Paul Ryan? Might I suggest your party stick with fervent, off-key, clearly-drunk-again, has-been crooner-come-bit part actor Meatloaf, whose rendition of "America the Beautiful" at a Mitt Romney rally was the embodiment of literally everything that's wrong with falling off the wagon in public with millions of people watching...or as I like to call it, "I Could See Paradise By the Dashboard Light If Not For the Flashing Police Car Behind Me, Ready To Pull Me Over for the World's Worst DUI." Watch Romney stand there saying to himself, "My life is over and now the USA has proof that I'm a dickwad." 

Further wadding of Republican dick-dom came out via the national press yesterday, when it was revealed that as a freshman student at Stanford University, the khaki-wearing, blazer-donning, penny-loafer walking Romney skipped his Western Civilization class one day. I thought, "Wow! I actually have something in common with this Jag Bag!" as I skipped the whole term of Western Civ in college because it conflicted with my daily viewing of "All My Children," in which I was engrossed, a class I'd attend so sparsely that I failed. But Romney wasn't sacrificing his studies to watch soap operas. Heavens, no. You can bet your Blessed, Miraculous Mormon Underpants Kissing the Ass of Joseph Smith that he had a larger cause over which to rally.

Try and follow me here. I know it's early in the morning and you're scrambling to get your clocks right before you accidentally go to church an hour early. Romney was participating in an anti-anti-war protest over the war in Vietnam. A) Bad move when you're a governor's son. B) Holding up a sign that says "Oppose Anarchy" in that kind of outfit sets you up for a really good ass-kicking. C) An anti-anti-war protest is a double negative, which is actually a pro-war demonstration, right? The Dems haven't forgotten the factoid that Romney effectively dodged the draft in Vietnam FOUR TIMES while on "Mormon mission trips" under the umbrella of being a "student of divinity." He'd go on to follow his governor father's lead on the war position, backpedaling being anti-anti to pro-pro, and saying one year that he had no desire to serve our country in the military, then retracting that to say that he actually "longed" to be in Vietnam to aid our country's war effort. His like 187 sons followed suit and shunned military service to spread the disease of Mormonism far and wide, just like dear old dad. M'kay. 

I can't wait for Tuesday to be over, to celebrate my President's victory and put all this political tension bullshit behind me, which has worn out my brain. Four years ago today, I was in Grant Park at the Obama rally amid at least a million people who fist-pumped in unison with, well, 90% of the rest of country, as the buildings downtown were all lit patriotically in favor of our hometown hero. USA!

Please vote, America. Exercise your rights better than that piddle-diddle VP Republican candidate crunches his 6-pack abs and discreetly uses a Suzanne Somers Thigh-Master. 

What the Fuck is "Netiquette?"

Rule #6 of my grad school's (actual) "Netiquette" policy states this: "Be yourself and be honest." Up until today, I wasn't even aware there was such a policy in place. There's nary anything for which I strive in my life  as much as being original and no bullshit. I've said before...I'm honest to the point of brutality. And any of those who read me frequently know how many derogatory expletives I interject into every single conversation or piece of writing I create. Reading my therapy transcripts from my student counselor in class is hysterical to me, because every other word, literally, and they transcribe verbatim, is "fuck" or "shit." I was doing admirably well in my courses this semester (statistics, again, be damned and I'm getting like a C+ in Theories), my Life Development online class being a highlight. 

We have 2 questions to answer per week, where we post our answers and then have to follow up with posted responses to our classmates by Saturday night. The atmosphere of the class, though I have only met one student in person, is very amicable. We like one another. Hence, I feel relaxed, not self-conscious seeing as no one can physically see me.  My posts are usually insightful, intelligent and well-thought out. Or so I think they are. Except for this week's assignment. In my writing the other night, I could tell precisely the exact moment my night medications took effect, and I ceased to be coherent in any of the rest of my writing. I was inappropriate, insulting and gibbering without making any sense at all. It's so weird because what's in my head which compels me to write doesn't physically manifest itself in that fashion. I honestly believe I think I'm thinking within reason, when I'm totally not at all.

Everyone knows what I foul mouth I have and I take little consideration as whether or not that offends anyone, because I honestly could give a shit. But see, in grad school, you have to give a shit, just worded professionally and lucidly and on-topic. I have a 100% grade at midterm in this class and I'd love to round the semester out with an A, which I think is totally within my grasp.

