Monday, January 30, 2012

The problem I see.

So, I went to the eye doctor (aka eye touching motherfuckers). It was the first time I've been to an actual eye doctor since 1983. They did all their tests, which are much less traumatizing now than they were in 1983, and my vision seemed completely normal, perfect, in fact.
For perhaps a year, I have been complaining that I FEEL like my vision in my right eye is shrouded, but it isn't. I understand that doesn't make sense, but when I look out of each eye separately, each eye is perfectly normal, but with both eyes open, it feels like my left eye sees clearer than my right.
So after doing all of the tests, I told the doctor exactly that, and he said "OH! Let me do one more test!"
And then he gave me lenses so I could see, because apparently dilating the hell out of your eyes makes them not focus. And as an aside, I don't understand how anyone who has perfect vision who then develops severe far sidedness doesn't immediately jump off a bridge. I was close and I only had to put up with it for 6 hours.
Anyway, he had me hold lenses in front of my eyes so I could see anything that wasn't 40 feet away, and had me cover my left eye and then my right and this is what I saw:

The left side is the left eye and the right, is the right... funny how that works.
This is called a "Red Cap Desaturation Test" by the way.

He explained to me that the difference in my ability to see colors now is not a problem with my physical eye but is a neurological problem. He didn't give me an actual diagnosis but sent the report to my doctors (who I have demanded take all this stuff seriously). I go to the neurologist on Thursday, so I should have more information for us all then, though Dr. Google has already given me a sound diagnosis that does not surprise me at all.

Also, remember, today is the last day to sign up to give a stranger an AWESOME VD*! Sign up for da Cheeseblarg's Secret Cupid Exchange before midnight.

No actual venereal diseases should be sent, VD is meant to refer to Valentines Day, because VD is a Special Trading Day!

Thursday, January 26, 2012


Oh yeah, because I am going blind from all the floaters in my eyes, and the flashy things. 
I'm still not okay with it.
If they blind me with their eye touching machine, I am going to be angry.
And my drawings will probably not be as pretty as they are now.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Cheeseblarg's Secret Cupid Valentine Exchange!

(excerpt from chat conversation)
So I had an idea, while in the shower last night...
bathtub maybe...
In water
Not that it really maters where I was
The point is I had an idea.
And I am going to tell it to you.

Last year, I did a Valentine contest where one person got a Valentine package from me. And that was pretty boss, but since this was a hard year for me, I thought, giving one person love is just not enough, I want EVERYONE to have buckets of love, but alas, I don't have enough resources to send love to everyone, and then I splashed water everywhere. Not really, but you can imagine I did. I might have just gotten my hair wet in my excitement, if I am going to bother being honest.

A secret cupid exchange!

We, as a community of Cheeseblargians (including me), could come together and be each other's Valentines. I know way too many people who hate Valentine's day because they don't have someone who wants to regularly put their junk in said person's junk and that is just silly. I mean, junk merging is clearly enjoyable for most people who are into that sort of thing, but love does not just have to come from people who wanna stick their junk in you or otherwise come in contact with your parts. I have always enjoyed just sharing love and happy sappiness with anyone who doesn't put a restraining order on me, so how about it?

Uh, we be each other's Valentines without any junk dipping at all. We do it to make someone happy and to also, ourselves, feel happy about getting to make someone else happy.

  • You sign up to be a Valentine using my handy dandy form (that is closed now, since it is past the deadline). 

  • You are matched up with a person to whom you will send a Valentine package ($5 minimum, no maximum, but more than $25 should NOT be expected). The person you are sending to should not be the person you will get stuff from.

  • You will be encouraged to give your blog address and to visit your match's blog to gently stalk them to get an idea of things they like. Please don't be creepy. And tell me if people are being creepy, so I can tell 'em to knock it off.

  • January 30th is the last day to sign up (cutoff comes at midnight mountain time zone). I will send out matches on the 31st of January- 2nd of February (depending on how many matches we get). Packages should be sent by Wednesday, February 8th so that packages get there in time (unless you plan on sending express... just try make sure it gets there on time!).

  • We have Cheeseblargians all over the world so I need matches not only in the US and Canada, but also in the UK and Australia. If you are from the US or Canada and are willing to do overseas gift exchanges and chance not having them ON Valentine's Day (especially if you already have a Valentine person of your own), be sure to check that option on the sign up page!

