Seriously, fuck quitting smoking. I’m going through with it this time because I am NOT putting myself through this again. Keep in mind that normally I’m a pack and a half a day smoker, and prior to starting smoking around 18 years of age (roughly nine to ten years ago), I was essentially a half a pack a day smoker because I lived with two smoking parents and a smoking sister. So I’ve got 27 years of smoking under my belt, and I’m trying to quit this. I feel awful.

I legitimately thought I was dying the other day. I’m laying down to go to sleep and all of the sudden I realize my breathing is all weird. I’m inhaling and freaking out thinking I’m about to die and then I realize what’s different – suddenly there’s no rattle when I breathe in. I’m getting lots of oxygen and there’s no mucous blocking my lungs up and I can actually FILL my lungs to capacity. I panicked because I thought I was dying, when in reality I was just breathing like NORMAL people do.

Whoops.

I feel very bad for Kenny, who has to put up with this shit. I’m basically an emotional wreck because for me, tobacco was not just a physical addiction. It is a very real emotional and psychological addiction – I love cigarettes, I need them, and I’m kind of afraid of the world without them. I realized this last week, as I set the date to quit (Thursday). I started thinking about it and I was terrified to go around without cigarettes.

I realized how deep the addiction had gone, and I decided right then and there – fuck this, I refuse to let my life be ruled by tubes of fucking ground up plant matter. I refuse. So I think I’m going to get through this through sheer fucking stubbornness.

But yeah, Kenny. Poor guy. I’ve been popping neurontin (which is the drug I take to stabilize my bipolar disorder) like it’s fucking candy, and during the day I have to double my dose just to fucking function. And I’m still grumpy and snapping at people. Poor fucking Kenny. And poor fucking me when Kenny eventually quits (which he is planning on doing, hopefully in the next few months).

Fuck quitting smoking, dude.

I’m going to leave you on a semi-high note, and give you something I send a friend of mine when she was feeling down about herself. I felt very wise typing it.

Tasha: I’m gonna let you in a little bit of a secret, dude.
Tasha: No one is whole.
Tasha: No one escapes adolescence without scars. Everyone’s a bit broken.
Tasha: Seriously.
Tasha: The world is not a kind place.
Tasha: You do not get out of childhood unbroken.
Tasha: If it’s not abuse, it’s a teacher who berated you and made you feel less than.
Tasha: Or a rape.
Tasha: Or molestation
Tasha: Or being told you’re stupid.
Tasha: Everyone is broken a little bit.
Tasha: What makes you into an adult is the moment you decide, yeah, I’m broken, but that’s what superglue is for, goddamnit.

2. I am so broke I can’t afford cigarettes next week, so I’m finally giving in and quitting. I’m on Chantix and it’s fucking up my stomach hardcore. Why do people do this to themselves? A death by cancer might be preferable. I can’t even hope for that, though, because the Chantix was free and the cigarettes cost money.

3. According to the State of Nevada, if you have two adults living together (married, in my case) who together are bringing in $900 a month, they only qualify for $60 a month in food stamps. Now, I’m not going to sniff at $60 freed up from my food budget a month, but this seems….off somehow. Considering that making $900 a month puts us firmly below the poverty level for even one person in 2011.

4. A small additional source of income may be coming in at some point here soon – I’ve started work for a local news website. At the moment I’m doing the content generation and the writing for free, and selling advertisements to local businesses for a straight fifty-fifty commission, which is nice because it means I can offer decent discounts and still get some income. When we get to the level of being paid off on everything and if I bring in more money, I will also be getting money for each article produced. A friend of mine is also opening a print shop and for every bit of business I bring him I get a commission as well. So I have something going on.

5. A while back I bought a moped. I paid cash for it, out of my tax return in April. It was in the shop and now it’s back and I love it more than ever. If you think mopeds are dorky, you can kiss my ass. I’ll be over here, riding my sweet-ass moped and rockin’ my green chucks.

6. Every year, Carson City participates in the National Night Out. It is a lot of fun – you go and they feed you free food, there’s all sorts of organizations hanging out, and the National Guard lands a bunch of helicopters for kids to take tours of. It’s basically one of the most fun free events of the summer – and excuse to go get loads of free shit. I took a bunch of kids – my friend J’s three kids, collectively known as Team Destructo – and their loot haul was immense. They had T-shirts, bags, pencils, pens, notepads, rulers, pins, hats, and all sorts of other promotional materials. I got a few things as well – FEMA was handing out first-aid kids (although the woman mistakenly identified them as sewing kits), the Nevada State Prison was handing out these awesome ammo-style bags that clip on to your belt (in camouflage print), a DARE ruler (I am always in need of straightedges around these parts) and best of all, a neon-yellow reflective snap bracelet. I can’t believe snap bracelets are making a comeback! I wear it basically everywhere because I’m a fucking nerd. FYI, Team Destructo, as much as I adore those kids, reinforced my belief that I should never have children. Ever.