Having gone over my posts first thing yesterday morning, I was totally embarrassed and shocked at their utter nonsense. I tried explaining on the forum what happens to me after I take my medications, but the professor and I agreed to scrap all of my answers from last night and to start over. Fair enough, as the professor is very laid back and accommodating. A lot of incoherent babbling goes on in my blogs too, but at least those I have the capacity to edit when I'm fully conscious, unlike the forum postings for class. The professor emailed me after I re-read those posts and asked if they could be removed. She agreed. She must be very attune to my nature and temperance even though we've never met in person. Here was her observation: 

"I appreciate your insights and contributions in this class, and I've enjoyed readings your responses.  However, I would like to ask that you would edit your responses/comments before posting and remove all inappropriate words. It may be difficult with your style of direct personality, language, and openness about yourself, but there are professional norms and language that we should use in the academic environment.  I suspect you may despise that, but we should think about other people and their feelings as well and what everyone expects when they're in academic environment.  It can be difficult to play various roles in the society and submit to the expected norms, but I would appreciate if you can try to socialize into a professional's role and use professional language (i.e, eliminating words such as "bitch," "ass" and etc.).  Thank you very much for your understanding and cooperation."

Damn straight. What's totally on target? It is extremely difficult for me to adapt to proper, polite society, at which I give the middle finger a lot.  I don't remember which posts "bitch" or "ass" were even in, but understandable that some people may have a different view of what's proper in an academic environment. (At least in Basic Skills for Psychotherapy, the therapy class, we all swear at one another. Our prof swears. It's all cool.)

I couldn't help but chuckle at the professor's wrist slap, as a punk. Yes, I agreed to follow the "netiquette" of the class from here on in, which leaves me with my blog, Facebook and Twitter on which to pound out F-bombs to my heart's content. Because that's just how I fucking am. Despise conforming to the norm?  I do. I feel that in a progressive, socially-conscious, private psychological learning institution, opinions should be welcomed and encouraged. But I guess they just don't want one with an F-bomb in the conversation.

Soon after I asked the professor to excuse my non-sensical ramblings and transient sleep stage responses to the questions, she did, and then shared with the whole class the school's  "Netiquette Policy." Of course she did. Because of Annie and her foul language, which I sorta find really hysterical  for those motherfuckers when the shit comes down. I feel like I was sent to the principal's office, or worse punishment, that I have to sit in the hallway and write 500 sentences of "I promise I won't use foul language in class ever again."

Saying "Fuck You" to contemporary popular, proper society is one of my life's greatest joys.

What, you're asking yourselves was so offensive and irrational? Here's one of my posts from this week, and mind you, you won't be able to follow the logic, because there isn't any:

"In the case fragment we were given from Santrock's article regarding the nuns:

I can sympathize with the nuns on one hand, but it goes against my only religion not to block the You-Know-Who.

The nun study was an interesting case. On the one hand, nuns pontificate that they are "wives" of Jesus, or at least he had a few favorites (if you know what I am still battling out Satan. [eye roll while the students are trying unsuccessfully to apply our psycholgical perspectives.

Physiologically,yes, we jockey into pole position coming out the Cumberland El stop. I'm perpetually with eyes on the back of my head. Of course, I'd also need eyes and glasses on the back of my hat, because my patient would steal it.

Had we any tricks or treaters tonight, I totally would've given them the crap on top of the cat statue. Let it roll!

Have any of you thought would it would be LIKE a grandmother, much less just like your own mom, which Sean and I both agreed was worded awkwardly and vague, which we'll figure out next week, I suppose.dot

I shouldn't have to cite my sources regarding baby/child care.I just hope and keep him prayer.

"Every sperm is sacred..." --Monty Python"

What in HELL? Who the fuck is Sean? Crap on a cat? What in tarnation was I talking about? Good God! I literally was typing asleep, I truly think. I was trying to finish my homework before the 11pm due time last night. But I'd been up since 4:45 that morning, had school, then had to come home and Be a Mom, had homework for this course, and oy...I think "overtired" is an understatement. It's like switching a light off, too, these changes in lucidity. I start out just fine, but wrap it up horribly. This doesn't happen every week; in fact, this is the first time it's ever happened in this class, and I can't remember in which weeks' posts I was swearing my head off, but I trust the professor that I did. Me is Me is Me.

My professor is encouraging me to visit the aforementioned department that helps crazy addicts w/brain damage get through school. All that learning disabled nonsense because of drug/alcohol abuse and bipolar. Great.

