But jesus, I want to punch your surgeon in the face, Steph.

Surgeons, they're like so damned single-focus. When I had my ear surgery last summer and I ended up puking for 36 hours, unable to keep anything down or even move, and in the most misery I've ever been in my life, the surgeon would quite happily have sent me home. It took my sister asking him bluntly, "Can't you give her a shot of something?" for him to decide to send me to the ER for anti-nausea meds and steroids.

They don't appear to have much interest in follow-through.

(Which sounds like a setup for a very dirty joke...)

We need to dig up the John H. Natter Diet and re-post it to help out everyone whose stupid day jobs are wrecking their Natterability.

But jesus, I want to punch your surgeon in the face, Steph.

For as many years as he had been practicing, as many patients as he had had, I refuse to believe that I was the first to ever experience withdrawal from going cold turkey off opiates. I *am* willing to believe no one else brought it up to him, though. Because people don't talk about that. Because if stopping opiates gave you withdrawal, well, then that must prove you're an addict, and NO WAY you're an addict, so it must not have been withdrawal, so you don't say anything to the doctor.

Whereas I give zero fucks and wanted my doctor to warn poor schmoes like me.

Hey Susan! It's good to see you here. And Kathy, and katefate, and jimi and jim and libkitty and ehab and Kiba and...It's good.

It's little and broken, but still good.

Strix, I am so sorry. All kinds of ~ma sent your way.

Katefate, congrats!!!

Kathy, so good to see your pixels!

Hey Susan! It's good to see you here. And Kathy, and katefate, and jimi and jim and libkitty and ehab and Kiba and...It's good.

It's really been nice seeing all these names again.

So, tomorrow I have a daylong job interview in which I will be talking to six separate people at this company. Yesterday I maybe could have handled it, when I was still in shock. Tonight, something finally cracked and now I can't stop crying. Let's hope tomorrow I can fake being an extrovert who isn't in mourning for seven or eight hours...

Strix, I have no words. FUCK this week sideways.

"Persephone, I went as far as to think the infinitive of the verb was "to misle". I didn't find out until university, at which point my sister realized she'd independently made the same mistake."

True fact: to this day I have to remind myself that "to misle" is not a real verb.

Oh, shit, Strix. The fuck is wrong with the world?

Jesus H., Strix-- I saw your VagueBook and came here to see if you'd gone into more detail.

I am so, so, so sorry for you, honey.

And this week? Can go suck dead moose dick.

Good luck, Jessica. I wish you whatever you need to get through that day and land the job.