Imma Fooker's Blog for the Heavily Sedated

Free Porn!

immafooker — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 00:26:31 -0800

Well actually I’d have to make money off of it; so not exactly free.

Why is it when someone’s in trouble I automatically assume it’s my job to save them?

Ok SuperTwat, now that ya got yer lil red cape on where’s the money you need to pull these people outta their crisis?

Ummm, I spent most of it last month.

On the same people?

Well yes, but I wanted to and it was supposed to be my vacation.

Now you’re going back for Christmas and all in a dither over the folks back there with problems. So you must magically produce money outta thin air to help.

Yes, I’ve literally been scanning every room and wondering what I could sell: Cabbage Patch Kids; not in mint condition. It’d be hard to sell the piano out from under Mother’s nose. To get a decent price onna a WoW account I’d have to play the stupid game day and night to level up, get the best gear, blah, blah, blah. Not to mention I haven’t been on for nearly two years and there’s a gazillion updates and patches to download. Clothes? I gave a bunch away; clothing is the most annoying thing to sell on eBay.

Plus it’s not exactly a seller’s market right now.

No shit. No valuable jewelry to speak of and this is MY GODDAMN LAPTOP! And that’s MY GODDAMN NINTENDO WII AND WII FIT. I do have some stock, but that’s supposed to be my lil nest egg; especially after what Dr. Dumb and Dr. Dumber did to me.

Are you still bitching about that?

I have full complaining rights till the day I die.

Fair enough.

It’s not like people ever ask me to do this at all. In fact if they had any inclination of my intentions or my obsessions over how to get money, they’d throw a fit and demand that I stop.

And so this brings us back to porn. Sure the economy is bad, but everyone likes boobies. I could just set up another website… I mean, I did get a neutered dog all riled up and hump everything in sight. That’s gotta count for something, right?

Wonder how much I could make inna month?

Honey why don't you go play tennis? Or watch a nice movie like Hero, Across the Universe or Hairspray?

No watching the IFC or Sundance channel, and for Godsakes no documentaries!

Not even a lil one? Sometimes they have funny stuff on the Indie channels.

No! I swear I'm gonna block those channels from you.

You'd have to block HBO and then we'd never get to see True Blood.

Damn!

Can I watch True Blood if it's on?

If True Blood is on I'm watchin too.

I think Jason wants to be a vampire.

I betcha Eddie will turn him before the season ends.

I am so there.

Me too.

God Imma a Spectacular Writer!

immafooker — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 12:18:42 -0800

Oh don’t look so surprised, you know my grandiose ego loves reading my own writing. Why? Because it’s fucking great! And fucking depressing but that goes with the territory. All the best writers have either been drunks, druggies, assholes, depressed, suicidal or all the above. If I was a shiny, happy, cheery writer I’d be on MySpace.

However I must admit it’s time to do a lil house cleaning, i.e. proofreading some 530+ articles; especially the non-sober or enhanced articles. Hell, even most of those only have a few mistakes: Soma, 3.0 Xanax, Flexeril, 4 Tylenol, 2 Nyquil, 6 Clonidine and Hello, I’m History and I’ll be repeating myself today contained only one flaw.

Yeah, I am that fucking great.

ManBearPig

immafooker — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 13:24:01 -0800

I hate Al Gore, don’t you?

Penn & Teller: Bullshit! did an episode this season titled, Being Green. While they admitted to no clear cut evidence as to whether (or weather) Global Warming truly does exist, nor could they claim Bullshit. They were however able to slam Carbon Footprints, and completely eviscerate the bogus solution of monetarily paying for your own Carbon Footprints you’ve left on this ever so delicate planet. I suppose they make you start from the beginning, and pay for every diaper you used as a baby.

And who is behind this ludicrous, and yet overwhelmingly profitable idea? Al Gore: The guy who won an Oscar for a slide show, and the Nobel Peace Prize for creating an ingenious pyramid scheme.

Penn and Teller managed to sodomize this man with a rototiller.

I love Penn Jillette and Teller, don’t you?
shaking fist Say it!

So this was just a few days after learning my Aunt Neno passed away, and like the rest of us soon will be (or already are) buried in the cemetery located in Vassar, KS. I was searching the net for the population of Vassar, KS, wondering if there were more people buried at the cemetery. If I remember correctly when I Googled “Vassar, Kansas population”, the third result contained big bold letters telling me how many Carbon Footprints Vassar, KS is responsible for emitting. The website was eRedux.com and how very fortunate for me when they offered a contact us link.

Five minutes ago I just performed the identical search. This time the same result didn’t even make it to the top ten. Perhaps the following letter is the reason why.

Written on 8/28/08

Carbon Footprints from Vassar, Kansas? A town with a population of 845. The cemetery houses more people, and by the way half my family is buried there.

Stop preying on people's fears and hard earned money. Want to clean up the environment? Start by taking a shower, wiping the sperm off your 75 inch plasma screen television, give your kids some Gas-X (all those organic vegetables you feed them are giving them a tummy ache) and please start wiping your own ass.

Al Gore isn't a Noble Prize winner and certainly no saint. He's just another money grubbing politician; who like George Bush is killing millions through his "quest", and you are all his accomplices.

Can't wait to visit your graves and stamp it with my own little personal Carbon Footprint.

R.I.D. (Rest in delusion),

Brooke

Hello, I'm History and I'll be repeating myself today

immafooker — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 03:55:22 -0800

While removing my slippers, at 2:20 am, I’m suddenly struck by a revelation – although the slippers had no part in the “Ah Ha” moment. It’s what was currently occupying my thoughts; I pondered over the reasons why I’m so terrified of driving. I have a small accident and my drunk, irresponsible and abusive Uncle to thank for this irrational fear. To make up for his wrong doings, and to keep me quiet, he always bought me stuff if that day or a previous visit was exceptionally brutal. And yet through it all I still loved him and we always had a blast together, and generally just had an obscene amount of fun.

One slipper off

Fun: Laughing so hard you wind up on the floor, giving yourself a headache, wasting your time trying to catch your breath. If you had anything in your mouth you either nearly choke to death or projectile whatever was very recently consumed; and you may as well just forget about your bladder.

Other slipper in hand

My Uncle is/was like two people. “Hurray! Funny Uncle John is here”, to, “Please, dear God, let me outta this car now”, or, “It’s a lil tough to breathe with your hands locked around my throat.”

Craig isn’t abusive or violent; just manipulative, passive aggressive, addicted to computer games, addicted to drugs and a world class liar.

But, but we laugh and have the best time together. It’s just that it seems…

You have to deal with two people in one?

Yes

By this time both slippers had found their own place to settle in for the night. I just stared at them

History is being repeated brought to you by the son.

We're born, we live a little while, we die

immafooker — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 23:00:58 -0700

From: Charlotte's Web; by: E.B. White.

And ending nervous breakdown sequence.......... now.

There we go, all better; well mostly.

I'm currently in Kansas and doing well despite the occasional sad, pathetic and mortifying situations I manage to get myself into. But really, that shouldn't be any surprise to all of you. Why if I didn't do stupid things I wouldn't be me.

Went to the Renaissance Faire with my cousin and her husband completely tricked out in costumes. Yes I have a picture and yes I 'll scan it in once I get home.

Yes I'm doing a lot better health wise. I do have permanent damage with a couple organs including drain bramage. I'm not really cranky about it at the moment, but that's probably because I've been drinking.

