Skip my bullshit minor problems if you want a good story and scroll to the bottom.
On 12.11.18 I went to go get my meds from Walgreens, the ones I have to take or I die (anti-rejection meds), and they only had a partial refill. I thought fine, I have plenty of extra for a few days just in case, and you'll obviously reorder, so that's okay, I assume pharmacies overnight their drugs when needed.
Last Sunday I called. No answer after fifteen minutes, the phone just disconnected. I gave up because I was about to have to work.
Monday I called, no answer. Monday night I went in physically and asked for my drugs. "Don't have them, outta stock, but we'll have them Wednesday."
I freaked out 'cause I'd taken the last of my extra the night before, so I was like don't freak out, it's going to be okay, just handle this. My mom got outraged, she called them the next day, Tuesday, and they then magically had exactly enough for one dose. I went in Tuesday night and picked that up and was assured they would have what I needed the next day.
Called Wednesday, took a while but I finally got a person, who said no, they're not in. But I can call tomorrow to check. I don't feel up to arguing most times, I'm tired, and in pain, and I don't want to be a mean person or take out my frustrations on someone who can't do anything about it, so I let that go.
I have decided, however, to declare a vendetta against Walgreens. I intend to wake up tomorrow (today?) much earlier than I should, and find these drugs elsewhere. They're not commonly carried, so that'll be an issue, but I am sure that some pharmacy in the area must have them, so I shall check. But I will never shop at Walgreens again.
They have officially tried to murder me twice, and I do not appreciate that. Fool me once and all that jazz. I hold extremely long grudges, so I'll just make sure to spread the word that they failed to deliver not once, but twice, and maybe some folks will switch to CVS. I'm not going to get anywhere by just yelling about it, but I like to take quiet revenge, like hurting their bottom line in sales. One dose of my medication is $83.69, so I mean... who's really gonna suffer here, me because you didn't do what you were supposed to, or you because I'm gonna fuck your wallet like a meth-head in heat?
Before you say anything 1.) I only use Walgreens because they're the only 24-hour pharmacy where I live and I work nights and the stress and depression and anxiety make it such that I need what little sleep I can get when I can get it, so they're convenient and 2.) Yes they are a corporation and they probably don't care that much about my business but it's still nice to take my business elsewhere and make sure others do the same so that they can't milk me for insurance money for an overpriced prescription which literally costs a few cents to manufacture (and the manufacturer gets government money because it's designated an orphan drug, so don't talk to me about how they have R&D overhead or some such nonsense, they have no reason to price this so far out of reach of the common public, and I know I should be mad at the drug manufacturer for that, but Walgreens buys the drug and sells it and PBMs get kickbacks for charging my insurance far more than it really costs, so maybe they should be the ones to take corporate responsibility and pressure the manufacturer to lower their cost so it IS more widely available and not so terribly expensive).
On other notes, I have been told I am beautiful twice in the last 48 hours. My roommate's friend was on Facetime with my roommate, and she asked to see me, then declared "WHY ARE YOU SO CUTE, I WOULD BANG YOU IF YOU WEREN'T GAY!" Another person told me that I am "...a beautiful person with a beautiful personality. I hope you realize this. I want you to be happy because you deserve it. All the selfless things you do, it amazes me. Don't ask me why, I'm just in my feelings and speaking from the heart. Your iPhone may not like it when you smile but I sure do."
I have a running joke with this person about how my iPhone won't unlock if I'm smiling when I hold it up, the facial recognition doesn't work if I'm grinnin' like a fool.