Important things to make this work:

  • You will be getting emails from me. It is important that your email works and that it be an email you check regularly.

  • Email me when you send your package out and I will email your match to let them know it was sent. If you have tracking information, that would be a good thing to send me.

  • When you receive your gift, come back and tell us all about it either on Cheeseblarg's facebook page or on this post (link from your own blog)! Photos are encouraged. 

  • Remember, this is about giving love so do be gracious, even if you get a Pee Wee Urine Bag (don't send Pee Wee Urine Bags, or otherwise troll your Valentine, please... even if this is a humor blarg, gifts are serious bidness!).

  • If for some reason your package doesn't arrive after I sent you notice it was shipped, let me know after two weeks from when it should arrive and I will let the community know so that you can be sure to get a gift.

What are good Secret Cupid gifts?
Handmade or silly cards, something special and unique from your part of the country, something Cheeseblarg themed, candy, jewelry, toys, stickers, books, things you are sure your match will like.

What are BAD Secret Cupid gifts?
Anything harmful, stinky, or dead that has not been proccessed in a way that makes it an appropriate gift (leather wallet, ok- dead raccoon carcass, not ok). Something funny but dissapointing, something your match obviously wouldn't want (like a bag of flour for the writer of GlutenFreeForLife or A Vampire Hunter Taxadermied Duck for VeganGal417) This should be a pleasant experience for all.

If you know you cannot make the deadlines or can't send at least 5 dollars worth of something (plus shipping), hold off for another gift exchange, please. If you have an aversion to giving out your address or are in the Witness Protection Program, this is probably not for you. Also, if you are a jerk in a way that it will mar the experience for someone else, just be a jerk to someone in person and get it out of your system. Don't be mean to my people. The Cheeseblargians, I mean, not the Jews.

If for some reason, this becomes way more popular than I expect it to, and I get hundreds or thousands or BILLIONS of people wanting to participate, uh... I may need help or a little more time. I shall keep y'alls posted, in that case. 

And if I have missed something, glaringly, that is going to make this suck for me, or you guys, please let me know so I can fix it! 

Monday, January 23, 2012

Ice, Ice, Baby!

Yesterday, after 4 years of being in Montana, I broke my falling on ice virginity. It was almost as traumatic as losing the other virginity... only less bruises this time (I kid).

I had a series of falling incidents in college where I would just be walking along, my ankle would twist, and next thing I knew, I would find myself on the floor while my friends walked on, not even noticing I was no longer next to them.

A slipping fall is much more traumatic, I think, because your brain has the time to register that you will be falling soon. It seems to happen almost in slow motion. The most damaging part for me, since I am well padded, is that it seems I pulled about every muscle in my body trying to recover my balance instead of just going with the fall.

That is why I think people should ALWAYS be drunk while walking on ice.

Friday, January 20, 2012

New York Secrets Revealed: The Small Print

During my trip to New York, one of my ticky list items was to find a good Indian restaurant and gorge myself on delicious spicy delicacies. Using the power of google and yelp from my sketchy hotel room, I found an Indian place less than a block away from my art show that had a menu with everything I could want on it, well within my limited budget.

When we got there after visiting my show, they had a lunch buffet, but it was like 18 bucks a person, and $54 for the three of us, plus tip, plus tax, plus a stomach that won't fit $18 worth of food was so not going to happen, so we asked to be seated and got menus. After looking at all the tasty 5 dollar appetizers we would share, my mom noticed that at the bottom of the page, in small letters, it stipulated that each person must order $25 worth of food to eat in the dining room, which is where we were seated. That was followed by a horrifying conversation with our clearly displeased waiter where I offered to take our food to go, if needed. "No, fine, just order." So we ordered our food and it was SO delicious, like 'I wanted to lick the plate and then mate with it' delicious. Crispy fried onion fritters, spicy flaky pockets of mashed potato, green peas, and chilies, and chicken pakora, so salty and crunchy, all with tamarind dipping sauce that was sweet and cool and tangy. It was amazing.
And I could feel the hostility each time my water was refilled. Damn me for drinking so much water all the time! I'm the complete opposite of a camel.
And then, sheepishly, I asked our waiter about dessert. I wanted Gulab Jamun, badly.  If you've not had Gulab Jamun and you like syrupy sweet desserts, get your ass to an Indian restaurant, immediately. I don't care if it is not open right now, go wait. These things are little dense balls, not unlike cake donuts with the texture of a  hushpuppy, soaked in a sugar syrup that is heavily laced with cardamom and rosewater, until they cannot hold another drop of syrup, and dear people, they are so very good.

