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[personal profile] kellista
The facts are that on Friday 17 December I, [ profile] kellista was lucky(?) enough to, with the aid of not only dental insurance but a surfeit of modern technologies and medicines of all kinds, lights flashing and steel glinting and vacuums and geysers being summoned, my friends, seemingly through the sheer power of human will -

I, I had two wisdom teeth extracted, friends, and it was via the power of gases and liquids and science and pressures of various kinds, friends, that I am able to speak with you at all -
But the healing process, in spite of these technologies, comrades, in spite of the inhaled gases and my willful and regularly timed shutting of my epiglottis to introduce the prescribed tylenol 3s into my esophagus and NOT my trachea, thereby excluding it entirely from the processing and absorption of opioids in any form -
You see, I'm getting all a-fluster here, dear friends, so a-fluster that the thing itself which I do always mean somewhere in my state to state clearly, well any one of a variety of states you understand

Besides removing two of my bony archaic mouth protrusions clearly these idol-like testaments to man and nature, these dental instruments, played a role in introducing one or more ((but at least one (presuming that's what successful infection of a body takes, who the holy hell do i know) evolutionarily sound "fighter" kind of a version - wow imagine your own body a battlefield, as it were, as if that image hasn't been recycled so far as a self help book or a fucking advice dog meme all over the place by now -


The influenza virus is using my body to its own ends and I am losing my mind ovah heyah. Seriously - three days straight SLEEPING?!?! Who is supposed to NOT lose their shit under these circumstances?! Yeah. I of the normally (?) 60ish hour work week unceremoniously reduced to zero?! And no, I do not get 'sick days'. Hahahahahaha. Here insert a rude comment about how much I love that Greek anarchists hate the working class and the ruling classes with equal fervour. It is almost funny to listen to and or watch my depressive filters sieve through experiences and perceptions with near-perfect selectivity -


"Surely this this documentary on dog fighting will elevate me emotionally right now, because let's be Honest and Gentle with ourselves here, it HAS been a taxing time..."

I always knew Pixel suffered, somewhere deep in the pillowy recesses of his fuzzy white heart, from a dearth of "game". Maybe I'm afraid it's my own problem. Maybe it's exactly that which has allowed him to care for me, in his doggy way, this past week of wisdom-tooth-extraction-cum-influenza-influenced misery. Like, how couldn't the focussed licking of every square inch of unconscious kellyface in clockwork order not be the most caring way possible to spend your first waking half hour? I don't know, Pixel! Seems fair to me!! What's the anti-bloodsport, Mr. Pixel? Is that a compound concept? Am I awake now, better?

"What are you dreaming of, mistress [ profile] kellista? the day that, together, we will rise again; spread a variety of pain to each of the four corners?"


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