7. One of my friends here in town is a radio personality for an online radio station, Vyper Radio (ignore the horrible site, I’m told they’re working on something better…although I would volunteer to redo their website in a heartbeat because seriously?). I’ve been listening frequently and hanging out in the chat room, which is loads of fun. The other side of this is that it got me insanely interested in the technology behind internet radio. It’s really interesting! Currently testing out the idea of using skype to have a multiple-DJ style show with people on opposite ends of the country, because I think that some of my friends and I would have a great talk-style show.

8. My dad turns 60 on Sunday. I’m frankly amazed he made it this long – his steadfast refusal to take care of him self is beyond frustrating and he has to go to the ER like once a month to be rehydrated because all he drinks is Coca-Cola (I’m not really one to talk, but I’m also 26 years old and have more time to give up my bad habits).

9. I apply for anywhere from five to twenty jobs a day (average is around ten). I applied online to become an APPLE EXPERT at the Apple Store up in Reno. I’m unsure how to feel about this – I love Apple products but I’m a faithful Android adherent. Most of me hopes I at least get an interview, because I enjoy the product and can sell the shit out of it. The other part of me is afraid that the hipsters I’ll wind up working with will taunt me for my phone, and if I start while I’m in the process of quitting smoking that could be disasterous.

10. Today the local power company sent me a notice that was pink. The pink ones are the bad ones. It was a ten-day shutoff notice. I will not be able to pay it until after that, so I’m fairly certain that my power is going to be shut off and you won’t be hearing from me for a while. I’ll try to get the other two photodumps and maybe one substantial blog post up before then.

BONUS: I’ve been reading a lot of Regretsy the last few weeks. I love that site.

Oddly enough, his name is Kenny. He was a regular at my store and is strongly bipolar – to the point where I look totally normal comparatively. I’m really glad I don’t have to deal with him anymore. O.o

Still no word on the crazy lady who was hacking at her yard with a pickaxe. The yard has been replaced with rocks, however.

Some of the shit these books says actually makes some sort of sense, for instance:

And this:

THIS one made me chuckle and go, “Heh, better check your tarot cards again, guys.”

But then you get little gems like this paragraph:

Which is a gigantic W-T-F considering the evidence that was available at the time, via the Kinsey reports, about homosexuality. But okay, it was a weird time in history, the late 70′s, so I guess we can ignore that…

AND THE BLATANT SEXISM IS FINE TOO.

AND I GUESS WE CAN ALSO OVERLOOK THIS.

……..

One last one. Read this paragraph and tell me what’s wrong with it.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

……

………

Got it yet? In case you didn’t get there on your own, I’ll highlight it for you:

That’s right, guys. MARRIAGE is the foundation of a stable society. Not a good economic platform. Not sensible spending policies. Not individual liberty and good market practices and good healthcare revision. Nope. MARRIAGE. GOOD, HETEROSEXUAL MARRIAGE.

I’m SO glad I didn’t live during the 70′s….

Okay, I’m exaggerating, but seriously: When the fuck did I start taking so many photos? Seriously?

Anyway, on to the photos.

I recently quit my job at a convenience store (“Quit your JOB?” I can hear some of you exclaim. “In THIS economic shittery?” Yes, I did, because working with my manager was basically a huge fucking human rights violation. But I digress….), but prior to that I encountered this little guy when working outside. It’s a close-up photo (the bug was only about an inch long), but I cannot for the life of me figure out what he is. He was real pretty, though, and extremely chill (he let me pick him up and carry him off with absolutely no freaking out whatsoever, and nommed a leaf that I gave him). I named him Hubert.

Like most of the United States, on July 4 I was to be found watching some fireworks. I took a load of photos but of course, like most fireworks photos most of them came out horribly. This one, however, looks like it has a bitchin’ skull in the center of it, which I didn’t even realize until about a week after taking it. It’s like a real-life Dark Mark.

We have a vegetable garden in our back yard this year, courtesy our roommate, who has an extraordinary green thumb (I unfortunately inherited my mother’s black thumb – any plant I touch dies). One of the things we have randomly growing outside the garden is sunflowers. I am five feet five inches tall, and my husband took this picture about a month ago. This same sunflower now stands about eight or nine feet tall. It’s HUGE.

We recently had to spend a lot of time at the Veterans Affairs hospital up in Reno – my dad is a vet and was having some issues with his kidneys. Actually, the kidney thing happens every month. Anyway, these posters are every twenty feet or so, which is very, very depressing to me. We ought to take good enough care of our vets that this isn’t needed, is all I’m saying. :(

Speaking of the Veterans Affairs hospital, we recently had to take Dad to the one in Sacramento, CA. It has a bitchin’ plane in front of it. I dig the shark-mouth front. I seriously wanted to go climb around on it, which I think they would have frowned upon.

While in Sacramento, Mom and I wandered around Old Town, which is (I believe) the original section of Sacramento. It’s like Virginia City on crack. There were all sorts of nifty things there, including a really awesome costume shop. In the military section of the shop, they had THESE SHOES. They’re made of olive green canvas and I WANT THEM SO BADLY. If I had had the $25 to spare I would have bought them in a heartbeat. When I go back to Sacramento next – which hopefully won’t be for a while because I fucking hate it – I’m snagging them up.

