Owwwwwwwwwwwwww

When I went in for the fill on Monday, the PA asked how I was doing. I told him fine, and that the only things I consistently have trouble with are chicken and bread.  If the chicken is very tender, I can usually get it down okay. Bread, well, let’s just not go there.

So tonight I had 3 tiny bites of tender chicken, a couple of small bites of mashed potatoes, and a small bite of broccoli.  That adds up to 5 bites.

I vomited 5 times.

I will NOT be eating chicken anymore. Period.

Sheer Poetry

A little while ago I made a post on sleep paralysis.  To refresh your memory, here is a little bit of it:

The only reason I know about sleep paralysis is because I suffer from it.  My understanding is that you wake up before a REM cycle is completed.  It takes anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes before you’re able to speak or move.  It’s accompanied by extremely vivid hallucinations (the remnants of dreams, perhaps).  When I have had episodes of sleep paralysis, I always felt like I was being tortured by some evil spirit, a demon from hell or Satan himself, and if I could just move my finger or call for help, it would go away.  I felt panicky while I tried, unsuccessfully, to move a finger or even whisper.  Eventually I would be able to feebly call for help, and then the paralysis broke and I could move.  It also seemed that if I went back to sleep too quickly after an episode of sleep paralysis, I would have another episode the same night. 

 

Someone in a blog I read shared some abstract poetry that she got by selecting a previous post, running it several times through Google translator, to see what she came up with.  It sounded amusing, so here’s mine.  I went first to Arabic, then Haitian Creole, then Polish, to Yiddish, to Welsh, and back to English:

because I only know about sleep paralysis,

because I suffer from it.

I understand that you will wake up before the end of the frame cycle. It takes a few seconds to several minutes before being able to speak and move.

With bright and Hallucinations (in dreams remnants, perhaps).

When I sleep Chapters paralysis here and always felt he was

tortured

by some evil spirit,

demon from hell or the devil himself,

and if we can just move your finger or a cry for help, she left.

I felt panic when she tried, unsuccessfully, to move the fingers, or even whisper.

Finally, I twice to get help and break the Deadlock, and turn possible.

OK, this is fun.  Now I’m going to try it with something else.  Here’s the original text:

I’ve got a tender heart. And people with tender hearts tend to get them drop-kicked, stomped, squished, stabbed, mutilated in every way conceivable. I’m older now, wiser, stronger. If you fuck with me, I’ll probably at least verbally give you as good as you dished out. But the heart still bleeds, and my eyes still weep when I’m alone again.

Here is the French translation (just for you, Jehara) (translated from English to Swahili to French):

J’ai un coeur tendre. Et les gens ont tendance à cœur de les faire arrêter coups de pied, piétiné, écrasé, brûlé, mutilé par tous les moyens de penser. Je suis plus vieux maintenant, la sagesse et la force. Comme baiser avec moi, je vais probablement au moins aussi bonne que ce que vous prodiguées. Mais le cœur saigne encore, et mes yeux pleure encore quand je suis seul à nouveau.

And here is the final version. It went from English to Swahili to French to Latin to Dutch to Italian, and then back to English:

I have a soft heart.

And people understood them

at the end of the heart,

and the tread,

broken,

burned

and in the trunk, for any reason.

Now I have the old man, with wisdom and virtue.

How the fuck

me,

I was thrown down as a probable.

But the heart bleeds and my eyes

I’ll cry me a second time.

Wow! This is fun!! Why don’t you try it, and send me a link and I’ll go read your random poetry!