I had no choice to withdraw from statistics online, my final prerequisite for grad school. I just couldn't keep up with it. I'm hoping to find another stats class or research methods somewhere. I have to get a C or better for Adler to count it. Good. Fucking. Luck. Adler will plotz if I don't pass some sort of class like this in a timely fashion. Why do I have this sick feeling I'll be re-taking this prerequisite over and over again, in a hellish nightmare, until I'm ready to graduate with my masters?

In happier news...

Luke's Deadmau5 costume replica hat, which he worked on for 17 man hours with his dad, turned out to be boss. I guarantee you no other 7th graders went to the time and expense Luke and his dad put into this head.  Deadmau5, as Luke taught me, is some Canadian techno DJ that the young folk really enjoy. I personally find it extremely annoying. Most of his friends, with whom he tricked-and-treated, simply wore cheap plastic masks. Offbeat Drummer Spawn posed for this picture, in costume:

After this photo of Luke made its way around Facebook, naturally I had to get some derogatory remarks from Super Christian Total Helicopter Parents. But geez, if you're gonna criticize my kid and his amazing costume, when your kid still sits in a booster seat in the back seat of your van and he's going to be 13 years old,  still carrying a "The Incredibles" lunchbox from 3rd grade,  maybe try not to confuse words: she said that the "helmet" was great (or "costume") but she said she could "do without the jester." Um....I may have been close to my witching time, but I commented back to her that I think she was reaching for the word "gesture."Luke has every right to flip the bird at me in that head, because he's totally badass. We Miklaszes love to take pictures of giving the finger. And people like giving the finger to me, too. Middle-aged punkers like The Mekons' Jon Langford, on whom I still have a ginormous crush, whom I told (Not That) Bill Wyman when I was 19 that I'd meet someday, and lo and behold...

In other news...

Finally had a phone call from Guy Friend.   I think the catalyst for him finally ringing me up was my vindictive implication that I indeed intended on caramel-dipping raw onions on sticks and giving them to kids for Halloween. I was happy to hear from him and our conversation wasn't terribly deep or emotional, so maybe he's over that whole "OMG, Annie's in love with me! and I have no idea how to handle that" crap. He's going to LA this weekend to see his sister. Last weekend, he was in Boston. I doubt I'll see him any time soon. He seemed chipper enough on the phone, and did call me "sweetheart," so whatever. I guess we're fine. The glamorous lifestyle of a...cardiologist. It's really weird. I don't blink at the thought of Best Male Friend jetting around the globe; I'm used to it. But when Guy Friend leaves town, I have crazy separation anxiety, though I don't think it's centered around his wife, though yeah, sometimes I wish he'd ditch her & take ME away for the weekend. I'd make his life nothing short of an amazing adventure into utter lunacy.

My professor, I'm sure, doesn't have time to peruse my blog at any length, but had this to say in her email to me this afternoon:

" I'm glad you've found this online class supportive, but revealing personal details to many people may not always work well in the long run.  I'm not suggesting one or the other way, but providing a different perspective to consider, since our world is not perfect and your excessive self-disclosure may sometime work against you."

I disagree. It'll all make a helluva memoir. The world is not perfect, true. And it's full of assholes who'll use your shit against you, true. But one thing I've found as an addict and as a mental patient is that too many of us are ashamed, silent and complacent about that from which we relentlessly suffer. Somebody has to give us a voice, and I took it upon myself to be one of those voices. Whether or not that works for or against me in my career remains to be seen, though still in all, the population I want to work with will be insanely shouting expletives that would make even my hot-tempered blood boil. Because, again, I want to aid people like ME.

We're learning about, uh, "older people" in Life Development for the next couple of weeks. I also ran across the article below online recently. These remind me of Guy Friend, and oh my, I have heard the best of them from him:

Gotcha. Loud and clear. Oddly, he never asked for sex. I mean, I'd give it serious consideration, but I, like Guy Friend, would never make any promises. Etiquette and all.

The closest admission to any semblance of any type of masturbatory activity you'll ever see The Offbeat Drummer disclose in public:

And he damn well better! I brought him into this world; I can take him out of it! Part of being a responsible, engaged parent is to neurotically monitor what your preteen is interested in online. Love me, love me, love me!

Pissing Off the Irish: Certainly No Potato Famine.