I do take issue with the quote I just put out. I feel selfish. I feel like he overestimates me, like I'm not that great, I just... I do the bare minimum. But then I rethink that and I think the bare minimum for me is more than what others might do, so maybe he's right (he also has shit parents, he seems very sad about himself on the inside but projects an air of certainty and bravado almost, so maybe he's just asking for me to continue treating him nicely, which makes me doubly sad because he should never feel that way, he's beautiful, inside and out, and I love him even when I hate him, but that's a random psychological aside)? I have to come up with more objective, logical criteria to evaluate his assumption, but I appreciate his sentiment, it made me cry for half a second and made me feel like what I do actually matters sometimes. I'm conflicted, because it's nice to hear this from him, because praise from him is rare, but I also feel like I don't really deserve it, I'm not special, I just try as best I can, and a lot of the time I fall short. I guess I need to stop analyzing and just take it for what it truly is, a heartfelt compliment that he didn't have to say to but felt he should, and those are the best compliments, ones that you're not socially pressured to give but give from the bottom of your heart.
My gas station lady that I talk to all the time invited me to her wedding, and the reception. I might go. I mean I'm glad for her, she works hard. Long, thankless hours. I might as well show up and clap for her in her happy moment. Maybe buy her a tiny gift, something she and her fiancee might be able to use, practical but inexpensive and thoughtful. Besides, when else can I rent a tux and show the fuck out? I'm an adult, we don't get to do that often.
I've been making a point to be grateful for things in my life. Like yeah man, it might suck being half crippled and in pain and depressed and anxious and can't get your drugs and work gives you hassles BUT!: if you make a list of things for which to be grateful, maybe that cancels out the negative. Maybe it makes life better. There's been a lot of studies about gratefulness, and they all show the same thing, which amounts to a cliched phrase: count your blessings. Negative bias doesn't have to be a thing if you recognize it for what it really is, just your brain concentrating on bad things instead of good things.
So I just tell myself, do blessing math. And then myself screams because I'm bad at math but I like the idea. But still gonna try it, because it's logical.
Also, my mother wrote a short story today and sent it to me. I am so glad she did, I love the idea of her spreading her ideas and thoughts because they're always so helpful and kind and thoughtful. I'm gonna leave this here for you guys, and I promise to tell her what you think of it, because she needs encouragement and positive thoughts because she's fucking amazing. But remember if she ever becomes an author I swear to Christ I'm gonna need each of you to pay three dollars to read it, because she deserves that money, and if you don't I will come for you. This follows:
THIS IS THE MAIN EVENT YOU GUYS I AM SO EXCITED THAT SHE IS WRITING AND MAKING SUCH WONDERFUL STORIES.
Thursday is wash day. Every Thursday. Up at 5:00 am, no matter what the weather. It can be cold, hot, raining, snowing, but it doesn't matter because it is wash day. It is Thursday. And I hate it.
The clock goes off and it is 5:00 am. It is Thursday. I climb out from under my warm covers and I make coffee. I dress myself and check in on four sleeping children before stepping outside. It is forty-eight degrees and a steady wind is coming out of the north as I light the fire under my pot. The whole world is gray, even my hands look gray. There is no sun to chase away the chill. I filled the pot up with water yesterday to get as much of a jump on things as I could. I go back to the porch and drag the first load off to the pot and wait until the water begins to bubble. Before this day is over, I will have washed bed linens, towels, and clothes for six people. It's what I do every week. I start every wash day the same. I tell myself that I will not cry today. But I do. I cry every Thursday. And I hate it.
I drop in the sheets first and go back to the house to start breakfast and wake him up. He has to be at work at 6:30. I make a pan of biscuits and a pan of gravy and five sack lunches. I set the table, pour two cups of coffee - one with cream and sugar, one plain - then I go wake him. We sit until he finishes his coffee and then he leans over, kisses me on the cheek, and then goes to wake the kids as I go outside. I don't see him again until 6:30 that evening when he comes home.
The sheets are ready. I dip them out of the boiling pot and put them over into the wash tub and run some water over them to cool them down a bit. Then I dump the next load into the pot. I scrub the sheet on the wash board. I try to be careful not to slop it over onto my shoes, but by the end of the day, it will happen. The front of my dress gets all the way through my slip down to my panties and up to my bra. No matter how carefully I start out, it always happens. And by now the sun is peeking out a bit. I run the sheets through the wringer and drop them into my rinse water. I stir them with a heavy stick and feel the muscles in my back and belly start to pull. I run them through the wringer again, rinse them again, wring them twice and then put them on the clothes line.