Oh and some people and cats died along the way. Don't even ask about Craig.

Here's one that'll wet yer whistle: Open marriage with a lesbian. Go ahead, ask me. I dare ya. This kinda crap only happens to me; I feel so lil yellow bus special.

I'm a walking corpse

immafooker — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 00:44:05 -0800

I'm no longer Brooke. I haven't been Brooke for over 4 1/2 years; I'm only a hollow shell. Brooke is stuck back on that cold, hard surgery table dating back to September 2003.

She is dead, and I am all that's left.

The 8th day

immafooker — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 21:38:49 -0800

On the 7^th day God took a marathon nap, but what the Bible neglects to tell you is what God did when he awoke on the 8^th day. Unfortunately the first thing he created was a hangover, to be followed by Aspirin. While trying to open the seemingly impenetrable plastic packet of Aspirin God realized he’d forgotten to create some much needed items.

And so it came to pass that on the 8^th day God created scissors, screwdrivers, jar openers, thumbtacks; parchment paper so he wouldn’t have to wash cookie sheets anymore.

God: Wait, cookie sheets! I forgot to invent those. Airbake cookie sheets, even better! And some sort of cookie jar to hide them from the angels. Damn Angels always eating my cookies. That fuckin Lucifer, I’m gonna throw his ass outta here.

I'm not a Suicide Bomber

immafooker — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 01:41:35 -0800

Just thought I’d clear that up for everyone.

Quick change of subject: I haven’t been active or replied to any calls and emails because it turns out Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome isn’t as cool as the pamphlet or TV promised; more on that later, or not.

Now back to the non-suicide bomber subject. You remember that incident I had with the lawyer who owns Steph’s building last year? Well I learned that in fact he was working on his best friend’s will – his dead best friend. Ooops. So yes I seriously felt horrible after discovering that bit of knowledge.

Thanks to fun-filled organ failure my memories from April 2007 to early December are vague to say the least; consequently I’m forced to pick a season for when I began seeing Steph again. I think it was Summer. Whether it was early, mid or late is totally up for grabs. All I remember is hobbling around with a cane, shaking like a Parkinson’s patient and possessing all the strength of a newborn kitten.

I stopped in front of his office and called out, “Sir”, and “Excuse me”, to no avail. Well maybe he was busy sitting in his chair doing nothing, didn’t hear me or perhaps it was just a hologram. *shrug* Fair enough.

Another time he got stuck in elevator with me; the doors closed before he had time to slip out and take the stairs. Here was my opportunity; I had four floors to get my apology out. And it WAS sincere, I honestly felt terribly guilty. And thus I did (apologize), I felt terribly sorry for that day, there were no excuses. He just waved it away. I said it wasn’t ok, you were working on the estate of your best friend – I can’t imagine what that must feel like. At this point he began flapping his arms like a bird and couldn’t get out of that elevator fast enough.

Since then attorney for wills and estates John D. Laughton has gone out of his way to stay as far away from me as possible. One day while I was sitting in the lobby, leafing through a magazine, he came down the hallway talking with someone and seeing them to the elevator. That is of course until he caught a glimpse of me, and quickly backtracked to the safety of the hallway. I don’t remember if his client ever made it to the elevator, perhaps they were forced to use the fire escape. My favorite John D. Laughton (big bad attorney for wills and estates) encounter to date has to be when I entered the elevator, noticed him with a couple colleagues right behind me and stretched out my arm to hold the door open. He made no move, and yet came right up after me.

John D. Laughton sort of attorney at law out of Monterey, California located on W Franklin Street is seriously starting to get on my nerves.

People who hold the elevator door for you, always take their shopping carts back and in fact go out of their way to move carts that were parked in handicapped spots, pick up and throw away unnecessary litter that some lazy bastard left behind, talk to the cute babies while waiting in line, never fusses with waiters/waitresses because it looks like a damn hard job and also tips obscenely, gives leftovers to a homeless guy, bought a Subway foot long sandwich for a man rummaging through trashcans who seemed invisible to everyone else on the street, gave birthday money to a friend who asked for money at 6:30 AM, have not sued a couple surgeons even though it’s a strong case and sure win, admits when they’re wrong and always gives people benefit of the doubt never fit the profile or description of a suicide bomber.

However one can only take such irrational reactions from others for so long before they start to consider perhaps switching careers after all.

Sleep, Don't Weep

immafooker — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 15:42:06 -0800

Found this lil article in Word dated: 10/26/07. Never made it to the website, but I believe it speaks for itself as to why:

I’m sorry, I’ve been personally ignoring the hell outta everybody; don’t call, don’t take calls, don’t write, don’t return text messages, etc… In fact I make it onto the Internet maybe twice a month.

I’m very tired. Blood pressure at this moment is 81/41 and resting heart rate is 111.

I have a doctor’s appointment with a specialist to go over my latest lab results. Personally I’m not feeling very confident.

What was a severe back ache turned out to be a very sick thyroid gland, failing adrenal glands and the heartrate is a lil under the weather.

The test results revealed I was dangerously low on everything. For instance: My Vitamin D was at level 4. I have the lab results and plan on scanning and inserting them into my website for all to see.

Plus another organ was having problems: the spleen. I never had time to name him (yes I named all my other organs who were having difficulties). Anyways my red blood cells were too large to pass through the spleen. Not surprisingly this caused severe anemia.

Spleen’s cries of anguish and constant swearing could be heard throughout my entire body. Naturally the other organs became concerned and a bit fearful.

Steve (my thyroid gland) passed a message down to Spleen: Dude, what’s happening? Are you ok?

Spleen: There’s a bunch of fucking huge red blood cells trying to squeeze through me. I have no idea where they came from.

Steve: How big are they?

Spleen: Let’s put it this way: It’s like being sodomized with a watermelon.

Steve: Ouch

Spleen: How are you holding up?

Steve: I’ve just been trying to keep a low profile; hoping the white blood cells won’t notice me… Oh shit! I’ve gotta go!

Spleen: Why has Ian (my heart and he insists on pronouncing it Ian) been wigging out lately? He’s a goddamn motor mouth; never shutsup.

George and Martha (my kidneys): It’s Daryl and his other brother Daryl (my adrenal glands); they’re overworked and keep passing out.

George: Speaking of passing out, I’m gonna have a lil lie down myself. Martha you’re on watch duty.

Martha: Fuck you George; you just had a nap earlier.

George: *snoring*

Martha: Screw it; nothing should go horribly wrong in just the next two hours.

Spleen: Is there anyone around here who isn’t napping?

Ian: I’mnotnapping,Ineversleep. There’slotstobedone. Gogogo! Dododo! IfIstoptalkingI’lldie.

Spleen: Yeah I figured you were awake.

Geoffrey (my brain and demands his name be pronounced Joffrey): Mittens!

Spleen: That’s not a good sign

Old Ben (my pituitary gland): Earl (my colon) is always awake.

Spleen: Why?

Old Ben: He really doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

Spleen: All this conversation has made me sleepy; think I’m gonna take a lil nap as well.

Have a Holly Jolly Christmas Letter

immafooker — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 13:52:58 -0800

This the letter we sent out to family and friends for Christmas; many thought they had accidentally wound up on The Grim Reaper's Christmas card list.

