brokety broke broke

The wind's howling at the windows, and my face is still burning from its cutting force. When I left my apartment today, the temperature was a mild 45 degrees Fahrenheit. On my way home, it was a not-so-mild ~30 degrees Fahrenheit with a windchill that probably reached 4 degrees (I would conservatively estimate that the wind speed is at 25 mph).

I didn't come here to talk weather, did I?

I have determined that no one should go to college unless s/he can afford it without loans. My brokeness is nothing novel, but it reached a new low this past week when I had to deal with a collection agency. You see, I attended Smith College for my freshman year. I was 17 years old at the time, and did not pay any mind to the loan forms and the necessary financial arrangements. I only started worrying about those details when I entered NYU and discovered personal financial hardship (before then, I had only known my parents'). I thought Smith College was over and done with, the least of my worries.

Until I got a call from a collection agency talking jive about an outstanding debt with Smith. It turns out to be legit, although my mother did not remember it at first. Smith and its loan company claims that they weren't able to get in touch with me, which is ludicrous because I have been the unhappy recipient of Smith College's Alumna magazine for the past six years. Anyhow, they dumped the loan in the hands of a collection agency, and then collections packed on another $600 in fees. I spoke with the collection agency this week in order to make feasible arrangements to pay back the debt, and to argue over the necessity of the extraneous $600. The agent promised to sue me, threatened to hang up on me, implied that my mother (whom had called earlier, requesting the promissary note for the loan) was an idiot, and attempted to pressure me to give him my credit card number so he could charge me an initial $300, and then set up payments for $100 month for the next 12 months. I could not believe my ears when this man started with the bullshit about suing me, and talking about garnishing my wages. At one point, I think I said something like, "Take me to court! I have no money!" I tried to hang up with him, but was actually quite intimidated by his tactics. He said that if we hung up, the only sort-of realistic deal that we had agreed upon would cease to exist, and then he would have to sue me. Eventually, I got off the phone, definitely bruised and shaken, but not any poorer. I called my lawyer who said, "Fuck it, let him take you to court."

I just find the whole business so upsetting. I feel as if I am being treated like a criminal just because I went to college...And couldn't afford to do it without taking several loans. And it doesn't help that I'm $500 short on rent this month (fuck February for being so short--I need that fourth paycheck). I just feel broke, and beaten, and hopeless.

But that'll pass. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that in the end, everything works itself out. Some way, somehow... Even if I have to start eating cat food to consolidate the bills.

Now I'm being dramatic.

Oh, and to follow up with my last posting, the epidural steroid shots have been denied by workers' compensation. The gentleman-doctor who examined me on behalf of workers' comp determined, when asked, that I did not need such shots. If he had actually examined the MRI I brought with me, he might have concluded otherwise. But then workers' comp would have fired him for costing them more money.

Now that I've depressed you terribly...

My social studies teacher in sixth grade told us that she would scour the obituaries in the paper every morning to check for her name. "If my name isn't in them, I know it's going to be a good day! Carpe diem!" As a 10-year-old, I admired her for her sturdy, peppy optimism and carpe-diem-spiel, but reflecting on her daily obituaries obsession in my older age (...cynicism...), I suspect she was just psychotic. This might explain why every other teacher in the school taught class in the main building, and she was stuck outside in a trailer. It all makes sense.

Seize the day, heehaw.

Existential dilemma

I've been fairly quiet as of late, but now I'm here to spill my guts because I feel the need to unburden myself, and am spending too much money on on-the-rocks margaritas and guacamole in lava bowls to do so with a professional therapist. But I'm hesitating... I don't know.
I suspect ml believes me to have a drinking problem, but unfortunately, he's a little off the mark (I also think he's projecting a bit). I did buy four bottles of wine with jc the other weekend in order to fatten up my wine rack, but I used an entire bottle for risotto, another bottle for coc au vin, and admittedly, I drank the rest. But who doesn't drink two bottles of wine in three weeks? I'm not ashamed.
I have been on steroids, oral steroids, that is. Those are interesting. I was familiar with them only enough to understand that they have plenty of side effects, but did not know what those side effects were specifically. I found out one of them too late. Under the heaviest dosage, I was almost incapacitated during a walk home one evening. My right hamstring flickered and gave out quite suddenly, resulting in a stumble and several attempts to "shake it out". I managed to limp the rest of the way before irreversibly collapsing on the sidewalk. Ah, muscle weakness! How do these steroid freaks, I wonder, manage to work out while taking these drugs? While squatting down to clean out the litter box, I thought my legs would crack into pieces, and I would be left crippled with a bag of poop in my hand. I'm done with the oral steroids, and I'm not sure if they've done anything, or if they might end up working later, or what... The pain is still there, it still radiates, and I am still struggling with pain management. "Still", in French, is translated as "toujours", which also means "always". Will the pain be there toujours? J'espère pas.
And I have yet to begin with the steroid injections--epidural steroid injections. Fun fact: Did you know that a side effect of steroids is psychosis? I do like the anesthesiologist, though. Very nice man, and also very nice to look at. The skullcap is a huge turn on too. I'm a shiksa who likes orthodox men. I blame Chaim Potok. To lighten this entry up a bit, I'd like to joke about having these spinal injections, but I'd rather be honest and say that I'm frightened. Some people claim that they are so painful that they'd rather die than have them done again, and better yet, they're not guaranteed to work, and then I'll be picking up my MRI portfolio and knocking on a surgeon's door. I'm trying to channel Frida Kahlo, who faced the existence of a cripple with grace and strength. But all I really want to do is throw a fit and cut out my sciatic nerve with one of chef's many hunting knives. That's not true...I'm just tired.
These days, most of my patience is burned up by the aforementioned pain management (since I am not using narcotics), as well as trying to suppress any worries I have about being afflicted for the rest of my life (afflicted...that's so deliciously Russian). My mood has fluctuated only slightly between mildly sad and mildly happy. It's as if someone has slipped Prozac into my drink and I am no longer allowed to feel the highs and lows of life. Except for the other evening, when a sudden case of mania struck me and I decided without uncertainty that I needed to go to Europe this year. Have you ever experienced mania? It's... Beautiful. Better than any drug in the world. Anyway, ever since that manic episode, little peaks of happiness have started making their way through again. For instance, on Friday night, I felt quite happy, but not in a delirious, manic way. I just wish I could shake this feeling of loneliness, which I feel even when crowded by good friends. I never thought I'd experience the existential dilemma. But alas, I am no better than Rodya. Don't worry, I won't be killing an old woman anytime soon. Or a stranger on a beach, or whatever happened L'Etranger (you'll have to excuse me, it's been several years since I've read Camus).
Perhaps my frustration has also been due to the extraordinarily odd weather this winter. But look outside, there's snow... Thanks to bg for finally explaining to me what the fuck a noreaster is. The northeast is so gay. I'll let that be my final conclusion for this afternoon. A piquant conclusion, as Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov would say. Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day.

¿Como se dice "douchebag"?