I had a paper to write today, due at 5:00 pm. I submitted it at 4:53 pm. A life-span development interview summary of an adolescent/young adult.  Luckily, I had a highly intelligent, verbose, eloquent interview subject. 

Yet I was highly distracted today. After I took Luke to school, I landed face-down back into bed until 11:00, er, somewhere around that time.

Delayed mostly because I watched this like 10 times, and my belly hurts from laughing, and then I had to share it, and then I wiped tears out of my eyes. Because this is just like the best thing, ever.

Only after I shared it with Pastor Dave did I realize that saying "Holy...anything" is probably breaking the 2nd Commandment of not taking the Lord's name in vain. Whoops!

I probably would've also submitted my paper sooner had I not been sidetracked AND hungry. 

I don't think I've ever had mashed potatoes with onion in them, but yum, and verily, Sir Paul McCartney of The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, one does NOT use margarine in one's mashed potatoes.  He's vegetarian, not vegan, so why not use some serious BUTTER. What the hell?

Why yes, I DO prefer a handbag that I can also eat. You're looking at me weirdly?

One thing in common among all my liberal friends in Oklahoma? They have wicked senses of humor. As, evidently, do their sarcastic Democratic State Senators, like Constance Johnson. She wanted to amend Republican-proposed Bill SB 1433, which would've given FEMALE EGGS the right to life in a "personhood" amendment, declaring them human beings. Realizing this was utter and complete nonsense, Sen. Johnson just wanted to have a little fun. (She withdrew her bill to amend the silly amendment, fully copping that she was being totally sarcastic.) And to think, here I sit, with all these freakin' unborn people inside my ovaries, with no hope of ever escaping and living their free lives, left to disintegrate...at least I *think* I still ovulate....I assume so...but no tubes, no uterus, no cervix...yep, y'all disintegrate. Sorry. 

"If a sperm is wasted, God gets quite irate...." --Monty Python, "Every Sperm is Sacred"

Brilliant. I love "The Meaning of Life." 

Shouldn't Guy Friend have more kids than he had if he's Irish and Catholic? I haven't talked to him in quite a while, but if he's a true Irish Catholic, shouldn't he have 12 kids instead of 3? Does that mean, since he didn't really do his part to fully propagate as per the Irish Catholic bylaws, he'll spend extra time in purgatory? If so, sorry, luv.

I got my ass whooped by a bunch of Irish Catholics from Ireland yesterday....IN GAELIC, no less. This Irish fella on Facebook, I don't even know how I know him, whether it's through the Lips or if he's in sobriety, whoever the fuck he is...posted this picture of Jesus talking to Mary, and said (in English) that if you said 10 novenas to the Virgin Mary, all of your prayers will be answered. Well, come on, if it was THAT goddamn simple, why didn't somebody like clue my Lutheran/Hindu/Buddhist ass in a long time ago?  I know what a novena is. I know the Hail Mary by heart. Half of my family is Catholic. But I'll be dipped if I'm going to be outdone by a guy named Biff O'Rourke in a foreign language.

I simply explained why Lutherans don't pray to Mary to intercede to God on our behalf. So they yelled at me in Gaelic. Not knowing what they were crabbing about, I said, "The same goes for the saints too!!!" which riled them up more, then I told one (who answered me in English) that I had tattoos....in SANSKRIT, by which time they were assuredly choking themselves with their rosaries, because the body is God's temple and you shan't mar it with ink....and Holy Lord Almighty, were they p.o.'d. In Gaelic, anyway. The only Irish Catholic who loves me anymore is Kate.

And you want to piss off the Irish even MORE? Imply that their ham is British. This commercial was BANNED in Britain, *not* because it features substantial male and female nudity. Yes, nudity while eating ham. (It's the ham eating that's what's REALLY offensive, not the nudity!) But Richmond Ham asserts being Britain's whatever-best-natural-super-ham. But it's made in Ireland. My Welsh friend explained to me, not long ago, that the Irish/Irish get really testy when you try to lump them together with the Northern Irish. Of this, I was not aware. I'm from Illinois. It's a fairly big deal with them over there. To me, it's splitting hairs, like getting my knickers in a twist because when the shit comes down, half of my POLISH ancestors were actually from PRUSSIA With Love.

Here's the commercial, quick, hide your wee ones!