Gotta give California this, their capital grounds are fucking nifty. I was lucky enough to snap this photo while at a stop light. Not pictured: The shitty California drivers who almost hit me even though I was at a complete and legal stop. -.-

I occasionally go out for sushi at a local place here in town, Kei Sushi. One thing I love about these guys, other than the amazing sushi and the awesome chefs, is the little decorative touches they put to all of their sushi. My favorite sushi chef there, Julio, is about the friendliest guy on the planet, and he LOVES to do stuff like this for us. This is a wasabi-leaf.

One of their dessert rolls at Kei Sushi is the O-M-G Roll, which my mother actually named. It’s coated in like toasted coconut and has tamagoyaki and banana and stuff in it – basically it’s the perfect dessert sushi. Julio, of course, likes to make things pretty, so last time I got one he included an orange bear! Also, I really love the composition of this photo – I was kind of impressed with myself when I took it.

I am so jealous of the copy-editor who came up with the headline, “Egyptian mummies take over the museum.” Seriously, I would have felt pretty damn epic typing that out and sending it to press.

I’m this nerd. I went to a midnight showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2, and I didn’t realize I was going until about two hours prior to the event, so I threw together a real quick Harry Potter costume. I think it turned out okay – although I didn’t realize how goddamn short I am until after Kenny took this picture.

I am terrified of orcas. Legit fucking terrified of them. And they haunt me. You would think that in a land-locked state like Nevada I would have absolutely no problem staying away from orca imagery. Well, you’d be wrong. They’re everywhere – including as the tap decoration for the Alaskan Summer Ale at my favorite bar, the Feisty Goat Pub. Seriously, fuck that beer.

Speaking of the Feisty Goat, they have board games and books set out for people to read – including the most epic book of all time. Found this there, legit considered stealing it.

Every year my town has this thing called the Taste of Downtown, which is basically an excuse for people to go around getting drunk in public. I’m okay with this. I was trying to take a picture of my roommate doing something stupid, and a dude photobombed me. He came out all blurry, and acquiesced when I asked him to photobomb on purpose just to capture the epicness. Awesome dude, have no idea who he is.

A few months ago we went to the Relay for Life in Reno (FYI: My dead friend Steve usually does the sound for that gig, and their sound system was alllll fucked up) and they had CoCo: The Colossal Colon on display. It’s basically a gigantic crawl-through model of the human colon, which is RAD AS FUCK. I got a pic of my mom coming out….

And, of course, one of my dad coming out, because he was the only reason we went up there – to get a picture of the Asshole within the Asshole.

This is probably my favorite picture of all time. It’s an epic picture of my dad and I. I’m a huge daddy’s girl, and when he finally goes I will absolutely cherish this picture.

There’s a lot going on in my life right now, including a possible stint of semi-professional writing. But right now, the most important is that one of my best friends (not my very very best friend, but top five at least) was murdered a few weeks ago. Dealing with this is way harder than I expected. I mean, I wrote obituaries for a living. I wrote obituaries for friends I had for YEARS, through elementary, middle and high school. People who died in car accidents, were murdered, died of horrible diseases. I even had to write an obit for a family friend who killed himself. I had to suffer the loss of my big brother, and two very valued teachers who were father-figures in my life when my father wasn’t around for me. And for some reason, the death of Steve Gale is bothering me more than any other before it. And while he was a very good friend of mine, we weren’t closer than I was to my big brother. I have no idea why I’m so broken up and upset about this, but expect a long, drawn-out post about how amazing Steve was at some point. Until then, I have no idea what’s going to happen here.

I had to go to work on my day off the other day because I accidentally walked off with the work keys, which aren’t exactly essential – we have another set – but it makes things difficult. Anyway.

While there, a regular customer of mine pulled me to the side and told me, sternly, that I needed to get over my fear of writing professionally and just do it. He wants me to write a bit for a local news site.

The goddamn bastard hit the nail on the head. I am terrified of the idea of writing professionally, to the point of unconsciously sabotaging myself when opportunities come my way. I remember what happened last time – death threats and then getting fired, which I never quite recovered from, creatively.

It seems ridiculous that I – a writer – should have a mental block about any form of writing whatsoever. I live and breathe the written word. I actually just sat down and analyzed the words to Lady Gaga’s latest single – which I’m not overly fond of, by the way – because she uses “Capital H-I-M” and “God” in the same song and that  is bad style, goddamnit. I correct friends’ spelling and grammar on Facebook. I read so much that my husband got me a Kindle for our anniversary (I love this and plan on reviewing it….sometime in the future). I have, in fact, gone into a real-life, fully-fledged rant about how much I hate the word utilize, to friends and family who had absolutely no fucking idea what I was talking about. Some day I’ll write it all out and put it here because, goddamnit, I hate that fucking word.

The point is, I am daily immersed in language, from the words I speak at work and home to the words I read as I drift off to sleep at night. I absolutely should not have a block about any particular part of language, even if it is as awful as AP Style. If I can beta-read someone’s fanfic and shine it up pretty, or do the same to a piece of my own, there is no goddamn reason why I shouldn’t be able to do the same for writing people in my locale are going to read.

Even if the idea is fucking terrifying.

That’s just it. I am Tasha. I do not balk at things: I do them. I am not necessarily unafraid, but my fear rarely gets a grip on me. I conquered my fear of heights and can even stand to be around spiders for short periods of time now. I do not let fear control me.