Dear Family and Friends,

Tis the season where we are normally fully involved in the whirlwind of preparing Christmas cards, buying, wrapping and shipping Christmas presents, adorning the house and yard with enthusiastically tacky decorations and cooking mountains of food we don’t need, so foist off on neighbors and friends. But this year we find ourselves in a subdued mood, pondering the frailty of life and fortune – yet grateful for the blessings we continue to receive.

Just a few days ago, we had to rush Brooke to Clovis Community Hospital in California’s Central Valley for emergency treatment and surgery. It had become clear that the distal revision surgery she had in September of 2006 had failed and was forcing her body into organ failure; despite lots of weight-loss, she was listless and weak, with dangerously low blood pressure, high heartbeat, plummeting cholesterol levels and borderline psychotic episodes. She was admitted through the emergency room at Clovis and immediately hooked up to an IV; she continued on the IV for four and a half days, being pumped full of the fluid and essential nutrients that her body had simply been flushing through her colon without being absorbed at all. When her blood levels were normalized to the point that the doctor felt she could survive surgery, she was rolled into the operating room for a reversal of the distal. Her surgeon, Dr. Daniel Swartz of Fresno, was able to perform the procedure laparoscopically without difficulty.

What an incredible relief. Brooke is making rapid progress in her recovery. She was basically dangerously dehydrated and malnourished because the distal bypassed 600cm of small intestine, which prevented virtually any absorption of nutrients and fluids. If she had not received emergency treatment when she did, it is almost certain that we would have lost her.

As a result of this, we respectfully urge persons considering any form of gastric bypass to research very carefully the procedures, possible complications, long-term effects, available reversals and the surgeon. We thought we did all those things when we decided on Dr. Edward Felix of Fresno, a laparoscopy pioneer and highly respected gastric surgeon. Dr. Felix performed Brooke’s first procedure, supposedly a normal Roué-en-y that bypasses 150cm of the small intestine; he insisted that he was the most skilled to perform Brooke’s surgery. When she began to suffer several instances of life-threatening complications, Dr. Felix handed Brooke’s case over to his partner, Dr. Swartz, and accused Brooke of causing her own complications by breaking post-surgery rules (he was WRONG). After two difficult years of complications (including one Christmas in the hospital) and then another year of weight gain despite diet and exercise, Dr. Swartz advised a revision of Brooke’s Roué-en-y to a distal, an arrangement with its own set of life-limiting problems but successful for most people. In September of 2006, when Dr. Swartz performed the revision to distal, he was shocked to discover that Dr. Felix had failed to bypass 150cm of intestine (which is the normal procedure and the one I had), that Dr. Felix had only bypassed 100cm – thereby reducing Brooke’s “window of opportunity” by 30%!

When a Roué-en-y gastric bypass is done correctly, i.e., bypassing 150cm, the patient is availed of an 18 month “window of opportunity” during which the patient can lose up to 60% of their excess body weight, presenting an enormous opportunity for a healthier life. This window is caused by the surgery’s effects on the body itself, the new plumbing and the mal-absorption rate of the reduced intestinal tract. While we had assumed Brooke’s complications were randomly aberrant results, we now feel that the senior doctor’s arrogance, thoughtlessness and lack of detailed attention during Brooke’s original surgery were a major contributor to the problems that resulted. He did not inform me after her surgery that he only bypassed 100cm; she was his last surgery of the day, and he made it obvious that he was anxious to get outta there! He did not inform his partner when he passed Brooke’s care to him. We will not take any action against him because any action would affect his partner. Besides, legal recourse rarely benefits ordinary citizens; the laws are crafted to favor the rich and only throw sufficient crumbs to the rest of us to keep us satisfied.

So watch your back. Doctors aren’t perfect, just as we aren’t. Don’t be afraid to ask questions that may annoy the doctor. It’s YOUR body, and you walk around in it every day; the doctor gets a gander at you in your birthday suit once or twice a year, and he usually has to read the chart to remember your name. The cost of medical care mandates that you have the right to question your health-care providers. We had to self-pay for Brooke’s distal revision based on the insurance company’s glib decision that it was not necessary. So it is likely that the insurance will not cover this latest operation, despite her life being in danger. Since neither Russ or I are presently employed, this potentially ruinous obligation looms in our future – and it all could have been prevented if Dr. Edward Felix had done his job.

Yup. We are both unemployment statistics. Russ lost his job in the summer; gasoline hauling is a volatile business favoring owner operators these days. I was on disability starting in January of 2005 because of a failed knee prosthetic. Although I had successful gastric bypass in April of 2005, and a successful replacement of my left knee prosthetic in August of 2005 AND I was read y to go back to work by October 2005, Northrop Grumman left me fall through one of their yawning bureaucratic cracks. I left voice mail, I e-mailed, I even applied for jobs I qualified for on their web site: the silence was deafening. Finally I attracted the attention of the head of HR and received a fair termination package in March of 2007. So imagine my surprise when on one day in June of 2007, I am notified by Northrop Grumman HR that they paid me too much termination pay, AND I am called by an excited Northrop Grumman technical recruiter wanting to hire me back at the very same Navy base where I once worked. Hmmmmmm, she pondered, what a coincidence. I was full of ambivalence and rampant suspicion. Suspicious? you say – of the government? But I tried to qualm my fears by requesting that an accommodation agreement concerning my prosthetic knees’ limitations be drawn up and agreed upon. I was assured that Northrop Grumman’s bungling of my previous disability was one of those rare Snafus that occasionally surface at leviathan corporations. After all, SBC had continued to issue me paychecks for three months after my retirement, and they behaved in a good-natured way, simply readjusting my retirement date to a later date. Still it took Northrop Grumman’s HR and Legal departments until the first of September to wrestle with these issues of my return to work on the day after Labor Day.

But returning to the base as a Northrop Grumman employee was a huge mistake. I was the naïve victim of a petty conspiracy concocted by low-level civil service management employees to rid themselves of the costly and arrogant defense contracting firm, Northrop Grumman. It was made clear to me that I would be expected to perform all the physical tasks that the accommodation agreement had listed as forbidden. For a month, Northrop Grumman did not enter me as an active employee in their database, thereby preventing me from entering my time card, receiving a paycheck and enrolling for benefits. For a month and a half, the Navy could not find me a desk or computer; they would not give me access to the systems. In spite of my 37 years experience, I was told that within 6 months, I must pass a professional certification exam to retain employment. So I spent the next 2 weeks feverishly studying material covered in Linux and security tests so that I could take an exam and get that all-important piece of paper.

However, in late October I was soberly informed that my progress was unsatisfactory and I was facing termination. Reeling with shock, I wondered about the whispered rumors I had heard that the civil servants were manipulating situations to rid themselves of Northrop Grumman, a notoriously expensive defense contractor (one of many whose greedy corporate fingers are rooting around in the government’s pockets (translation: OUR pockets) for any coin of the realm they can palm in the name of national security.)

So I was a stupid pawn in the hands of a minimally talented civil service manager – who will, no doubt, earn a bonus next year for these machinations – a pawn he used to force Northrop Grumman out. I was shattered. Luckily, since my employment had not even lasted 90 days and the accommodation agreement was being violated, I was re-instated to disability status with the company who had been paying my disability benefits since 2005.

Well. If you have sloughed your way through these dispiriting narratives, I commend your tenacity and humbly appreciate your attention.