My final distracting moment was stumbling upon a video of George, Paul & Ringo having some tea in '94 in one of the "Anthology" extra features video clips. They were talking about the decline of Elvis Presley. Paul met Elvis once, Ringo couldn't remember how many times he'd seen or met him, but George regaled a story of meeting The King at Madison Square Garden towards the end of Elvis' life and seeing this god-like figure, looking actually really, sort of pathetic. George wished he could've encouraged Elvis to throw on a pair of jeans, get his guitar and do "That's Alright, Mama," instead (and he imitates him) of shit like "My Way"  in a white jumpsuit with gold buckles all over it. George said Elvis "was great when he was great. A good 3 minutes, not a time-waster. 

I best get crackin' on my 10 novenas that I pass statistics, for which Guy Friend urged me to pray the last time I heard from him. 

Why The Offbeat Drummer is Pro-Real-Life.

*Note to Victims of Gunshots!*

Maybe we should pass legislation that bars doctors from removing bullets from victims of gun shots, since the gun shot wound was "God's will."  Or wait. Maybe your appendix burst, jettisoning poisonous bacteria which coursed through your veins, from which we should withhold antibiotics, since the burst appendix was God's will and well, pal, it's your time to go. The further down the food chain you go, the more ridiculous the examples become, but it can all be chucked up....to....look.

If you break everything down, and want to get semantic, it's sort of ALL God's will, isn't it? Assuming, of course, God's in charge and "everything happens for a reason....blah blah blah."

Er, it's Eve's fault, since she was tempted to bite the forbidden fruit, and then gave it to her guy friend (*not husband*) Adam, who set the pace for the rest of the universe, and literally, all hell broke loose and that's why we're all sick and violent and flawed and gross and sinful and psychotic, hence the need for a Savior.

(I've found, in general, that I'm more inclined to side on this particular political/moral conundrum with people who aren't fundamentalist or conservative Christians, BUT!)

Personally, I've had 2 people whose opinions I respect and whom I love insist that had the man who raped me (chronically, repeatedly) impregnated me, and mind you these were both men who said, "While not the most ideal circumstances, it's still murder. You'd murder your own baby?", that I absolutely should not have ever even considered having an abortion. Because it was God's will and God loves little babies...a lot. ("It's not the baby's fault! The baby is innocent!" Well, no, the baby's not innocent, if you subscribe to the Christian credo, actually. Original sin'll getcha every time, hence the need for Holy Baptism.) No, actually, rape isn't the most "ideal of circumstances," which is an understatement. Being forced to have anal or oral sex against one's will during the course of recovery from cervical surgery is also not the most "ideal of circumstances." Yet it happened.

What I do thank God for is the fact that I was infertile the years during which I was raped, and consequently, did not get pregnant. As I've told everyone who's challenged me regarding this matter, who are in the know, I would've aborted, because that would've been my choice and I would choose not to press forward with birthing a Fetus Generated By a Heinous Crime. The thought of being forever tied to a menacing, narcissistic, violent sociopath--a man who duct taped my mouth shut and my wrists together and took a knife to me, knowing I had history as a cutter to begin with, via a child? I don't think so. And that's MY choice. Fortunately, it was a choice I never had to make.  (And spare me the agony of your wonderful "You could always just put the baby up for adoption!" platform.)

The Republican party wishes to strip women of the right to choose what to do in the circumstance of an unplanned pregnancy, flat out. I am deeply grateful and indebted to Planned Parenthood for giving me the opportunity to have access to contraceptives before I was ready to become a mother and will fight for their sustenance, for they provide a number of worthwhile services to women, birth control aside. Overturn Roe v Wade and welcome back the deaths of countless women who resigned themselves to unsanitary, back-alley rogue abortions. I defended the pro-choice movement on a Facebook page called "Let's find 1,000,000 People Who Are Against Abortion." Ain't no shock to me that to date, they've only amassed less than 200,000 supporters. Why? Because sane people understand free will and support the right to choose!

But what's just reprehensible is that certain radicals within the conservative stream are particularly picky when it comes to women who are victims of rape, utterly negating the subject of assault, putting rape victims on the totally unfair defensive, which is something around which I just can't wrap my remaining ovaries.

It's really, fucking easy for both men and women to side with God's will against abortion, citing it as "murder," to the ridiculous point of criminal punishment on the part of the woman who chooses to either prevent or terminate an eminent disaster in her life, separate from the long-lasting, vicious psychological damage that is the result of rape. The raped woman who chooses abortion is a murderer, but the rapist who perpetuates the crime in the first place? Radical conservatives are saying, "Well, it couldn't possibly have been THAT bad," or "It's not that I'm pro-rape or anything..." But by merely proposing that a woman should be stripped of choice just as she was stripped of dignity and sanity, you are effectively making a case for being "pro-rape;" in which case, you can go to hell.