I have six lines that are a foot and a half apart. They run the entire length of the house perpendicularly. They are about six feet tall and I have several poles with which to prop my lines if they become too heavy and try to drag my laundry on the ground. If it rains, then everything goes into the shed.
After I get the sheets up, it's time to start my routine all over again. The next load comes out of the boiling pot, goes to the rinse tub, a new load goes into the boiling pot and I scrub, rinse, wring, rinse, wring, wring, and hang. I do this until all six lines are loaded. After the lines are loaded, I dump the pot, dump the tubs, put all of it up. I go inside and by this time my back is screaming and my hands are bleeding. The kids have long since gone to school. I take off my wet shoes, my wet clothes and I sit at my table in a towel. I eat a leftover biscuit smeared with butter. Then I get dressed, wash the dishes in the sink and go start taking clothes off the line.
I start with the first ones I put up. The sheets go back on the beds. Three sets of sheets and pilow cases for three beds. One for the girls, one for the boys, and one for me and him. Then I take the next load down and start ironing the shirts. I check each piece as I go along and patch what needs patching and sew what needs sewing as I go. I starch and iron at least seven men's button-up shirts, fourteen little boys' shirts, twenty-one pairs of pants, fourteen dresses, a couple dozen handkerchiefs, table cloths, and napkins. After everything is starched and ironed, folded and hung, I put it all away. All the sheets, the pillow cases, the towels, the wash rags, the table cloths, the napkins, the underwear, the socks, the slips, the shirts, the pants, the dresses, and I do this every Thursday. And I hate it.
Every Thursday I wake up with the same resolve. I tell myself that I will not cry this Thursday. But just about the time he walks in the tears always seem to flow. I try hard not to cry, but I hurt and I am exhausted, and there is still so much left to do before I can lay down to start hating the time until next Thursday. So I cry. I cry with great gusto to be so tired. I sob into my dish rag. I wail and hitch and heave. Snot runs down my face, my eyes puff up like I was stung by yellow-jackets, my face turns red and blotchy. I do this in between cooking supper, feeding the kids, and washing the evening dishes. Sometimes I think that if I just put my head in the tub and laid there until I was too tired to get up, then I could drown and it would all be over. This has been going on for so long that no one ever asks why I cry anymore. It's just a part of Thursday. And I hate it.
Then another week passes and it is Thursday. The clock goes off and it is 5:30 am. I get up, make the coffee and I go outside to start my pot. I come back in, but this morning he isn't still in bed. He's already dressed and sitting in the kitchen chair. He looks at me and just says, "Sit." So I sit.
He has never raised his hand or voice to me in ten years. But today, there is something different about him. He says for ten years he has listened to me cry every Thursday and he is tired of it. He says he doesn't ever want to hear me cry on wash day. He says it's gone on long enough. No sooner has he said this than a tear gets away from me and trickles down my face. He bangs his fist on the table making me jump. "I mean it!" he yells, waking the kids. I stand there, shaking in utter disbelief. The children slink in, peering through the doorway. They've never heard him talk like this to me and they look confused and scared. He bangs the table again making coffee jump up out of the cup and spatter on the table. "Not one more tear on wash day. Do you hear me? NOT ONE!" The last shout makes me jump again like a frightened rabbit. "Wipe your face," he says and I rub the back of my hands across my face. "Now go out front and get me my boots before I'm late for work."
I feel like my breath has left my body and won't come back. But, I pull myself out of my scared fog and onto my feet and go to the front door. I open it and I see his boots. They are sitting on top of a brand new washing machine. I turn and see his face. He is crying and smiling. Tears rolling down his face, kids behind him, still confused, and he says "We all hate Thursdays."
WHAT THE SHIT WAS THAT?! I mean maybe I'm biased, but the bitch has talent. What do you think?