Now – to the Season:

There is nothing like 2 months without a paycheck to make you appreciate the true spirit of Christmas, the spirituality and compassion of the season and the importance of love for our families and friends. Visualize me – the consummate consumer – clipping grocery coupons and forgoing lavish gifts; I am properly humbled. I have tried to avoid the glittering stores crowded with giddy shoppers being serenaded with MUZAK of the holiday persuasion.

But the other day, still unpacking bags from Clovis and boxes of my property from the base, I thought of that wonderful song from the musical “Auntie Mame” -- “We Need a Little Christmas”

And we do. We always do. During wars and after terrorist attacks, during bleak times and joyful too, we need a little Christmas – right this very minute. The manifestation doesn’t have to be piles of dazzlingly wrapped boxes under an elaborately festive tree. After all, this Christmas Rusty and I have our daughter, our only child – alive, recovering, smiling, laughing and sounding like the Brooke we all knew and loved. Perhaps a little glitter, a beautiful wreath made by a friend, a few Ritz cracker cookies and the promise of Christmas Day spent with loved ones – perhaps that is just what we need.

We pray that you and yours are well, and that life is treating like the grand person you are. God has rescued our family more than once, and we rejoice that His love has no boundaries.

Though sometimes we have cynical thoughts about the season only living in our credit card statements – on and on with accumulating interest -- we all know its home is our hearts. This year has certainly taught me just what matters: a smattering of Christmas accoutrement and the chance to remember -- and be remembered by -- scores of folks we love and treasure.

where the hell have i been?

immafooker — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 00:29:31 -0800

in hospital, surgery was killing me softly. well actually more like from a whisper to a scream. having distal revision undone on monday. share more but 1 arm to type with. susan's visited me, she knows, and she may share if she feels like it. or you could just amuse yourself with ludicrous accusations and illogical theories.

Ya know if it ain't broke...

immafooker — Tue, 08 May 2007 01:57:48 -0700

Ya know after the town folk finally conceded that indeed there was no "putting Humpty Dumpty back together again", someone chimed in and asked, "Why the hell did we put him on top of that wall in the first place?"

This is not how I want to live my life; it's certainly not the future I envisioned before my first surgery. I'm happy to see it's worked for so many others, but I will never again boast of its great tidings of unfathomable weight loss.

How? Please tell me how I'm supposed to ingest 20+ pills in the morning, not including my powder crap. Good ol' Powder Crap came along after revision surgery to slow my digestion and keep the "Hey you guys! I just crapped my pants again!", to a minimum.

What the fuck is Hydrocortisone and why do I need to take it 3 times daily?

Who the hell has low cholesterol? Seriously. I was told I need more fat in my diet: Dude, I buy avocados every time they're on sale and have also become quite chummy with my friend Hummus, roasted vegetable sandwich, etc, etc... Apparently I'm just not absorbing any fat at all.

And now, the end is here

My adrenal gland's asleep and my thyroid is comatose. To wake the buggers up I have to increase my Synthroid, but (and this is the best part) this must be done very gradually. Why you ask? Well it turns out that too much thyroid hormone will toss ya into congestive heart failure. (The good part's comin up, I'm super cereal).

Oh my, well what are the symptoms to this affliction?

Heart palpitations, feeling restless, nervous, etc...

Ummm, aren't those also common symptoms for panic attacks?

YES! Is that fuckin hysterical or what?

By the way, could ya do me a favor and not call the cops? Never cared anyway, just wanted notoriety on one of the many lame (which is purty much all of 'em) message boards the Internet has to offer. Besides, I'm not going anywhere; Craig's decided to go into political science and wants to become a Senator. And I wanna be there in my wheelchair, shitting my pants when he's sworn in.

April's a purty shitty month

immafooker — Tue, 17 Apr 2007 12:18:23 -0700

Yesterday’s carnage at Virginia Tech
Columbine
Oklahoma City
Waco
Taxes
Rwandan Genocide
Today is Grandpa’s birthday
20th is the anniversary of my boy’s death

It’s kinda hard to muster up any enthusiasm for my impending birthday

Dear Tony Danza

immafooker — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 20:07:59 -0700

Sorry to hear about your talk show. Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your cameo appearance (as yourself) in the recent Oscar winning movie Crash.

Mirrorball

immafooker — Sat, 31 Mar 2007 03:36:35 -0700

Let’s be honest here, although let me remind you I’m going straight back into that wonderful cozy feeling of denial immediately after:

Russ is dying. No deathbeds, oxygen tubes or other various medical bric-a-brac hanging from his person yet, but for a man who quit smoking over 30 years ago its rather unusual for him to sound and cough like a 3-pack-a-day smoker who also happens to have double lung pneumonia.

It took us an entire year to get him to go see a doctor. His convoluted religious thinking is: Well if I just don’t talk about and completely ignore its invasion; I will be healed. It’s actually quite hard to ignore his death coughs that reverberate throughout the household, and lest we forget; the endless amount of sputum he spits up.

When we were back in Kansas and commiserated our troubles with Grandma, she said, “That’s just how your Grandpa sounded before they diagnosed him with Lung Cancer."

Thanks Grandma! Thumbsup!

MOTHER: He just needs another round of antibiotics.

ME: He’s been on antibiotics for a month; it’s time for a specialist.

Ever seen the documentary Dust to Dust? It’s about a lil mining town in Montana where the company never bothered to clean up their mess, or say share the fact that not only was the substance (I can’t remember what they were mining) caustic, but unbeknownst to the workers they were bringing this incredibly dangerous substance back to their homes and family. Also the mining company wasn’t to particularly worried about these deadly particulars making its way into town. They even built a baseball field right by the mine! And as such this company managed to wipe out generation after generation in an entire town.

Gasoline and ethanol are chalk full of Carcinogens and gosh it just so happens hauling fuel is Russ’s job.

When his original company called up one day and announced, “We’ll be closing the business in two weeks.” I was a lil excited; maybe he could get out of the fuel hauling business and go back to mail. No such luck – new business, same job.

I threatened to rip Sarah Mclachlan’s vocal cords out the other day if she didn’t stop singing that song. It’s nothing personal against her; it’s actually my personal problem. And I actually cry over those stupid M&M’s commercial. In fact if the background music was provided by Sarah Mclachlan, I’d most likely pull an Elvis that is of course if I had a gun. Details…

Blue Killed Tan!

I’m going to be 30 soon and I’m miserable about it.

I called myself and left a voicemail

immafooker — Thu, 15 Mar 2007 04:46:27 -0700

Think I should listen to it?

I had a missed call on my cell a couple days ago and the number was my cell number. Now I’ve seen caller ID numbers masked on land lines and I’m sure there’s the same capability with cells, but since when did telemarketers get access to cell numbers and bother to a leave message?

And yes I’ve watched Primer at least half-dozen times.

It’s most likely a Cingular thing, AT&T or whoever the hell they are now.

Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie; If you're not ready holler, "I!"

immafooker — Thu, 01 Mar 2007 15:52:30 -0800

And the Chicken Shit of Year Award goes to....

immafooker — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 16:01:14 -0800

Me!

Oh don’t look so surprised.

I’ve been trying to write about this for the past ten days. In fact I’m not that enthusiastic over writing it now. I think if I put down it on paper/computer/blog it’ll become a glaring reality, where as chattering about it still allows for that hint of denial.