I would like such ignoramuses to be trapped underneath an almost 300 lb, 6'3" man who's choking you and violating your privates for even 5 minutes, much less 3 years. I would like them to have a kitchen utensil used for scrubbing pots and pans shoved into an orifice inside their body while the perpetrator "didn't hear" your desperate cries to stop, only to be urinated upon later. THEN come talk to me about MY choice as a woman to do whatever I goddamn well please with what's left of MY body.

Mourdock wants a Senate seat in Indiana, and presently has the endorsement from the Romney/Ryan Asshole Machine. Have we not learned anything from the Todd Akin "bad sperm" uber-gaffe? Radical conservatives? I don't want you anywhere near my vagina. (It's mockingly frightening that my rapist used to work for Bain & Company,  FYI.)

And if I don't want you anywhere near my body, I sure as hell don't want you governing me from Washington, DC.

Vote on November 6th. But not for someone with such outlandishly despicable mores. If you dislike the Democratic party, which is personally who The Offbeat Drummer champions, vote for an independent. Write somebody in. Nominate your next-door neighbor. ANYBODY but Romney/Ryan and their hoodlum gaggle. I don't care to what creed you subscribe, if any at all.

Pro-rape. Never thought I'd hear those words together, but they seem to be the GOP's rally call. God's will. Yeah. Almost. I like what Stephen Colbert had to say last night regarding this political SNAFU:

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Richard Mourdock's Rape Comment
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog Video Archive

Girls on Film.

While I admittedly haven't seen much of director Paul Thomas Anderson's recent work, two films of his (back to back) are pinnacles of my late 20's...."Boogie Nights" and "Magnolia." (Along with whatever film he was creating in my sleep...)

"Boogie Nights," Craig and I saw in the theater, even though it was scandalous and porn-ish. Then I had it on VHS. It was during my being in temporary disability from working at R.S. Owens, and I would literally play the film over and over again and get tanked on narcotics day in and day out. Movie-stealing scene?  (At the time relatively unknown character actor) Alfred Molina's portrayal of an eccentric LA guy whom the main male characters of the film attempt to rob to get money fueled by their coke addictions. To this day, I don't know why the scene stands out to me so vividly from the film:

Anderson's 1999 "Magnolia?" I own it on DVD (as I do "Boogie Nights") but haven't watched it since I saw it, again with Craig, in the theater. In going through my CD's recently, I found the soundtrack, which has the film ticket stub inside the jewel case. Why? Because it was during "Magnolia" that I went into labor with Luke when Craig and I saw the 12:30 showing on January 16, 2000. I was very uncomfortable and fidgety, having contractions, but damnit, was determined to get through that 3 1/2 hour film because I knew it would be the last time I'd get out and do anything minus the anchor of a child for quite some time. The soundtrack, by Aimee Mann, was something I'd listen to in Luke's nursery when I was trying to get him to go to sleep. With the exception of including Tom Cruise, whom I loathe, into the movie, it was a great series of vignettes about people grappling with not being very lovable. Anderson's direction of this clip, which is how it's presented in the film, blows me away. This is Aimee Mann's "Wise Up."

And another fine one..."Save Me."

It's unusual that a film director will actually take charge of dreams and direct them. Early this morning, Paul Thomas Anderson was doing just that, except it wasn't a movie, it was my life in my late 20's. But I suppose if I had my choice of dream directors, PTA would be high on the list, as would Roman Polanski.  He's a helluva film maker. Even better and perhaps more apt? Woody Allen.

In my dream, Anderson had a script we were all supposed to be following. My mom, my Aunt Pat, and my first cousins Pam and Sue all came barreling into my old apartment on Summerdale in Chicago that Craig and I shared from the time we married in 1996 until we moved to Park Ridge in 2001, when Luke was about a year and a half old. My family was freaking out about how filthy my apartment was (and it never really was), with Craig holding Luke and me scrambling to get garbage picked up, before my older brother appeared, my family held me down, and Steve poured gasoline from a can down my throat, which I tried to spit out but couldn't, and I was fearful that I was going to be set on fire.