What they are usually not is BOILING MOTHERFUCKING HOT, which is what they were when they were served to me in this lovely restaurant in NY. They were like, passive aggressively hot.  Like every bit of anger that that waiter had at me for wasting his time with a 20 dollar order for three in the heart of Manhattan, times 20, was put on the microwave timer.  To the point that I could feel the searing heat coming off of it before it actually got to my face, which thankfully gave me a warning, or I would have lost all the skin lining the inside of my mouth.  My poor impulse control still contributed to minor burns, but thankfully, I avoided a hospital visit. And still they were delicious. So good. Almost worth the burns, totally worth the story.

Next time I have cause to visit NYC, I will, fer real, be budgeting a bunch of money to get an assortment of their amazing dishes, but I think I will get it to go next time, just in case.

Thursday, January 19, 2012


I got some awesome and funny high five pictures and as promised, we have the best of them (they were all great damn it, but I can't have fair contests if I am gonna choose everyone as the winners, though you are all totally winners in my mind for even bothering to send stuff in, and it being funny and/or cute). All the entries can be found (with links where available) over the facebook Cheeseblarg page.

I have come to realize I am wrong, though.  There are certain people I would high five. Or certain person. NPH. But beyond him, I don't know who else. Neal Patrick Harris is just utterly high fivable.

And before we get to the winner, I did one more animal high five of my own, for many reasons, which you are welcome to guess.

And now onto the winners!

From Stephanie at "Clay Baboons"- she actually sent several entries that were very hard to choose from and featured animal high fives on her blog and she makes me laugh. A lot.

Tonya at "Where Have All The Hobos Gone" won me over with her "Altos Cinco!"

High Fortying made me actually laugh aloud. Thanks Haley, from "Haley's Comic."

and as an honorable mention for being topical:

Mollie of "OK in UK"

Please do stop over at da Cheeseblarg on facebook and check out the other entries.  All of the participants deserve positive attention for their cute and funny pieces!

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Why I am a follower RE: SOPA and PiPA

So I blacked out the blarg to support the total eradication of SOPA and PiPA (though I could totally go for some sopa, since it is so cold outside- that's a spanish joke). The thing is, I have been an artist for a very long time, and in that time, I have both had my art stolen, and been accused of stealing art. Every time my art was stolen, I used the laws ALREADY in place to get the work taken down, and every time I was accused of stealing art, it was because the person accusing me was an asshole.

For example, a gentleman posted a lovely nude photo of himself in a community I belonged to and I said, "My, that is lovely, may I paint it?" and he said
"Oh yes, I would love to be painted!"
And then I painted his lovely nude picture (digitally, because I paint digitally), and when I showed it to him, he said, "WELL, IF I KNEW YOU WERE JUST GOING TO PUT A FILTER ON IT I WOULDN'T HAVE LET YOU USE MY IMAGE!!!!!" presumably because he thought having an altered photo of him in the world altered his soul or something, though my painting was indeed a painting and not just some filtered image.
And so I replied, "I'm sorry, if I had known that you expected me to be unable to paint convincingly and realistically, I wouldn't have bothered taking time to paint your ass (literally) for free." and then I took it down, and then I told the internet about it 8 years later, because that guy was a douche.
There was also the craptacular time that my elementary school had a contest to draw a new tiger mascot for a wall mural, with a cash prize, and I was disqualified because they thought I had traced my entry instead of having drawn it from scratch. I had drawn it from scratch. Being a good artist doesn't pay sometimes.

But the point is, SOPA and PiPA want to make it so that this site could be taken down if they even suspect that I am breaking someone's copyright. No due process, no questions, just gone... and that is not okay.  There are already laws that cover piracy and maybe we copyright holders need more avenues for recourse, but creating sweeping laws that take away our freedoms in the hopes that it might help get rid of copyright violation outside the US is ultimately not helpful. They need to find a better way. So, that was what that was all about.

p.s. Don't forget to get your animal high fives in before midnight my time. cheeseblarg at live dot com

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Down low, too slow!