And yet, I am shaking-in-my-boots terrified of the idea of getting into journalism again, even if it is freelance, unpaid work on a local website. What the hell is wrong with me?

If I can guide high school teenagers through their first-ever condom purchase (which I do on a regular basis and did in a startlingly large amount tonight because it’s the Saturday before Valentine’s Day), then I ought to be able to write a few pieces a week and post them on a website that will be largely ignored by people in my age group. Why not?

Why can’t I?

Why shouldn’t I?

I can think of no logical reason, and because I pride myself on my ability to use logic…

I am going to try it. I’m gonna give it a go and see what happens.

There’s a good chance nothing will happen. I’m almost certain that nothing bad will happen.

If I play my cards right, maybe something good will happen. Something wonderful.

It’s just, work is killing me slowly from the inside. Customer service isn’t bad as a work option – it was all I did for a good chunk of my life – but it stomps out your soul in a way no one can really describe properly. I take the edge off by reading sites like NotAlwaysRight.com and bitching to people about it, but eh.

Anyway, this weekend a lot of things will come to fruition, so hopefully shortly after that I’ll have some updates. Now, I gotta go get some clay-sculpting tools.

I saw this the other day. This woman is a published author (self-published, but still). The header uses the wrong “your”. It should be “you’re,” as she means “You are invited.” She is an AUTHOR, goddamnit! And then after the first sentence the writing goes randomly from the third person to the first person, which is bad, stylistically. It’s very confusing, even for the average reader. An actual writer, like myself, finds it irritating to the extreme. I won’t be purchasing the book for several reasons, mainly that it’s a religious book and I’m an atheist, but I find myself doubting the woman and her ability to tell a story, based on her self-made promotional materials.

I humbly suggest that we use this as a basis for “metric shit-ton” as a unit of measurement. This is about HALF of the boxes I had to break down at work the other day – my boss made the mistake of asking me to “clean and organize” the cooler, which meant I combined a lot of boxes and had a lot of waste left over.

The other day at work a dude rode up on a motorcycle that had a sidecar, which on it’s own was awesome. Then I looked closer and he had his dog strapped into the sidecar. The dog was the most adorable thing on the planet, with its little Cid Highwind aviator goggles on his head. <3

I was at Subway the other day, eating, and I noticed an electrical box that warned of the danger of being shocked if you touched it. It seemed to have some grafitti, so I went closer. This was the grafitti. It was the best grafitti ever. Whoever did this, I love you.

Someone actually tried to pay me with a five pence piece the other day (you probably can’t see it well, but it is indeed a five pence piece). This is not legal tender in the United States. I finally just traded him a real nickel out of my pocket for the pence piece.

I bought a whole thing of this before work tonight, and I left it there and am going to have to go back and get it. Fail, self.

My work plunger has a very suggestively-shaped hard plastic handle. I have to wonder who thought this would be a good idea.

There is actually a brand of pre-made sandwiches called “Sammich.” It tickled my fancy, so I snapped a picture of it. The sandwich itself looks really unappetizing.

My workplace actually has these. My manager writes her name and work number on it and goes to other convenience stores undercover-like to try to find good employees. I think it’s both awesome and horrible.

A few months ago I went and got sushi with Cally (who I don’t talk to anymore – long story that I really don’t wanna get into). The sushi chef made me dessert sushi that in itself was a work of art, and also had a piece of mochi filled with strawberry ice cream. It was the most delicious, beautiful thing I’ve ever eaten. I love you, mysterious sushi chef.

My work thinks we need a picture of how to wash our hands, as well as an explanation that says “wash hands.” I feel that this is redundant. We’re convenience store peons, not morons.

My 45-pound pit bull was raised with three cats up until recently. She firmly believes she is a cat, as is evidenced by the fact that she has decided that napping on the back of the couch is a great idea. Other things she does: tries to climb in our laps or on our shoulders; plays with toys like a cat by batting them around; trying to convince our old man cat to play with her, which is never a good idea. Last time he bit her so hard he broke a tooth off.

This has an awesome story to go with it. A few weeks ago I got into a discussion with a regular customer of mine about wines, and how I prefer red to white, but a good Reisling makes my day. We then started discussing German wines, which I am fairly well-versed on because my dad drank those exclusively when he lived in Germany, and passed some of the knowledge on to me. He started talking about how Germans make a version of mulled wine that is still alcoholic, and they use tea bag type things full of mulling spices to go about it. He had some, he said, and he’d bring me some next time he came in. I smiled brightly and said that would be amazingly awesome. Five minutes later, he walked in with the spices and this HUGE bar of real German chocolate, cuz he thought I’d appreciate it. He is seriously one of my absolute favorite customers, and to this DAY this picture makes me smile like a moron. (FYI: he also appreciates good beer so he’s getting a trio of Kenny and mine’s home-brewed beer as a Christmas present. He is excited about this.)