[CUT SCENE]

I asked Anderson why actor John Goodman wasn't in the film playing the bartender. "He's too old and he drinks too much," PTA said, as we mutually looked over and saw Goodman drinking straight up whiskey. (Whether or not Goodman has an alcohol problem in real life, I am not aware.)

[ENTER SCENE]

Yep. The recurring, oft-starring, gorgeous elderly actor Sam Waterston, who has played my Knox history professor in my dreams more times than I can count, though in this dream, he was my therapist. Breaking away from my whole family, still spitting out gasoline, Waterston presented me with his credentials as a Navy veteran (in real life he was a Yale man) and I physically shook him by the lapels of his blazer and told him to buy me a one-way ticket to Brazil so I could get away from everyone.

In retrospect, I think the catalyst for Waterston appearing as the therapist stemmed from yesterday's Ethics issue (I got an A on my midterm, thank you very much. How could I not? I was wearing my Bruce Lee t-shirt.) of how unethical it is for therapists and clients to forge a romantic or sexual relationship. Sam and I didn't have an inappropriate relationship in the dream, (unfortunately) though in class yesterday, I had to role play with a classmate in a scene where the female client has come to the male therapist for guidance regarding her mistrust of men whom she perceives are all using her, only to have her seedy therapist announce in session how attractive he thought she was. After pouring her heart out for weeks about her love life, the therapist takes advantage of her vulnerability, and the client suggests she find a new therapist, much to the interested male therapist's chagrin, as he attempts to coerce her into working things out as client/therapist, before they decide they're mutually really attracted to one another and their whole interpersonal therapeutic dynamic goes down the toilet. I asked my professor if issues like this actually, really come up in therapeutic relationships and she insisted that they very often do, after which you cite your professional ethics and abandon your budding lust.

I couldn't handle Sam Waterston being my therapist. He's TOO attractive, smart and, while trustworthy on the surface, I'd have a hard time broaching sensitive issues with him, because his gorgeousness would be too distracting.

After begging Waterston for the plane ticket via Anderson's scripted direction, my cell phone started blinging with texts and woke me up this morning.

[THE END OF THE DREAM.]

Why Brazil? I have no idea, as it wasn't a Terry Gilliam (Monty Python)-directed dream. What would I do there? Beats me. Do I have a desire to visit Brazil? Not particularly. Would I eventually totally put the moves on Sam Waterston if he was my therapist? Oh, for God's sake, what a ridiculous question. Of COURSE I would.

I asked my Ethics professor if the American Medical Association operates from such an ethics-code-based, stone-set of rules and regulations similar to that which counselors/psychologists are bound. She uttered a resounding "No, not at all...you've got doctors dating nurses, doctors romancing the office workers, doctors and patients dating..," at which point I completely shut my mouth and didn't elaborate as to why I was asking that question. The AMA is allowed to operate largely with individual doctors deciding what's ethical and unethical, while therapists are strictly bound to uphold the American Counseling Association's 2005 Code of Ethics and not deviate without devastating consequence and the threat of license-stripping.

And who needs that bullshit?

God really fucked us up by giving us the unconscious. Honestly. Like the subconscious isn't difficult enough with which to grapple, we humans are tortured mentally by visual and auditory stimuli that, while completely out of our control, guide our slumber.  That which is supposed to invigorate and regenerate us gets muddied by feelings and urges we tirelessly suppress in our daily real-life interactions.

The vividness of the dreamscape is particularly unwelcome for people who have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, as I do, and it's during those dreams when all of that latent fear and distrust are manifested. Those dreams come and go in waves, often precipitated by a trigger of some kind, affecting any one of the senses. It's very easy for the layperson (or counselor even) to tell the person with PTSD to "forget about it," but how is that possible when the unconscious prompts the activation of torture endured that is part of the long-past?
All I know is that I wake up scared, freaked out, icky, shamed, and seeking comfort, which goes largely unresolved in my own life, so the only people I really talk about it with are my 2 kindred spirit friends who also have PTSD. All I'll say is that most of us have "anxiety dreams," which are normal. PTSD-rich anxiety dreams feature anxiety + fear + shit you lived through, and are like 10 times worse.

Then there are other dreams that are pleasant, or happy, or warm and wonderful, intimate, or even goofy...while asleep, they are sheer joy. Yet when I wake up, a gaping hole called "reality" slaps me back and those hugs and kisses I imagined didn't happen. Those elusive accolades or compliments were never uttered. That success was never achieved. That person I love so much is still dead. Or, like the picture above, the conversation played out in my head turned 360 degrees and went in a totally different direction than I anticipated or desired.