I’ll do it Mañana

This has been my decree for the past couple months over calling Gigi. My excuses are numerous: I don’t wanna talk to George (as I assume he’s cranky) and I certainly don’t want to talk to bipolar Mother-in-law – I don’t that really requires an explanation. But not a day, or sometimes hour, goes by where I worry about Gigi and the baby’s health.

I’ve had dreams where the new baby girl is born and she’s perfect. I even dreamt that I called Gigi and she told me that she understood, it’s ok and we can just move on.

The baby’s due in February. About a week ago I asked Mother if she’d been checking the announcements from the newspaper back there which just happens to be online. She said no and I got crabby.

ME: You macabre bitch, you check the obituaries daily. Why aren’t you checking the birth announcements?

That’s whatcha call transference.

She did pour over the archives and found no mention.

Nana was born six weeks premature, but just fine now. Have I mentioned what a smart and crafty lil fart she is? However during Gigi’s pregnancy with Nana, she never once had a seizure. Fortunately Gigi’s case of epilepsy isn’t as severe as others who suffer weekly or debilitating daily seizures, and have to don a helmet to protect themselves. While stress isn’t a culprit it can certainly exacerbate the condition.

When I was ignoring Gigi’s calls she wasn’t looking for the money; she was afraid I’d taken a bunch of pills and OD’d. After all, she was on the phone with me the whole time the therapist’s drama was taking place, and of course afterwards when I was sobbing on the phone. She talked me out of taking a bunch of pills and going to a nearby bar and also asked me to please stop crying, otherwise she’d have to hop a plane to beat up the guy.

This pregnancy she’s suffered a few seizures. It occurred to me a couple weeks ago that women have miscarriages at seven months. When I relayed this to Mother she’d already thought of it as well and had been checking the obits. But it’s up to the parents whether they want to name the child and bury her. Of course then something else occurred to me a few days ago which I haven’t shared with Mom: Funerals, burial plots and even tiny lil coffins cost money. The fact that it indeed cost money to die is high on my lists of stupidities. They couldn’t possibly afford that, and if so; what happens to that lil baby girl?

I remember when Allie died and they asked me whether I’d like a private cremation. A non-private cremation is a bunch of dead cats tossed into an incinerator together. What happens if parents choose not to or can’t afford a burial for their child who never experienced a moment of life outside their Mother’s womb? Do they, as they say, dispose of the body? Does that mean a lifeless baby girl gets dumped along with the day’s garbage into the incinerator?

I'm the Father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby

immafooker — Wed, 14 Feb 2007 10:43:44 -0800

Just figured I'd throw my name in the pot as well.

Who is the suckiest friend?

immafooker — Tue, 06 Feb 2007 01:26:37 -0800

I apologize for such a sour note, but I'm afraid this situation warrants public opinion. In order to make a crucial decision regarding my life I must look to the populace vote.

Well at least South Park is amusing me by singing a song about voting between a Giant Douche or Turd Sandwich. Oh the ironing of it all.

In this corner we have Gigi, friends since the age of 16. Like myself she enjoys swearing, complaining and disliking most folks of the world.

When I returned to Kansas for Kaye's funeral I visited Gigi and got to meet her 2 year old baby girl. You ever been out of touch from a friend for awhile only to feel like no time had passed when you met up again? It felt like we were right back in high school; being married and having a kid was just a bonus.

Since we were assigned to everyone's dance card; dates and meetings had to be carefully coordinated. We chose to get together at Old Chicago's for lunch. Russ and I were a lil late showin up and as we happened on their booth it was obvious I'd missed something. Gigi asked me to go to the bathroom with her. I thought it was just for nostalgia sake, but as soon as we were in she burst into tears. Her husband's grandparents had left him the house, but unfortunately while they were sick much of the bills had gone unpaid for months. George had to drop out of college (just one semester left) and get a job to basically help get the utilities turned back on again. However, even though the doctor said it was impossible, Gigi became pregnant again; and since she's epileptic that makes her high risk and she had to quit her job per doctor's orders.

So anyways she had fought with George in the car before arriving, and she felt bad as he often works double shifts. It turned out their gas was shut off. They were trying to pay it off, but the company refused to turn the heat back on until their account's debt was $0. It was over $400 and for a family on their kind of budget it may as well have been $4,000. I can see where one could take utilities for granted; we're not just talking the furnace here people: Absolutely no hot water. They literally had to heat water on the stove to take a bath. Was it any wonder lil Nana was always sneezing? Plus we have an incredibly vulnerable, high risk pregnant epileptic.

Looking back now I imagine the fight in the car consisted of George telling a rather reluctant Gigi to ask for money. But the truth is the only thing I cared about was gettin their gas turned back on. She had only asked for half of the money; rather half of the bill and the other half to buy groceries and diapers since George wouldn't get his check till the end of the week. I went to Mother and she agreed with me: We cleaned out Grandma's fridge, bought a bunch of diapers, bought a Walmart card to get Nana a winter coat and gave her money to pay the gas bill off.

Now I know what you're thinking but you're wrong. I was with her when she paid the bill off. I was happy to do it, I wanted to do it -- nough said. Plus Gigi and I were back together again.

A couple weeks later after returning home, I was on the phone with G (it had become a nightly ritual). Everything was rosy and jake until she asked for $120. They needed it to file for their taxes as George had neglected to do so for the past three years. Then Gigi could enroll in this nursing school. But you're 7 months pregnant, what's the point? In situations such as these I'm incapable of saying no; it's a terrible trait I inherited from Mother. Oh yeah, they needed it buy Tuesday afternoon and it was Friday night.

I gave out smashing hints like ignoring the subject, mumbling incoherently or quickly changing the subject. Tuesday night while on the phone with Gigi she informed me, "George is pissed at you."

ME: Huh?

GIGI: *whispering* You know the appointment was supposed to be today.

ME: Oh

GIGI: George said, "I'm gonna kill Brooke."

ME: He did, did he?

GIGI: Yes but I jumped in said (this is the point in the conversation were I automatically assumed she'd be coming to my defense, and all would be better), "No, we can't kill her; we'll just beat her up."

ME: Ah

I quickly found a reason to get off the phone and haven't talked to her since. It finally dawned on me that George had set up this appointment assuming I'd wire the money on over.

Despite it all I still wanna talk to Gigi again. I'm worried about her health and the new baby. I even sent 'em stuff from Harry and David's for Christmas, but I couldn't bring myself to answer the phone when she called to thank us.

Why must everything be so hard? Say what you will, but in the end that is something I've always known and expected from Gigi. I also know she absolutely doesn't judge and will always have your back and take your side.

In this corner we have Snookie who I met over the internet when I was 19 and I believe she was 25 (Note: the great thing about me is I can barely remember my age, let alone anyone else's). Snookie and I also shared common interests like swearing, laughing at others and drinking.

Our communication has also been lax in the past few years; this is mostly due to my past dramas and desire to not drag everybody else in with me. The last time I talked with her I was a complete chatter box, partially due to Vicodin and the fact that I hadn't spoken with her in awhile. It seemed a lil odd that she was trying to find ways to get off the phone. Just a few nights later Kaye passed away and I left her a message the next day about how we were headed over to Kansas and to please give me a call.

That call never came.

Oh well, bygones, yes?

We fixed up a lot of baskets this year to give away for Christmas: Homemade cocoa mix and other goodies; those special items for your special folks and for those who we knew would be interested, the book Left to Tell.

For Snookie and her hubby's basket we included a variety of dried soup mixes and two large soup mugs -- seeing as how they live up in cold and rainy British Columbia eh? And yes I did add the book also.