I wanna end this post on a really positive note, so this is the last picture. Some friends of mine in the area own a hookah lounge, and they decided this year to have a series of music festivals. I asked for permission to set up an Operation Beautiful booth to spread the word about Operation Beautiful. They are hippies and awesome and graciously granted me permission, so my mother, sister, and I quickly began to gather our materials. We gave out markers and little post-it pads pre-stamped with the operation beautiful web address (www.operationbeautiful.com), and little flyers about what Operation Beautiful is about. We also had a big fold-out exhibit board where people could leave notes about what they like about themselves. We’re planning on doing a few events where people can do that, and eventually displaying it somewhere as a work of art. However, take a look at that table.

You might not be able to see it clearly, but the entire front of the table is covered in actual Operation Beautiful style notes. My mom and I stayed up for hours writing them out and taping them to the tablecloth. I really like how it came out – it looks sort of ameteurish, but on the other hand it’s an obvious labor of love and goes SO WELL with the Operation Beautiful concept. I had a blast at the festivals and am on the lookout for other places I can do this at.

Wednesday night I came home from a 12-hour stint up in Reno that begin with work training and ended with me hanging out with my youngest stepdaughter and her mother, both of whom I adore and will sit and chat with for hours on end if not checked. As I drove home from Reno, I felt a tickle at the back of my throat and nose that heralded bad things to come. I came home, drank some tea, choked down a few echinacea capsules, informed my husband that I thought I was getting sick, and passed the fuck out.

I woke up Thursday morning and immediately knew that the echinecea had done fuck-all. I was death warmed over. I was a fucking zombie. My throat hurt. My ears were plugged and draining into my throat. My sinuses were not full of snot – in fact, there was relatively little snot up there – but they were swollen and ached, and made my entire head feel like a giant mass of hell. Below my neck there was little to no discomfort, outside of general aches and pains that come from a combination of being sick and being on your feet too often for your body’s favor. I wanted to sleep more, but I couldn’t breathe or get comfortable, and I had actual shit that had to be done, so that was out.

First on the list was a journey up to Virginia City. Our current roommate is a good friend of ours through our union, and he’s been clean of drugs for several months. He moved in with us because he needed a place to stay, and he needed that place to be with people who would help him stay off of drugs. Kenny being a recovering addict, and myself having grown up with that shit (as well as having attended Alateen meetings for the majority of my adolescence) have made us the ideal candidates, and we needed the money anyway. So Roommate moved in with us. Unfortunately, his past caught up with him and he got busted on an old warrant in Storey County about two weeks ago while Kenny and he were driving home from work. He spent a week in jail in Reno (where he got popped), working off his time on the Reno warrant (apparently he had two, both failure to comply charges that basically means, “The court told you to go to a class and you didn’t finish the class, so come in and tell us why,” and then on Monday he got transferred to Storey to work his time off there.

I’ve spent my entire life dealing with scenarios like this. Drug addicts almost always get into trouble with the law, and when they get clean, that trouble comes back to bite ‘em in the butt. It’s part and parcel of getting clean, and I’ve spent the majority of my adult years helping addicts through it. I would consider it my calling, except that I’d get burnt out too easily. For now, I stick with helping the people close to me. Like Roommate.

So Kenny, my father (who also knows Roommate and is my husband’s sponsor) go up to Virginia City to explain to the judge that yes, Roommate is clean, yes, Kenny is Roommate’s sponsor, and yes, Roommate is living with us and was, in fact, planning on turning himself in on the Storey County warrant (which he knew about – the Reno one was a surprise to us all) to serve his time once he got some money to put on his books. The judge surprises us all by releasing Roommate into our custody and ordering him to complete the original class. My father helps Roommate get this all set up, as he knows the system in Carson City.

Halfway through the hearing my head started throbbing and my vision started to go. When we picked up my father for court that morning, my mother sent me off with coffee, a blueberry muffin, and sinus medication. I’d choked down one dose of the medication immediately, and had another dose waiting for me. Liquids weren’t available in the courtroom, so I suffered through the effects and choked down the second dose before leaving for Carson City.

I should not have been allowed to drive home. Miraculously, I got us back from Virginia City in one piece – the route between Carson and VC is tortuous, winding, and terrifying on the best of days, and I was cracked out of my goddamn skull on sinus medication and sickness. We take my father home and then take Roommate to cash his check (the union had released one of his two paychecks to us at his request, but his other paycheck was languishing up in Reno. Luckily for him we had to go to Reno that day as well so he could get that one too). He then immediately paid us back the $20 we had put on his books for him while he was in jail in Reno, and an additional $20 we’d loaned him for cigarettes prior to his incarceration that I had completely forgotten about.

We then headed off to Casino Fandango’s lunch buffet. At this point I was ravenous. I requested the largest bucket of orange juice they would bring me, and set about putting together the strangest buffet plate ever. Basically I was wandering around snagging anything that looked appetizing – it’s amazing I didn’t attack some other poor patron’s own plate. By the time I sat down I had a huge helping of spaghetti and meatballs, an eggroll (that was half-covered in meatball sauce), delicious little fried hush puppies, two beef tamales, pasta salad, regular salad, boiled eggs, and what I think was chow mein. And then I put away a roll and two servings of the most delicious rice pudding on the planet. I consumed two gigantic buckets of orange juice, as well. Roommate spent a lot of the time ogling the mountain of food I had put away while simultaneously shoveling his own mountain into his gullet (apparently, jail food in Storey County sucks really bad).