I hate high fiving. A lot.

High fiving humans...
I will high five the shit out of animals.
Except birds, fuck birds, but I will high five any hamster that puts its creepy little alien paw up for me to gently tap with my palm (because it is a tiny cute hamster and full on high five might hurt it).

High fiving humans holds no interest for me because they judge you when you are awkward and your hand isn't a fucking physics major, so you kinda miss their hand on the forward trajectory, not hitting it right on, and then they know you have spacial issues, and they don't say anything but you can see it in the way that they avoid your eyes.

Or you go for the high five and they do the mercy hand position and there you are, slightly horrified, looking like you are defending yourself again a bully who wants to break your wrists and they are clutching at your hands, jumping up and down, excited, and you are just receding to your happy place until this stranger danger is over.

And it is stranger danger, because anyone who really knows me knows I don't want to touch their hands. They also probably know that they don't want to touch my hands (see the post about my activities on road trips). I'd rather most people put their genitals on me than their grubby dirty hands.

That job I had, the one that I got fired from, they were staunch believers in high fives.  My soul died a little every time I was forced to partake in their bizarre hand touching ritual. Thankfully they fired me though, so I didn't have to come up with bizarre reasons to dodge being touched.  I had already considered "leprosy from an armadillo bite" and "mail order ebola that accidentally got shipped to me instead of my terrorist next door neighbors."  They probably would have just gotten hazmat suits for everyone and upped the "up highs" to boost my morale.

The best ones will be posted later this week with a link to your blog. Draw them up and send them to my email (cheeseblarg at live dot com). You have until Wednesday, 11:59pm my time.

 p.s. Your drawings don't have to be drawings if you'd like to work in another medium, but it has to be self made.


I selected this post to be featured on my blog’s page at Humor Blogs.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Burger Times

I am entirely unable to fathom why, when you go to a fast food restaurant and order your food without bread, they then become completely unable to put condiments on meat and cheese. I get the concept that they are most likely accustom to putting the ketchup and mayonnaise on the bread, but it really isn't that hard.
In fact, every time they refrain from putting condiments on my sad and lonely bunless burgers, I am somehow able to put condiments on it, myself, so clearly it is not rocket science.

Today, at our local Burger Royalty restaurant, I took note of the very handsome older gentleman who works there. When I say handsome, I mean, nearly as handsome as 60 year old Clint Eastwood. I have to assume he either was a ranch hand who murdered his employer and has recently gotten out of prison on parole, or that he raped a 14 year old in the 1960s, because I cannot come up with another reason that some one of that age, who is so attractive, would need to (or choose to) work at a burger joint. He was, incidentally, standing right behind me while I told my mother this theory. If I go missing, it was probably him.

Also, RE: Bunless burgers... FORKS AND KNIVES, assholes. Seriously.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Musical Interlude- Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me

This song keeps coming on the radio, though I had never heard it before, prior to last week.  Had no idea it was an Elton John song, but since it keeps coming on, I figured it wanted an illustration.

Oh, and also, I'm immature.

(click for pnsfw funny)

Wednesday, January 11, 2012


Dearest parents (especially mother), you should either not read this or, if you insist upon doing so, you should take a lot of illicit date rape sorts of drugs before reading this so you don't recall it and never discuss it with me. Let's go with never reading it, okay? Awesome. 

I'm not kidding either. 
Okay, on to the post ...

I was just reminded, when the boy I had a crush on in middle school added me on Facebook, that I was a fucking psycho when I was a teenager.  I think I owe pretty much everyone with a penis (who was not an immediate member of my family) that I knew from the ages of 11- 19 a major apology.  See, when I say "the" boy I had a crush on, I mean ONE of the 7 billion boys I had a crush on, but  definitely the one I spent the most time terrorizing, from my recollection. No, wait, the one I spent the most time terrorizing in eighth grade, and also part of 7th. I terrorized the hell out of a bunch of guys. I had a problem... we shall refer to it as attention and affection deficit disorder (AAADD).
I was  really bad, as a teenager, at ascertaining when someone was attracted to me. That is, people for the most part, weren't attracted to me, but if they were willing to make eye contact with me, or respond to me when I spoke and I found them even the remotest bit attractive, I was pretty sure they were in love with me. Or maybe it was that I was pretty sure I was in love with them, and any modicum of attention convinced me that the feeling was mutual or could, through repeated pestering and writing of REALLY bad poetry, be cultivated.