Since they'd recently moved we needed their new address. Mother emailed and got a response a day later that said just a card would be fine. Number one: Mother of course mentioned we had some goodies for her which is why we were in need of the address. So for someone to say "don't bother" that's just downright rude in my book. Numero 2: We received a Christmas card from them a few days later which just happened to be postmarked mere hours after she sent that email.

The card was dripping with religion, so much so I needed a shower afterwards. Fine, so some of you feel more holy after viewing Mel Gibson's blockbuster Snuff flick, but if it's all the same to you, could you please stop using my sleeve to wipe the tarnish from your halos?

The card was bursting at the seams thanks to a 54 page letter. This coming from a person who use to mock the proverbial "I'm cool and you're not" Christmas letter. Oh well, at least it'll be nice to catch up and learn about the goin ons in her life. Actually that information took up about two paragraphs; two small paragraphs. The rest was blah, blah, blah, blah family; blah, blah, blah, new friends; blah, blah, blah, blah more about family.

Well of course she's going to mention her family, they live all the way back in Wisconsin and she misses them.

Yeah except that in more than one family blah it mentioned how they all stayed connected, talked, messaged and email excessively.

Oh hmmm.

And then there was that small statement about, "Isn't it nice to find a group of people who have fun without drinking or smoking?"

TILT

First of all she used to be a drinker and a smoker. In fact she told me that she was totally bummed out because she never became addicted to nicotine. Also her Mother drinks, her father did when he was alive and one of her brothers owns bar. Come on people, we're talking Catholics here.

Now I understand new hubby never touches alcohol because he had an alcoholic step-father. That's actually rather typical when a child witnesses the damaging effects a substance has over a parent or close relative. Take Amy for example: Never ever had an itch to try a cigarette. Now after witnessing her Mother's decline has she become a judgmental harpy? No, infact her husband enjoys the occasional pipe and Amy understands it's an individual choice. However this is not the first man I've seen Snookie with and while the latest is by far my favorite, she has always had this tendency to gravitate towards their hobbies, ideals and beliefs. And while I've never agreed with this behavior it's still her choice not to have an original thought.

Well I guess it's a bit obvious I'm still a lil sore over this. So anyway never heard a peep from her, not even to share whether they received the basket or not. The other night I sent an email that contained the following:

I know I've been absent and a shitty friend, but just because I haven't made an effort doesn't make me unavailable; I'll always be here and there.

I realize a Christmas present containing soup mixes and a book about the Rwandan Genocide comes across rather odd.

I've always been able to convey my thoughts and feelings in writing than conversation.

http://www.immafooker.com/blog/_archives/2006/10/11/2407050.html

I'm sorry I've been so distant.

I honestly have always felt that way about her and meant what I wrote. Course I'm using past tense now as I'm feeling unsure for the first time in over 10 years. Maybe I shoulda added: P.S. The first paragraph really says it all.

So what does she do after skimming the link I sent? She unimaginably and disappointingly heads straight for the Letters From Jerks category, and just like she became just another face in the crowd. Oh sure she's come back a few more times and actually bothered to read about me a bit, but I've still yet to receive a response, and that email was sent last Wednesday.

Alright let's tally up the votes and find out who truly sucks more ass.

I know, I have some 'splainin to do

immafooker — Fri, 02 Feb 2007 14:48:25 -0800

Honestly I've been stayin away to keep myself outta trouble. I get all worked up over some silly thing some silly person had said on the net. It's actually been quite theraputic and now I find myself unaffected by snippy lil comments, gossip, etc. The only exception was the Father of one of the Primordial Dwarves featured inna documentary on Discover. I was afraid I had insulted him, but it turned out he was jokin; so it was cool.

Anyways I'm doin a lot better and have lost about 50 pounds so far; my bloodwork in November showed everything was normal.

And besides complete and utter laziness I really don't have an excuse not to write as I'm currently using my new spiffy laptop, however the wireless connection doesn't reach all the way back to my bedroom; gotta get that fixed.

I need to call Susan, I noticed she hasn't written on her Blog since November. She was scheduled for a procedure, just outpatient, but still involved a scapel. Also her Mother was havin health problems. So everyone do me a favor and run on over there, say hey and hope you're doin ok.

I don't have writer's block

immafooker — Tue, 14 Nov 2006 22:26:50 -0800

I have writer’s annoyance.

There’s so damn much to tell and every day more and more crap happens till one day the sewage system on the left side of brain explodes, then you become a vegetable – of your choice of course.

Let’s try something small that in fact is not small at all. See what I mean? That rhymed way too much for my liking.

Friday afternoon while waiting for my turn with the therapist I decide to give Gigi a jingle. Gigi is a friend of mine from Kansas who is the Mother of my Goddaughter (Child was purposely given a name white people can’t pronounce or even spell so we’ll just call her NaNa), and is also about 6 months pregnant. Gigi’s demeanor is very much like mine: laidback and fun, yet loud and cranky. We were commiserating and so forth, but then I realized receptionist lady in front of me was on the phone so I lowered my voice and stopped talking so much. 20 minutes still having a lovely conversation with G and here comes middle-aged man stomping towards, with him is old haggardly reception lady. Old haggardly reception cunt gave me a coy lil look with an evil grin on her face. I’m still completely in the dark.

MIDDLE-AGED MAN: Hi there

ME still puzzled: Hello

MIDDLE-AGED MAN BEGINS TO SHAKE HIS FINGER: This is a place of work! *some slobbering begins* This lady *pointing to old haggardly reception cunt* has been trying to speak to my clientele (Or order his lunch; he never was truly specific) and says you’ve been loud and profane. *He begins heaving and puffing his chest and middle-aged belly; a few buttons pop off* If you want to be loud and profane then you must leave this building.

ME INCREDIBLY CALM: I see, you’re a lawyer? Perhaps you’d like to sue me?

MIDDLE-AGED MAN GASPING FOR AIR: *he mumbles something incoherent than manages a* Yes

Will you leave this building?

ME: I’m not going anywhere. *I lean down* You are aware that I have mental problems and that’s why I’m here.

Something must have hit home because the next thing he asked was toned down; I just agitated the situation with my reply

MIDDLE-AGED-MAN slightly calmer: You promise to no longer be profane?

ME: Sure thing pumpkin.

MIDDLE-AGED-MAN having 5 simultaneous strokes: That’s it! You’re outta here!

In between all this huffin and puffin Gigi asked who I was talking to and I told her that if it was up to me I wouldn’t be talking to this guy at all. In fact he just came up and started hollering at me.

GIGI: At you? Damn I thought he was talking to somebody else. What’s he yellin at you for?

ME: Because apparently I’ve been loud and profane. Do you recall me being overly loud and profane?

GIGI: No, I recall me being very loud and profane but I’m at my house. Is he gonna kick you outta the building?

ME: I think he’s about to.

Now out comes Stephanie looking concerned and Mother’s freaking out. Anyways I figured Steph would come out and tell him to just get over it. The only person’s word you had was the old haggardly reception cunt who could have easily turned around and ask if I would please move to another room if I was interrupting the phone call. Instead, middle-aged man's pointing finger lead near me with Steph in tow. He’s saying all the horrible things I did and she honest to God stood there, nodded, soaking it all in, looked at me then back as if Middle-Aged Man spoke the gospel. That I couldn’t take so I got up and said, “I am leaving.”