Completely stuffed, I toddled out to the car. I choked down half a cigarette, cursing myself for not having bought another pack of menthols (which I don’t normally smoke but are heavenly when you’re sick). The sinus medication kicked in thoroughly at this point, and we headed off to Reno.

I had to go to the union hall to do something for them, and while I was doing that, Kenny and Roommate went to take care of his paycheck. The place that had it also gave him a turkey for Thanksgiving, which is now sitting in our freezer, as we’re going somewhere else for Thankgsiving. It’ll get used eventually.

While I was at the union hall, my sinus medication wore off and I crashed hard. The woman who was working at the office clearly felt badly for me, and yet because of the strange friendship we have, could not help poking fun of me. In retrospect, I think I must have had a fever at this point, because I kept seeing little flashes of light and all I wanted in the world was the bottle of water I had requested Kenny get me while he was out. Finally, I gave in and got a coffee cup full of water from the water spigot, and just as I took a huge gulp of it, Kenny and Roommate walked in with my bottle of water.

I made Kenny drive us home, as I was lucid enough to realize I was not well enough to do the deed myself. I hallucinated my way home and passed out around 4:30 p.m., remembering to set my alarm clock for 9 p.m. and smear Vicks Vap O Rub under my nose and on my chest and neck.

I woke up at 8 p.m. totally unable to breathe. I was suffocating. The Vicks had worn off and the air was still and my nostrils felt swollen shut. I stumbled downstairs. I’m pretty sure I made a comment about dying. Kenny began to look concerned at this point. Roommate was nowhere to be seen.

Kenny asked me if I was still going to work my graveyard shift that night. I said yes, I was, because no one was going to be able to cover it and then my boss was going to have to, and she would Not Be Happy. I would suffer through it as best as I could, I said. At least, I think that’s what I said. I’m fairly certain half of it was completely unintelligible.

I choked down a dayquil that Kenny had found me and took a hot shower. Sometime in the midst of all of this, I made a facebook post about being sick and going to work. I don’t remember doing it, I just know that my mom found out I was sick and put together a care package for me. I know this because my dad showed up at ten after ten with a bag full of glorious cold medication and tea for me, and a jacket because my mom knows I don’t have one because my old one got stolen when my Jeep did, and I’m too irresponsible to remember to go buy a new one when I have money. My mom, it turns out, is sick with some sort of cold, which is entirely unlike what I was sick with, but she still sent my father out with goodies for me and I love her (and him) for it.

The mint tea and sinus medication got me through the night. Somehow, I got all of my work done. I have no idea how I managed it: I know that at one point I got into a screaming match with a customer who was drunk, and at another point a very kind regular customer of mine explained how to use the coffee machine, which had completely flummoxed me. I sat down on a footstool behind the counter at 2:20 a.m. and zoned out on the overhead lights, finally coming out of my daze at around 3 a.m., when a customer walked in. I even remembered to make the breakfast food (taking careful care not to breathe all over it or touch it, despite the fact that it is superheated to the point of killing even Tasha germs). Basically, my night at work Thursday night/Friday morning was almost exactly like a convenience store version of this Hyperbole and a Half post. I think I sat outside and cried for a good fifteen minutes at one point purely because the world had just stopped making sense and I had no idea what I was doing.

My boss got into work right around when a brief lucid moment kicked in. She was totally unaware of how ill I truly was. At one point she went and got me a smoked turkey, which our chain of convenience stores had decided to give to the employees as a gift for Thanksgiving. I accepted it, totally bewildered, and put it into the back of my car. She told me to feel better, and I drove home.

I walked into my house, and the world slipped into insanity again.

I stumbled upstairs, fighting off my angrily mewling Siamese cat and overly hyper 45-lb pit bull. I sleepily changed into my pajama shirt and pants and took out my contact lenses (I am honestly surprised I remembered to do any of this at this point – only the fact that my work clothes and contacts are bloody uncomfortable after a night in either kept me from just stumbling to my bed and passing the hell out, shoes and all). Halfway through dressing myself I realized I had left the stupid smoked turkey in the back of my car, and I stumbled back downstairs, once again fighting off my cat (who thought I had suddenly been inspired to feed him because I was heading back toward the kitchen), and then struggling to open the box that the turkey was kept in so that I would actually be able to fit the damn thing in my fridge, which is tiny. At one point I sat on the floor of my kitchen, crying, because I would have killed for one of those stupid box cutters we have in multitude at work but I can never find at home, and this stupid turkey was the last hurdle I had to clear before I could go to blessed, blessed sleep. The box completely eluded me, and it was only a brief flash of memory from my time working at the newspaper that showed me how to open the string tabs around the box.

Finally, I got the stupid bird into my fridge and stumbled upstairs. I turned my phone to silent, choked down a nyquil (courtesy of my mom), smeared vicks under my nose to keep me from choking on dry throat, and passed the hell out.