If you could imagine Chris Farley.. hell, you don't have to imagine. Here is a clip.

Yes, that was me, only quite a bit cuter. But the thing is, there was no chance of me having any sort of normal relationship with anyone at that time because responding to me was enough to set me off in a pattern of psychotic smothering attention. If I could just get my foot in the proverbial door, they were sure to adore the ever loving shit out of me... but the reality of it was, they were more than likely terrified of me, because my attention was fairly terrifying. And that was when I wasn't thinking of anything more than just holding hands and pop kisses.  I was probably about 42 times more terrifying when I was trying to seduce every male who interacted with me, not excluding my 9th grade Math substitute, some weird French guy who owned a leather furniture design company who may have been in his late 40s, my best friend, who was a male (the poor guy), C.B. Barnes, and our 25 year old neighbor.

Of course, people who WERE actually attracted to me, I was oblivious of.  If they approached me first, I was suspicious and bitchy.  Yup, bitchy is the word for what I was, in that it is a word that doesn't start with a C that would probably be a better word for how I acted, but people seem to have an aversion to that word for some reason that I am unable to fathom. Anyway, I mean that I was a jerk version of crazy when I wasn't being otherwise crazy and writing, have I mentioned, REALLY horrible poetry... like the kind where each line starts with a letter of the boy's name, and which I carefully calligraphized on floofy purple stationary that I might have rubbed on a perfume sample page of a beauty magazine so he knew it was from a girl and that I then stuck in his locker. After I stalked him and saw that he had seen the poem and hadn't come running to confess his love for me, though he was one of the most sought after boys in school and I had no concept of "out of your league,"  I then carefully extracted said horrible purple calligraphied poem out of his locker while pretending to go to the bathroom, so that it couldn't be used to humiliate me any worse than I had already done myself. Wait that wasn't clear. I meant, I asked my teacher to go to the bathroom so I could stop by his locker and go mission impossible on it, not that I was pretending to pee while I was shoving my fingers through the air holes of the locker to get the embarrassing fucking thing out.

Anyway, yeah, sorry boys, and maybe some girls too, for making you uncomfortable and for being unable to handle having female hormones. I'm much more balanced now, though I am still prone to bouts of adult AAADD... I am just aware of things like restraining orders and mace now, so I have toned it down and there is nothing to be afraid of. And also sorry for the poem. You didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that... nobody.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

The Bloggess Paper Dolls

So I was taking a shower, thinking like I do while in the shower when I run out of choruses from songs I don't really know. I had just been tooling around on Twitter and there was a stream of tweets from The Bloggess about "The Traveling Red Dress," at which time I went and looked at pictures of Jenny in the Traveling Red Dress and shortly after, my shower thoughts went to how I adore the many dress up pictures of The Bloggess. I wasn't looking at twitter in the shower, in case that was unclear. Though, my weasels, I would love to own a waterproof electronic internet-ready device so that I could interface with Skynet at all times... but I digress.
I thought, you know what would be awesome... uh, Bloggess Paper Dolls. Because, I mega heart paper dolls (as we should know from my many dress up games) and I really wanted to draw Wolf Blitzer as a paper doll outfit. And while I usually would make a flash game, I thought it would bring people more joy to do it old school with the added happy of getting to color the outfits. Coloring + Paper Dolls is almost as good as bacon and frosting (but not together... bacon and then a while later, frosting).

So I (we, because she did the kick ass border), give you:

Seriously, click to embiggen, print it out, color all the outfits, cut them out, take pictures of them being played with. Share them with the both of us. Make Copernicus choke the hell out of her (not because we don't like her, but well... read the post and you will understand I mean her no ill will).

If you can afford it, please go buy an official version from her store.  All profits go to charity, and charity is awesome!