All the time I’m still on the phone with Gigi and she’s like? Where are you going? Are you leaving? What’s happening? George! Some dude just kicked Brooke out of a building!

Stephanie and Mother try and stop me, oh the ironing of it all, Mother’s freaking and says, “Just let me take you down to the car.”

ME: I really don’t want help from anyone who doesn’t believe me. All that receptionist had to do was turn around and ask me to please keep it down. How hard is that you pussy?

Well now that Mother small she’s able to fit through the crack of the elevator and get in. And oh she’s mortified, and oh she’s this and oh she’s that. I finally made her talk to Gigi so she’d finally believe me. Thank God Gigi was there and I had a bloody witness. Well after talking to Gigi, Mother calmed down a bit; now she claims she always believed me, but the truth is she didn’t till the moment after she handed the phone back to me.

I’m getting tired and annoyed now so I’m just gonna wrap this up. I came home and looked up this prick’s number; I figured he’d be easy to spot as he’s the type to take out an entire page in the Yellow Pages for his ad. I had to apologize and do it gracefully because what I didn’t realize is that the Middle-Aged Prick was also owner of the building Stephanie worked in and I could’ve gotten her kicked out. So did the apology, he said I was welcomed back but attorneys lie. I tried to speak to Stephanie that night but it didn’t go very well. I woulda preferred Stephanie the friend as opposed to the therapist, but perhaps the lines have been crossed way too often. Sooooo, I haven’t spoken to her since.

Home

immafooker — Sun, 29 Oct 2006 15:02:29 -0800

HOME....stop
FLU RAMPANT IN KANSAS.... stop
LOST VOICE SOMEWHERE IN UTAH.... stop
POSSIBLE DIRTY MORMON CURSE.... stop
GOT TO SEE MY FIRST SNOWFALL IN OVER 7 YEARS... stop
AM NOW AN OFFICIAL GODMOTHER.... stop
CURRENTLY UNDER 300 LBS.... stop
STILL UNCERTAIN ABOUT BOWEL TROUBLE.... stop
WATCH OUT WHEN DRIVING/RIDING THROUGH HIGH ELEVATIONS; WILL MAKE YOU BLOW UP LIKE BALLOON.... stop
WILL SHARE MORE LATER....

STOP

I'm sorry I haven't written much

immafooker — Thu, 19 Oct 2006 00:58:59 -0700

Considering the circumstances for my visit what I’m about to say is going to sound rather odd: I actually feel relaxed and like I’m on vacation. We have somehow managed to dive right into the deep end of the serendipity pool. Just out and about in town; picking up a prescription; eating out at a restaurant; being introduced to someone who you actually used to know; going to my old high school after hours and amazingly found both my old teachers. It’s just amazing.

I’ve got to hit the hay because Craig, his Mother and his sister are coming up in the morning bringing all the rugrats in tow; and I hear they’re hell on wheels.

But I just wanted to tell you I’m so happy right now, so relaxed; even though my back still hurts I’ve learned that I can do things and keep going on with life. Sometimes my bowels have troubles, but I just take my medication, my pain medication, don’t complain and just go on with life.

I’m actually having fun.

Know what? I'm actually sitting here watching She-Devil with Roseanne Barr; it was one of Kaye's favorite movies. :)

If only I was more like you

immafooker — Wed, 11 Oct 2006 00:41:21 -0700

Besides Mother and the Amazing Aunt Tammy my best friend Snookie is my hero. You remember me talking about Immaculee Ilibagiza? Her demeanor, faith and forgiving nature reminded me of Snookie. Yes she’s still human and gets angry but doesn’t bother holding a grudge or turning vicious because she knows it’s pointless and never really seems to get ya anywhere. Believe it or not I’ve always wished to be more forgiving, and strive like hell to someday reach that goal. But you and I both know I’m not there yet.

Ah hell, my Aunt Kaye passed away tonight. I did a search for her, but I never really actually wrote about her (on here); there’s only a few snippets. And it’s bloody impossible to describe someone you’ve known for a lifetime inna few paragraphs.

She had been sick for the past three years and was diagnosed with Primary Pulmonary Hypertension, which caused a multitude of other complications and thus her prognosis was terminally ill. She was a long time smoker, never took care of herself and rarely went to see a doctor. She didn’t do housework (she would buy another set of dishes instead of washing the ones she had); she wasn’t just a non-exerciser she preferred not moving a muscle at all; the only green thing she ate were M&M’s or peas inna can; and sadly becoming truly ill was her life long dream. She was forever having phantom pains or declaring she suffered from some obscure illness. So when her wish finally came true noone was terribly surprised.

In the beginning she wasn’t even supposed to last 3 three months, then it was 6, then a year; etc, etc. However she just kept going to the point where even the doctors started asking, “Why aren’t you dead yet?”

She was whiny, always negative, unpleasant and completely uninterested in anything that wasn’t about her. It was all you could do to find out how her daughter was doing, and even when ya got the info it was always trailed by negativity or how she didn’t care for her son-in-law and all the horrible things she just knew he was doing.

So five hours and one minute later after her death I’m writing to you about how unfortunately she was quite often a mean, manipulative, lazy, controlling and self-centered person throughout her entire life. Both Mom and Dad are always talking about how she led such a sad life. But despite it all I remember having wonderfully outrageous fun with her. It couldn’t have been and it wasn’t all that bad. I remember one New Year’s Eve at Aunt Kaye and Amy’s apartment. We were sitting at the dining room table scarfing down your typical New Year’s Eve type munchies; she squirted some Easy Cheese onna cracker and said inna monotone voice, “It’s a wonderful life.” And we all fell outta our chairs laughing at the sheer pathetic-ness of it all.

Thanks to my asinine, uppity self-centered lil grudge I hadn’t talked to her for more than a year, and it’s a lil late now. I’d been saying for months how I was gonna call her and just get over it, but when I actually got to the phone all I could think of was, “Oh God, I’m not up to talking to her right now – she’s so tiresome.” I absolutely meant to do it before my surgery but of course I kept dragging my feet until it was too late to call back in the Midwest. Then I totally meant to call after the surgery. I thought maybe I would get a chance to do it today (she’d pulled outta these things in the past), but I knew that chance was lost the moment I heard Mother screaming like a wounded animal in the hallway.

I wish I could tell Kaye we got the phone call while I was in the damn bathroom, she would’ve loved that.

You can’t feel sorry for me and you shouldn’t; it was my doing and my decision. I ignored or kept inventing excuses just so I wouldn’t have to talk to a dying woman who managed to knot my knickers more than a year ago. Well whoopty shit! Who hasn’t managed to do that? What made her so special? I guess it was because I loved her and she was related to me.

You know I was actually planning to take a trip over there once I felt better. Well, we’re goin now.

Because of the distance I still feel somewhat detached. Somebody called up on the phone to tell Mom that her only sister had died, but that’s just hearsay. The closer I get to Kansas I imagine the reality of the situation will start creeping up on me.

I know one thing for sure: I’m going to be there for Amy. I’m so proud of her; she’s done and doing things that noone thought she was capable of, but I always did. Bless her heart, she was in class when they came and told her and the poor thing started vomiting up anything she’d eaten in the past few days. But she’s gonna be ok. In fact her and her husband just bought a house and she wants to start tryin to have kids. She was able to show Kaye pictures of their new home before she went; Amy was so happy she got to show her. Kaye and Amy were always apartment dwellers and it was always Amy’s dream to have a house of her own.