I woke up six hours later feeling like I’d been hit by an entire wagon train headin’ on up to Oregon. It didn’t matter, however, because Kenny and I had scheduled a beer tasting for tonight, my only day off this week. Our first batch of beer was ready to be tasted, and our friends were convening at our friend Jessica’s house to try it out, and also party it up. This meant that I spent the majority of Friday, my only day off, the day I should have spent recuperating, transporting things from our house to Jessica’s house. In between, I had to run errands, like picking up my check and cashing it, doing some shopping, paying some bills. Dayquil got me through it, but I quickly ran out of that and forgot to pick more up because Dayquil does NOT help your memory.

Finally, we get to Jessica’s house and get all of the munchies set up and I print out the labels for our beer (which actually turned out pretty cool – you can check out a picture here) and everyone starts showing up. The kids (Jessica has three kids who are 7, 8, and 10, and a few other people brought their kids as well) start a betting pool on who’s going to puke first (Jessica’s kids are that cool).

At this point we crack open our beers. I can’t taste it. I’m so sick that everything tastes like sawdust, even good beer. I then decide that I am going to burn the sick out of me.

I go to the store and I purchase a bottle of Captain Morgans. I bought Captain Morgans because my mom yelled at me last time I bought my favorite rum, which is Sailor Jerry’s and is a much higher proof. She said she’d drink Captain Morgans with me. So I go home and we all do shots. Kenny says that I had nine or ten shots within a span of one or two hours. All I remember is drooping, half-passed-out, on the futon couch in Jessica’s garage, behind Kenny, and hearing Roommate say “….Tasha…..booze….” and shooting up and going “SHOTS?” and stumbling back into the kitchen for more booze.

At this point I was sick AND drunk. While we were in the kitchen, Roommate put his twenty five cents into the vomit pool, on me.

I may have been sick and totally knockered, but I never puke when I’m drunk. What a dumbass.

Kenny drives us home sometime around 10 p.m. I am vaguely aware of changing out of my clothes and contacts and stumbling to bed. The booze starts to vaguely wear off and I remember to set my alarm clock for noon and set my sleep tracker on my phone (which I use to track my insomnia. It’s an interesting read. You should try it sometime).

Kenny lulls me to sleep by rubbing my neck and back for about thirty minutes. Really, I do have the best husband ever – I was totally tanked, and he just sat there and cuddled with me until I passed out.

This is how drunk I was – occasionally I would forget to breathe. I lost control of my autonomous functions. Future self needs to remember not to ever try to get better through alcohol.

Nine and a half hours later I sit bolt upright in bed, unable to breathe. I recognize immediately that something is not right.

I cannot focus on a single thought. I can’t think of exactly what I am supposed to be doing, and my room is spinning in front of me. Kenny is nowhere to be found, and my dog is glaring at me balefully from the end of the bed – I have just kicked her, I think, in my struggle to sit upright. This is not a hangover. This is the height of my illness.

The world slides into sharp focus for a brief moment, and I realize that there is absolutely no way I can go to work this way. I call my boss – it is ten in the morning and thus four full hours before I have to be in. Because of my brief moment of sanity, I sound far less ill than I actually am in explaining to her that I’m going to go to the doctors to get her a note, but there is absolutely no way I can come in today. She is displeased.

I stumble downstairs in my pajama pants and a T-shirt. I have my boots on with no socks, half-laced. I look like a homeless lumberjack. I stutter to Kenny (who has just woken up himself, apparently) that he needs to drive me to the doctors. He explains that he needs to drive up to Reno to pick up my youngest stepdaughter, who is supposed to come into town to visit with us today. I beg him to at least drop me off, knowing that somehow the doctor at the urgent care center can make this all better somehow. I call my mom and beg her to please come pick me up from the urgent care after I’m done and she agrees so Kenny drops me off.

This is how sick I was. I NEVER go to the doctor. I loathe doctors. I knew exactly what was wrong with me – I knew it on Thursday. I had a sinus infection. I knew it, because I had had one before (although never this badly), and because I’m not a moron. Normally I can sleep them off but it wasn’t happening this time because NyQuil does fuck all to a sinus infection apparently. I did not understand why I had to go to a doctor to fix this, because I knew what was wrong, but the doctor had the magical ability to keep me out of work on Saturday, and to give me medicine to make this all go away, so I went and I paid $70.

The receptionist must have thought I was contagious because she hurried me through the in-processing and got me into the back before everyone else. I sat in the doctors room for about five minutes playing tetris on my phone before the nurse came in and took my vitals and got some basic information. She informed me that I had a bloody nose and pus at the back of my throat. She then informed me that I had liquid behind my eardrums. She stuck a humongous swab into the back of my throat and almost made me puke. She says that I do not have a temperature and I somehow manage to inform her that this will change in the next five minutes, as I’ve been hot-cold rapidly over the last few days. She nods and makes a note, and walks out.

A few minutes later a very kind doctor comes in. He peers at me, pokes my face, congratulates me on how clear my lungs are (this surprised me to some extent, and I had to attribute it to not having been able to smoke much over the last few days), and goes through a few things.

I blow my nose and at this point he becomes very concerned. I look down and the tissue is pretty much soaked in snot and blood. Gross.