So, no. Despite my unconscious, Sam Waterston isn't my therapist and I'm not packing for Brazil. The upside? No, my brother didn't choke me with gasoline. On a scale of 1-10, I'd give the freakout factor of the Paul Thomas Anderson mental film-loop about a 7. Or one thumb up and one thumb down, if I'm going to Siskel & Ebert it like a proper critic.

Whenever, You Know...

Mania Seems to be Creeping In...And Thanks for the Nastygram This Morning, Guy!

This is my 500th blog post on this site. 500 rat-a-tat-tats. 

I'm celebrating by entering into a hypomanic episode and it's almost 3am and I haven't been to bed yet. I'm not even really drowsy, though I took my massive cocktail of medications at 8pm. Luckily, I don't have to be up at any certain point tomorrow.

I have a crippling phobia about insomnia. It started about 3 years ago. I had one spell when I was newly working at my job, and I hadn't slept in 36 hours straight. I managed to get myself to my family doctor, who Rx'd me Estazolam, a benzodiazepine. That worked. It's an off-brand use, but it's also used to curb my generalized anxiety disorder, so I take 1mg up to 3 times a day and 2mg at bedtime. It's been working well since I started taking it, not requiring harder sleeping pills like Ambien or Restoril.

While I slept until 9:30 this morning, which is very unusual for me, what's more unusual is the fact that I'm still wide awake. I hate tossing and turning, because my mind is racing. My heart is racing. Why should I lie there and torture myself if I can't sleep?

Perhaps my body is saying "Um, we really didn't need ALL that sleep you were getting during your depressive episode....so here, let's keep you awake half the night instead. Literally, the last few weeks I'd succumbed to 4 or 5 hour naps during the day when I was home from school. It was insane.  While I don't necessarily feel like I could conquer the world at this juncture, once the mania really hits, damn, at least I'll get my homework done and my exam for Monday studied for. Unfortunately, I'll probably forget most of what I studied and you know me and multiple-choice tests. Ack.

I was having the freakiest nap dreams, too. Totally weird shit about pretty much everybody. It's worthy of mention, which Luke noted the other day, that the video of my ex-boyfriend that's on YouTube, of him blah-blah-blahing about marketing strategies still has 0 likes, 3 dislikes, and the comment I posted (under my own name) which said that he was a sociopathic, chronic domestic abuser was still on the video. That's good, because I was having scary dreams about HIM again.

Thank God my yoga DVD is on its way, the one Steven recommended, that he's been using for 5 years straight. He said it totally changed his life. He's so lean and trim and muscular now, damn, he looks terrific. Apparently, I am to try the spine series first, according to him, so that's what I'll do.

If I'm rapid cycling, fine. I'll have probably a good week's worth of mania before I crash or stabilize, whichever happens first. I hope it's the latter. If I'm ultradian cycling (mood swings every few hours), I could very well be boppin' around getting all kinds of things done and in the middle of the fury, declare myself a total loser, lie down on my bed and spend the next 5 hours unconscious. We'll have to see how "later today" goes.

The Offbeat Drummer is going to try to lie down and get cozy to sleep.

Sunday, 11:00 am:

Maybe not manic, but definitely disjointed. Out of sorts.

Kate had been up til all hours painting, so we texted back and forth for a while. Mostly about why I wasn't asleep.

I went to bed at 4am and I think I fell asleep pretty quickly. Awakened at the not-unreasonable hour of 10:30, whereupon my mom came into my room to make sure I was still alive. So I got 6 hours of sleep. Why must the world assume I am dead when I sleep late?

Woke up to a very brief nastygram from Guy Friend, who no doubt was churching it up this morning, as John Lennon's "How Do You Sleep?" was, in bitter irony, the first song that shuffled in iTunes this morning. Essentially, in 2 sentences, he said he'd try to get through my emails later today, some of which directed him to certain recent blog entries, as he hadn't checked his email in a week and out of his 127 emails, he did notice a few bearing my name, after which he told me I should "go to church and pray I pass statistics."  I replied with "You're all heart" and told him about my sleep issue and why *I* wasn't going to church this morning. Then I, in very few words, described the utter irony of "How Do You Sleep?" playing within the context of his nastygram. I told him my favorite line is, "The sound you make is Muzak to my ears." I doubt he's familiar with the song. But should he visit this entry, oh my, Guy, this one's for you: