PG-13 Post

Note to readers: The following post deviates from my normally G-rated (or PG-at-most) content. If you are easily offended, you might wish to read no further than the disclaimer I issued to my parents. Tonight's post represents a departure from my normal content, as opposed to a harbinger of things to come. I've been somewhat influenced by my friends (who do not know they're my friends, as I read but do not often post there)  and by the occasionally bawdier content at exmormon.org.  Tonight I was inspired. I am eighteen now, and as such, it isn't wholly inappropriate for me to reflect content of  somewhat sexual nature. On the other hand, neither is it in any way necessarily for everything i write from this point forward to be smutty simply because I have, as a legal adult, the protection afforded by the First Amendment to write about anything that doesn't  threaten or libel anyone or incite violence. My next post will almost certainly be my normally mundane and uninspired content. I thank you in advance for not being offended, or for reading only those parts which would not be offensive to you.


The Flexor patches, especially when used in combination with heat treatment, are reducing the need for narcotics, although I'm still not out of the woods in term of having my next Catalina vacation be unceremoniously converted into an extended stay at the Betty Ford Clinic or some similar  accommodation. Dr. Jeff, AK Chairman Mao, the shrink I saw regularly when I received inpatient treatment for  PTSD, anxiety, and Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome (that is one hell of  glamorous diagnosis if I've ever heard one), came to visit me today. He told me not to worry about the Dilaudid, Hydrocodone, and Benzos.  He said I'm getting a relatively low dosage of all of the pharmaceuticals-- less in a given day, he said he would estimate, although he admits to never having treated her -- than Lindsay Lohan probably consumes  in an uneventful single-hour interval. He also gave me the Todd Akin line about how a body knows when  it's being given the drugs for legitimate pain and for anxiety and muscle tension related to the pain, and is, therefore, less subject to addiction as a result as long as the dosage is appropriate, which, he assures me, it is. A woman's body has some miraculous properties, according to the words of Chariman Mao and Todd Akin.

*****Mom and Dad, you'd probably be happier if you did not read this next portion.*****

The next thing some politician and/or pseudo-scientist will suggest is that a woman's body  has ways to avoid a sexually transmitted disease if her sole exposure is through "normal" marital relations [defined as vaginal intercourse via the "missionary" position, positively nothing in any way kinky about any of it, including absolutely no use of pornography or even of  "talking dirty"]  with her lawfully wedded spouse who happens to be the carrier of said STD,  having picked it up from  extramarital activity(ies) of some sort, if the wife was either unaware of her husband's indiscretions or if he confessed them to her and the two of them prayed about it together and received confirmation before resuming marital relations. If the former was the case, and the errant husband left his wife in ignorance regarding his dalliance, the sin shall be on his head [which "head" is to be the recipient of the wages of his sin shall be determined by a higher power], and he may be subjected to all manner of scourges, including but not limited to the inability to "perform,"  the inability to end his "performance" satisfactorily and in a timely manner  [consider or visualize  the warnings of Viagra and Cialis commercials in terms of the necessity of seeking medical attention in the event that an erection lasts for a interval of four hours or longer],  painful "performance," and lesions on areas of his body visible both while wearing ordinarily concealing clothing and visible only while wearing apparel of an extremely intimate nature or, [again, the sin be on his head or on his other naughty bulbous parts] while wearing no apparel whatsoever.

I freely acknowledge that I've read none of the preceding theory in any medical journal. Then again, neither did Todd  Akin read pertinent material from a reputable medical journal  before making his rather dubious claims concerning the female body's innate ability to shut down normal reproductive processes in the event of "legitimate" rape.  My assertion is that my scenario is roughly as likely as was that made by Mr. Akin. I'll leave it to the reader to determine which if either proposition is remotely credible.

My Heart Belongs to Me.

As far as my former significant other is concerned, his status may not be so former after all. Roses were delivered early this morning, a candy gram came at noon, and I received  a makeshift pajamagram at about 3:00. The former significant other  had wanted  to send me the real thing (in terms of the pajamagram) but his mom convinced him that I would drown in the smallest size the company offered.  His mom and his sister helped him to pick out a lovely silk nightshirt / silk-blend knit leggings ensemble from Victoria's Secret***, which is not the typical go-to place of business for Valentine's day gifts (or gifts for any occasion/) when it comes to Mormons and their shopping habits. I appreciate the concession made on my behalf, yet can't help wondering if the fourteen-year old sister will ever be truly the same as she was before her venture into Babylon.. The single shopping excursion may have done more to bring the girl toward the light than anything I might ever have done intentionally.

Just because someone sends me something doesn't mean I'm absolutely obligated to reciprocate, but he has been very nice lately, and I didn't wish to be rude.  I'm not exactly in a position to hop into my car, pick out a nice shirt and tie for him, and drive to Los Angeles with it.  Fortunately, I have a Fairy-God-Aunt who also had relatives traveling to the UCLA neighborhood today, which is where my former (or not-so-former) significant other attends school  and lives in the dorms.

Jillian took cookie dough out of the freezer and baked two kinds of cookies: chocolate chip and frosted heart-shaped sugar cookies.  She packaged them beautifully, I was told by others, and had her mom deliver them this afternoon when part of the family drive to Los Angeles. Timmy, Jillian's brother, attends UCLA med school, and her mom was delivering baked goods to him for Valentine's Day in the immediate vicinity while on a family trip. The coincidence was most fortuitous.

The gift I gave was  sub-par when compared to his, but it's the thought that counts, or it's what people say all the time, anyway, when they inadvertently give someone a gift that is out-matched by the one given to them. The thought might have counted more had I actually baked the cookies that he received, nut he's none the wiser unless he reads this blogs, and so far he has no clue as to its existence.

My response to this person's actions is causing me to sound as though someone can drop me like a soda can into a recycling bin, and that i'll come rushing back at the first sign of positive attention, but the situation is a little more complicated than I've indicated.. The whole breakup, which  in my opinion he could have resisted more forcefully than he did, was at is father's insistence due to religious differences between the two of us, and due largely  to his father's fear that I would exert  excessive influence in the ex's (or not so ex's) decision as to whether or not to fulfill a two-year mission for his church. The official part of the break-up was short-lived, as the former (or not) significant other's mother very quickly overruled he husband's decision. Once the guy had dated three other girls in  the three days, however, things were not the same regardless of the impetus of the split.  Once his mother issued her edict,  I won't say that he exactly groveled, but he did become more attentive than he had been at any time  in the past.  This latest gesture, however, was by far the most seemingly sincere act since I've known the guy.  Still, I choose to be cautious where such matters are concerned. I'm eighteen. There's half  a lifetime  at the very least for me to conclude that any guy is THE one.

On a totally unrelated topic, I added two songs to my list of favorite songs, which now numbers twenty-seven and not just twenty-five. I suspect the total will number somewhere around eighty-nine before it's complete   My two additional selections are ones I can scarcely believe slipped my mind. One is "House at Pooh Corner" by Kenny Loggins. The other is "Waltzing Matilda."

The latest news on the myositis front is that I am no longer taking Toradol. Instead I'm using a topical NSAID known as Flector patches.  They seem more effective so I'm happy.

Happy Hallmark Day.

***  I'm not, by any stretch of the definition, anorexic.  I have small bones and a very ectomorphic body type, with a small appetite to boot.  If I could have my Fairy-God-Aunt wave her magic wand and instantly make me a size 2, I'd do it in a heartbeat.