It is at this moment that I realize that the snot and blood came from me and I lean back, horrified, and begin to panic, which does not help things. The doctor immediately prescribes me Augmentin and refuses to prescribe me the codeine cough syrup I want to go to sleep with. He tells me to get Mucinex and Afrin to go with my Augmentin prescription and then he leaves. I begin to hyperventilate. The nurse comes in as I’m finishing cleaning up from the bloody nose incident. She gives me a paper with the doctors note for work, and my release information, and my prescription. I smile and nod and call my mother to come pick me up, trying very hard to not freak out. On the way out a smiling lady hands me the rest of my paperwork (I’d already paid, I think, before I came into the back) and two goodie bag type things. They have hand sanitizer, a band-aid dispenser, and a map of Carson City in them. I have two of them. I stuff one into the other, and all of my paper work in it, and then put the whole mess into my purse, and call my boss to tell her I have a doctors note. She is even less pleased. I try not to freak out, and this is much easier once I’m out in the freezing cold air outside and not in the tiny room in the urgent care. I somehow convince myself that the cold air is making my bloody nose not so bloody.

I stumble over to Carls Jr., which is in the same strip mall this urgent care is at. I am ravenous, and more than anything I want beef. MEAT. I crave it. I get a Big Carl meal because it’s cheap and I just spent $70 to get told that I have a bloody nose and pus in my throat.

My mom takes me home and I devour my burger. My dog makes puppy eyes at me and it does nothing. It is at this point that I remember that Augmentin is an extremely expensive antibiotic designed for respiratory illnesses, and I am not going to be able to afford it because I don’t have insurance. This makes me panic again.

I begin to cry. I call Wal-Mart and they tell me the generic is going to cost at least $60. I can’t afford this. Kenny and my stepdaughter come home and find me curled in a ball at the end of the couch, my dog sitting on top of me because I can’t muster up the energy to get her off of me.

I pop my last Dayquil and stumble upstairs to put real clothes on. On the way I knock on Roommate’s door and tell him we’re going out for food and does he want to come with us? He looks rather alarmed at the state I’m in, but he nods yes.

We go to Wal-Greens first, where they inform me that Augmentin costs $120. I struggle not to cry, and instead call the urgent care and ask if they can prescribe something else.

Fifteen minutes later I walk out of wal-mart after having spent $8 on both my new, different antibiotic (doxycycline) and my Afrin nasal spray (I have Mucinex at home already). Say what you want about Wal-Mart, those guys totally took care of me. I had no idea where I was or what I was looking for, but they took care of me, and my urgent care totally had my back. Will go there sick again.

We decide to go to Round Table pizza for lunch. I’ve already eaten at this point but I really genuinely want an iced tea. Roommate decides to buy for all of us and seems disappointed when I only request a drink. I get my iced tea. We have a decent lunch. At this point the Dayquil kicks in and I mention that I eventually want to go see the new Harry Potter movie that came out. My stepdaughter catches on to this and my fate is sealed: I am about to watch Deathly Hallows, Part 1, while high on sinus infection.

We wound up going to my fathers’ house first, because he wanted to see his granddaughter. We spent an hour or so there before heading off to the movie theater.

I begin to get Very Very Hungry. Normally I do not buy theater food, because I am poor. Sick me has decided, fuck it, and buys a $15 combo that consists of two large drinks and a large popcorn. I give my stepdaughter and Kenny the large rootbeer to share, because they are not ill, and I take the large Coke. I devour the popcorn.

I hate popcorn. It tastes divine.

I do not remember the majority of the movie. I recall being pissed off about various things they got wrong, and being very angry that they cut out Dobby’s headstone. Otherwise, the movie was a blur of magic and anger at there not being more Snape. I recall that there was a scene where Nigini snapped at the kids and my stepdaughter screamed, and Roommate pointed at her and laughed, which was actually really funny. I laughed and got another bloody nose.

My dad texts me and says that now my mom and sister and sister’s stepdaughter want to see my stepdaughter. We head back over to my dad’s house and my mom has the most wonderful news: SHE IS GOING TO FEED US DINNER. This is the most important thing in the world to me right now. My mom is making spaghetti and soon is going to be IN MY STOMACH.

We eat and soon it is time to take Roommate home and drive Stepdaughter back up to Reno. Kenny asks me if I want to come. Stupidly, I say yes. My dad decides he wants to come as well. So we drive Roommate home, I grab another pack of smokes, we calm down our dog, and leave again.

That entire night is a blur. I recall hanging out with Kenny’s ex-girlfriend for a while (she really is a good friend of ours) while she served us coffee. I recall that she was babysitting her grandkids (her oldest daughter is about my age, while her youngest – my stepdaughter – is nine) and that for some reason they were enamoured with me. I also remember yelling at my stepdaughter for pulling one of the girls along by their hair. Otherwise, I don’t remember anything. What I do remember is that Kenny made me a whole carafe of SleepyTime mint-chamomile tea with honey in it and brought it to me in bed, which was the sweetest thing ever and I totally love SleepyTime.

This morning, I woke up and I felt like shit, but by all that’s holy, I was able to think clearly. I went into work and I felt totally able to operate a register and not die all over the place, and let me tell you – that feels fucking good.

Now I just need to make it through the next two weeks of antibiotics – during which I can’t drink alcohol. Fuck.