Kaye’s to be buried in the same cemetery as Grandpa was. I wonder if her grave will be close to his.

Hey I just took my drugs

immafooker — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 03:23:30 -0700

I have got to tell you guys all about this. About six weeks ago there was a writer’s conference here in Salinas. At first it was incredibly annoying because Mother literally chucked this in my lap just a few days before the conference. I don’t really have a lot of time to think; what about my back pain? What kinda chairs they got? Is the wheelchair fixed? I agreed to it, but I still wasn’t sure. She literally catapulted me into this thing. And you’d think she’d be all over her stuff; printin out her work and getting a presentation ready, but to my surprise she dragged her feet the whole way.

It was gonna be hot, the wheelchair wasn’t fixed and I didn’t think I could do it but I certainly didn’t want to waste the 200+ dollars Mom paid. So the night before the conference I came up with a smashing plan. I was scheduled to have a private session with a literary agent who specialized in my genre. So I printed out 25 pages from the first WLS attempt, a synopsis and a page about the author. I stuck inna nice lil folder all organized with my name, conference ID number, genre, address, phone number and email. I made it so all Mother had to do was hand it over.

Unfortunately this was a five minute presentation and Mom was kinda flustered and didn’t realize I’d done all the work for her. However the literary agent was intrigued (although he said lose the profanity and that was totally my fault for having fuck in the first sentence of the synopsis. I was thisclose to taking it out), but besides that he said it was an extremely hot and timely topic and he’d be happy to represent me; the only catch being since I’m a first time writer I need the completed product.

But here’s the thing: This wasn’t just any literary agent guys, when Mom told me who it was I shot through the ceiling with glee.

Drum roll please…

Michael Larsen. Yeah you heard me, THE Michael Larsen. That’s THE Michael Larsen who’s wrote several books on how to get an agent and get published. He told many another folk that if they did this and that they’re book could have potential, but he was totally down with me, or at least for five minutes. Unfortunately noone could take your work, which was a damn shame. I actually think his partner Elizabeth Pomada might be a better option as she does memoirs.

Still, I feel I need to find a helpful writer and take a course or two. Seeing as how my high school education was a joke and I’ve yet to go to college. I know my grammar, punctuation, sentence and paragraph structure are all over the map; I just try and make it appear like I know what the hell I’m doing. I also have no idea how to section it off into chapters – with non-fiction, agents and publishers prefer an outline and chapter synopsis. So I don’t know if I could go against the norm and make it more like journal entries or if the chapter thing is mandatory.

And with that in mind I’ll probably have to put most of my blog under lock and key, or at least the weight loss ordeal. Which is kinda unfortunate as I hoped it might help a few folks, but who the hell wants to buy your book when they can read it for free?

And now for you viewing pleasure I present my About the Author page:

About the Author

Elizabeth Brooke Lee is an extremely cranky individual and has valid reasons to prove her disposition.

Although a 430 pound young woman, she was blessed with a seemingly Touched By An Angel medical health. So you can imagine her surprise when a weight reduction procedure referred to as the Roux-en-Y quite literally ruined her life. Fast forward three years later to the present and we find her taking nine different prescriptions, as opposed to two pre-op, including suffering from severe ulcers; prior to surgery she never once endured a light case of heartburn. Brooke also suffers from debilitating back pain, became bulimic and only lost 100 pounds.

Most people in this situation would give up and/or switch surgeons, but Brooke has remained loyal to her surgeon. In fact her rather pushy and opinionated attitude finally broke through and much to her surgeon’s surprise he found himself respectful of her intelligence and even fond of this most unruly patient. Now Brooke being the determined cuss she’s always managed to be, is preparing for a second surgery; a revision of the first.

This story in narrative, diary-like form is raw, emotional and quite often incredibly pathetic; you’ll find yourself laughing when you think you shouldn’t be, but life is like that. Blatant honesty gives people the chance to climb inside and poke at the dirty gooey things that are often hidden from the naked eye, but there’s a lil voyeurism inside all of us.

Brooke is sorry she cannot be present to meet with you personally. Because of the intense pain and the anxiety that always manages to follow suit, irrationality takes charge and before you know it a maniac begins taking hostages while demanding mass quantities of Vicodin and dark chocolate truffles. Brooke would also like to apologize in advance for the inevitable spelling and grammatical errors as narcotics tend to make one’s brain turn to tapioca. Anything else is Microsoft’s fault.

Thank you for taking the time to read.

I've got the music in me

immafooker — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 01:21:55 -0700

Somewhere…

I know, I know; I’ve been silent but it’s hard to make your mind work when it feels like someone’s using a jackhammer on your spine. And all ya seem to be doing is counting down the minutes till you can take more pain pills.

Rolled outta bed this afternoon with typical searing pain and Jabba the Hut staring back at me from my mirrored closet doors; that is if Jabba wore mint green jammies with lil kitties on ‘em. At this point in time it’s hard not to think, “And I went through all that to still feel and look like this?” However I did hop on the scale and learned I had lost another pound: “Alright, I guess I’ll go on then.” This now brings us to a total of 24 pounds lost, but how much do I have to lose for my back to stop screaming?

So anyways, I’m no longer spending most of my time in the bathroom. I know you guys were totally on the edge of your seat about that. For awhile there I was having very nasty withdrawal symptoms from Effexor since it’s a time released capsule and none of the lil beads seemed to be absorbing. So they put me on the regular Effexor, however since I was taking the maximum dosage prior they automatically prescribed the same amount. Turns out taking too much Effexor has very similar symptoms to withdrawal. Anyways I played experiment and found half the dosage normalized me and no longer made me feel like a paranoid schizophrenic.

I’m not kidding about the paranoid schizophrenia. I could not focus on anything, 5 or 10 minutes tops. And I saw things that weren’t really there. Yeah seriously; like spiders, monsters and people who are dead. Mix that all together with constant heart palpitations and you got one serious nightmare going on.

I’ve got portable and cordless back massagers I can drag all over the house, now I just need a laptop to go with ‘em. I promise next time I’m drugged up good I’ll try and tell ya all that happened and fill in the blanks.

Oh the big news

immafooker — Sun, 01 Oct 2006 23:06:37 -0700

Well originally I was trying to post to the Advanced Bariatric support group leader, but unfortunately Fat-Russ-I-Believe-in-Genie ripped the diagram that Dr. Swartz drew out of my hands thinking I was gonna whine on their message board about how Felix fucked me over by only giving me 100 cm bypass. When in fact all I wanted it for was to try to explain what I was now (a mixture between RNY and the DS) and how that I feel so alone now because either surgical patients say, "Well I'm sorry honey but I can't just help you because you're different and not like us."

Anyway after my parents who no longer have any need for me go to sleep tonight, I'm gonna knock down the smoke detector that Craig put up for me as soon as I told him noone had bothered to do it for almost 3 years and I was too short (ladder and all), and then I'm gonna torch us all alive.

*thumbsup*

You wouldn't believe it

immafooker — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 23:17:57 -0700

I'm mean and not gonna tell you right now because I can finally take my pain medication now that my dinner's gone down. Yes I'm no longer terrified of food.

But seriously, you'll never guess what I learned today; completely floored me and then of course I got pissed. Anyways I promise to tell ya tomorrow when I'm pain free.