And secret fact:  My earlier draft had a "Beyonce the Metal Chicken" costume for The Bloggess to wear, but it was too clunky and she just looked like she worked at El Pollo Tropical, so I switched to a stalking Beyonce instead.

Also, some of the tabs are completely useless and are there to amuse me. Just fold them out of the way.

I also cannot be sure I washed my hair while I was taking that shower because I was really lost in thought. I think I did, but what does it really matter.

--Edited to add--

Want your own paper doll? 
For the first 10 people, I will draw your figure (colored) and two fashion pieces and two accessories (not colored) like The Bloggess Paper Dolls  for $30.  After that it would be $45 for the same. If you want something different (or more) let me know by emailing me cheeseblarg at live dot com, and I will figure out a reasonable fee. I'll just need photos of the figure you want drawn and clothing/accessory idea photos. Half payment is due upfront to hold your place. Doll shall be delivered by email within 2 weeks (and often way sooner).

Nominate J Rose for a social media award in the Shorty Awards!Nominate J Rose for a social media award in the Shorty Awards

Regrouping and Floor Cleaning

Fuck this moping shit. This needs to be the year of the Jodee. I mean, last year I also declared it the year of the Jodee (actually it was the "year of winning" but then Charlie Sheen had to go and implode and take my phrase and then I felt weird using it, but damn it, you get the idea), and in reality, for all the other crap, it was pretty much, indeed, a year of winning.  My campaign of terror on @blogger over at twitter, plus my sheer awesomeness, won me Blog of Note, allowing me to meet so many of you Cheeseblargians, which is fairly coincidental that you should already be called Cheeseblargians and then you should follow a site called "da Cheeseblarg."

I also um... I... won .. um... hrm.. I got my art published in a cookbook (Nadia G's Bitchin' Kitchen: Cookin' for Trouble) that I don't have a copy of so it may not actually be in there, so I am just going to assume it is because I signed a waiver saying it could be.  AND someone contacted me wanting to use a bad painting I did of David Hasselhoff in panties for the green room of some show he was going to be on to make him uncomfortable, though I never actually heard back from them...

The really bad painting in question. It's awful. I should have painted the one with the Shar Pei puppies.

 and then Conan O'Brien had my Coco Llama in his gallery AND talked about it after saying my name and another campaign of terror got me to NYC because I was in an art show in NYC and needed to see it in person, which was a life-long goal realized. Plus, I made a bunch of kick ass art. So this year, instead of bitching about bitchy shit, I just need to be winning-er. Being super win-y will make my shit crap health issues suck less by comparison. Especially if I become not poor while winning.

So let's start with the Shorty Awards under the category of blogging, because they didn't have a category for blarging, and I am nothing if not flexible.
Just scoot on over to this link (I imagine you should have a twitter account but why not try anyway) and tell them why I am the best blarger that ever lived (I stress "blarger."  I'm the only one, right? Or the original, at least? It should be easy to say I am the best without feeling like you are lying).

Then I seriously need to get this friggen celebrity endorsement, even if I need to become a celebrity myself and then do my own endorsement. It doesn't work that way does it? Well, I'll figure it out.

Point is, if I want my life to not be ruled by sucky aspects, I am gonna have to take it by the flappy bits and and shake it and say "HEY LIFE, STOP SUCKING. Health is not the only thing around. There's also internet awards, and celebrities who may some day pay attention to you, and  Bacon Jerky. And there are readers who give a shit and will be okay if you can't draw all the time, and frosting, and THESE FLOORS ARE DIRTY AS HELL AND I'M NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE!" At which point I imagine people will just stare at me and crickets will chirp, because UHF is a highly underrated movie.

Friday, January 6, 2012

Laughter is the best medicine cause it is free.

