Gather around kids, I’m about to tell you a story about my sinus passages!
I have been low-level ill for months now. I get better, then I get worse, then I get better, then I get even worse. Then I get HulkSmash enraged at having tasted the sweet elixir of almost-completely-not-feeling-like-shitness only to have the pimp cup of health ripped from my hands. Over and over and over. My main problem is a constant sore throat that never goes away. Sometimes I have a low fever. Sometimes a cough. Sometimes I’m so exhausted I fall asleep midsentence. But mostly it’s pain.every.time.I.swallow. It will break you in half after awhile.
Yesterday I felt good enough to take a 20-minute walk in the fresh air. By last night I was curled in a ball on the couch nursing my now stalkeresque sore throat. When I woke up this morning, to searing, pinging, blinding throat pain I felt like going to urgent care. Then I envisioned sitting in urgent care for three hours for a sore throat. Then I had what turned out to be the GREATEST IDEA OF MAYBE MY ENTIRE LIFE. I threw open the medicine cabinet until I found what I was looking for, still unopened months after buying it: NeilMed Sinus Rinse.
I’m sure you are in one of two camps: those who have tried a neti pot and those who have cringed while listening to someone describe how a neti pot changed their life while trying to purge the imagery of them using said neti pot from your brainpan, to no avail. I know, I used to be in camp one but I just switched to camp two and omg I love life! I love every living creature! If I could only describe to you the feeling of lifting my head (after the incredibly bizarre but not painful but still really icky and weird actual rinsing part) from the sink. I was reborn. Had I ever been able to inhale this deeply in my life? Had I ever smelled this clearly? And my throat? My aching, burning, tortured throat felt … well I couldn’t even feel it, so that had to be good. Someone had either stolen my throat (good luck with that, sucker!) or it was so painless as to be nonsensible.
So all in all, I’m having a great day, and it’s because I flushed my nasal cavities with warm salt water and I just had to share because that’s what Tumblr is for, IS FOR SHARING.
What bothers me most is their response when THEY don’t understand the joke. The smug, contented shrug. We don’t get it, you should have known we wouldn’t get it, you should have dumbed it down for us. They go so far as to congratulate the next contestant for doing just that. Do not wear your stupidity like a tiara, people. You are not heiresses. But you know what? I should just let it go. Because that joke would have killed on Twitter.
Related: OMG! YAY SWEEN! WE LOVE YOU! WOOOOOOOOT!
We’re almost halfway through Jorge Luis Borges’s only novel before it is revealed that the narrator is Moses. Borges perfected this particular technique in the short story The House of Asterion, also about a mythological figure, but Dios1 was written earlier. It’s his longest work, but still a…
Best tl;dr ever. A+, would read again! Also, this is a stellar idea. Get on it, Tumblr babies.
(I’ve been conflicted about even verbalizing this, but here goes, I’m just hitting Create Post already)
A year ago I was sitting in a hospital room next to my dead mother, unwilling and unable to leave. Some days I can feel the distance of that year, there is space between me and the sadness. Other days there is no time elapsed, there is only that moment of cataclysmic grief. One sob. That never ends.
I’ve tried to extract out the memories I want, the happy mom memories, and let the really awful ones drop away. Let the hospital go, let her suffering recede. And inside all of this memory sifting, I find some truly bad memories that have been stirred up by all of this, and fill me with regret. Feelings of being deeply twisted in on myself, living inside my own head, just me and the so-awful-it-can’t-be-really-happening nightmare that I was living. Shuffling from the hospital to my bed and back for days, in silence. Every breath a half-breath, every thought panicky, so deeply terrified at the speed and surety of death. And in the midst of all this, not telling a single soul. Even though grieving is something every person does differently, one should never attempt it alone.
Leah’s journey has been excruciating for me to watch, just a long series of no, no, no and feeling utterly helpless to stop it. But she did so many things right. She reached out to her friends, to her people. She opened herself up to the outside world, something I was in no condition to do a year ago. And this community’s response to her honesty has been bawl-inducing. So I cry for Leah and I cry for her children and then, selfishly, I cry for the stupid girl who tried to keep it all in, keep it all together, a year ago. What the hell was I even thinking? Learn from my mistakes, my lovelies. When you are hurting, tell people that love you (psst, that’s US) “Hey, this fucking sucks. I’m hurting” and I can guarantee their love will buoy you, their strength will steel you, and their Photoshopping will distract you. You’ve all shown me this, so thank you. Is this Mr. Grinchian? Not quite, I’ve always had a heart I just wasn’t so sure about everyone else. Hoping isn’t the same as knowing. But now? Faith in humanity achievement unlocked. Oh, and hey. Guys? I love you.
“…he is the man more than any other who has created modern prose, and intensified it to its present-day pitch. It was his explosive power which shattered the Victorian novel with its simpering maidens and ordered commonplaces; books which were without imagination or violence. I know that some people think he was fantastic, mad even, but the motives he employed in his work, violence and desire, are the very breath of literature. Much as we know has been made of his sentence to execution, which was commuted as he was waiting for his turn to be shot, and of his subsequent four years’ imprisonment in Siberia. But those events did not form his temperament though they may have intensified it, for he was always enamoured of violence, which makes him so modern. Also it made him distasteful to many of his contemporaries, Turgeniev for instance, who hated violence. Tolstoy admired him but he thought that he had little artistic accomplishment or mind. Yet, as he said, ‘he admired his heart’, a criticism which contains a great deal of truth, for though his characters do act extravagantly, madly, almost, still their basis is firm enough underneath… The Brothers Karamozov… made a deep impression on me… he created some unforgettable scenes [detail]… Madness you may call it, but therein may be the secret of his genius… I prefer the word exaltation, exaltation which can merge into madness, perhaps. In fact all great men have had that vein in them; it was the source of their greatness; the reasonable man achieves nothing.”—