La sangre es más espesa que el agua.
Rheumatologist was distracted and not really listening. He had nothing new to offer at first, but after it was clear I wasn’t game for “what if we try more anti-inflammatories” round III, he suggested a ketamine infusion to try to reset my nerves. I don’t like the idea of a hospital stay but, y’know what? Fuck it, we ball. Consult with the anaesthetologist in four weeks. If nothing else I get to eat hot chip.
Qué sorpresa, the tricyclic’s side-effects ended up prohibitive even on minimum dose; seven weeks was the mark for “increase again and start reducing duloxetine, or abort”, and I have chosen abort. No end in sight for night sweating. Getting a hold of my psychiatrist again to see what his bag of tricks might hold.
Time skips along. I am unsure how I feel about the impressions I leave on this world; unsure about most things. The rise of LLMs at this particular juncture has been really depressing; I am starting to lose my patience to deal with their insertion in my life in any context. The next time someone at work suggests running something through ChatGPT I might just take the rest of the day/week/month off. A good chunk of my industry has fallen for the bait. I was already having trouble taking other people seriously, in general, as a concept. Now I have to deal with them coming off as less interesting than the automata they coo over. Please, tell me about your productivity gains. Tell me about the vibes. Tell me. I am listening.
There are a few things I am able to feel sure about,
one of which is this:
May we find the liberation, friendship, and family we deserve. May we become ourselves, unfettered by shame. May our arrows find their mark.
Those who oppose our right to peace, self-determination, and a life worth living, entirely on our own terms – may you eat shit and die.