I'd like to talk about a major issue in my life right now. It's a downer, so prepare yourself.
So, I'm poor. I know I have said that before but when I say I am poor, I mean we survived last year on less than $6,000 income. Like super poor.
And one would think, "Oh, you're taken care of by the state," but nope.  If you don't have kids and you are poor, you can pretty much go fuck yourself... which apparently I have done by becoming ill while poor.
I have been chronically ill for about 8 years now. Longer really, but it has been steady for 8 years. I used to have a job, and I worked, and I loved working. I would even work for free, if they didn't have money to pay me because working was awesome and fun. But then I got sick and I had to go home from work all the time and had to ask people to cover for me, and my job was such that I couldn't just leave when I needed to... I had to wait for someone else to be there before I could go, so it sucked, and it made many people mad at me, and at the end of the year, I got let go. And the next year, my contract wasn't renewed. And then my day to day jobs stopped because I was making errors of judgment from being on pain pills that I was required to take... and then 4 years ago, I stopped working. I was making it through my days by refusing to eat or drink, because those things made me sick and made me have to go home, and working is hard when you have no food in you.  I know models do it, but they just have to stand there and look pretty... they don't have to keep other people safe and alive and stuff.
And the point of telling you that I am poor is to tell you I have no insurance. I have no medicaid, I ain't got shit... except a bunch of chronic illnesses that like to make me miserable and a moral code that tells me it is wrong to run up bills and not pay them.
Beyond that, I have several diseases, all autoimmune, that don't have cures.  My experiences with doctors has been this:

I am certain there is something actually wrong with me that hasn't been diagnosed, as far as my chronic pain and lessening muscle control, but I think I come off to doctors as a hypochondriac.  I say this because I complain and I complain and they just look at me cross-armed and say "Mmhm." and nothing gets done.
I had one doctor lady stand across from me, when I was pleading that she do some test, test for MS maybe because it runs in my family and I have almost all the symptoms of it, and I was being told "we don't know what is wrong so we aren't going to do any more tests on you," please test me, for the love of God, test me,  and she crossed her arms and her legs and said in a nasty accusatory tone, "Do you WANT to have MS?"
And you know, yeah, I would rather be diagnosed with MS when I have most of the symptoms of it anyway, and actually fucking be treated, than to sit in a room with shitty doctors who treat you like crap because you have problems that they don't have a name for. You get screwed because your symptoms are too hard to figure out and testing costs money and you don't have money, and people subsequently think you are making it all up, but you are in pain all the time and you know this is real.
So, I have tried to get help but all of the agencies say that there isn't enough documentation to prove that I am sick enough. Because when I am feeling my worst, I don't want to go sit in a doctor's office, or ER, for hours to tell them "I feel like shit, I am going to take some narcotics and lie in bed for the rest of the day. " Or "I feel like shit, I am puking and crapping and I can't stop." yelled through the bathroom door of the doctor's office because I don't relish the idea of wearing a diaper out in public. Or "Hi, my intestines are bleeding again. I have ulcers on every mucus membrane of my body. I can't sit up because it hurts so bad. You can't do anything about it because taking steroids all the time is going to kill me... so hi, bye, thanks for writing it down after I sat here miserable for 5 hours. That will be $500 I don't have. Please, make sure you call me every day to stress me about it which will make all of this flare worse."
And because it has been suggested that they can't do anything for me, it seems an exercise in futility to mention it. I don't WANT to spend every second thinking about being sick. I want to ignore it and do whatever I can to bring myself joy (like writing this blarg here, that I love, and interacting with all of you), but in order to get any help from any agency that is in place (disability, voc. rehab, etc), it seems that you can't have a moment of joy in your life, which is about how I feel right now. So, please, I can have help nao?

Thursday, January 5, 2012

January Sticker Sale- It's a Trap(tor) Color Sticker

Hi there.

I have been thinking for days, "Damn it Jodee, you should post something... just post SOMETHING!" but the problem is, everything I draw or try to write comes out like poop. Not out of my butt, I mean it looks like/reads like crap. There are reasons, but never mind that now, never mind that. As soon as I can produce something worth looking at/reading, you guys will be the first to know. In the meantime:

New year, new sticker, old image, because really, my drawing ability is broken...not kidding, but the picture  is different, at least. As are the rules. There are only 50 of these limited edition stickers, but I will sell them until they are gone. Each is about 3.75" x 3.7".  Printed on sticker paper, by me. Cut by hand (that means it might not be Stakenblochen). Sent first class via USPS (shipping is included).

Price Options
 <--- the button is to the left here if you are on the blarg page.

For those outside the US, please choose the outside US option for the first sticker, and $3.50 for any additional sticker in the same order.

If you have a problem with Paypal but would like to buy a sticker, let me know and I can provide other payment sources, as well as accepting cash and candy.
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