It’s A Mental Health Day!

To quote the immortal Ferris Bueller, “I’m taking the day off.”

I’m taking the day off from the blog because I cannot take the day off from my career. Allow me to explain.

Since I took two weeks vacation during Christmas, the weather has gotten worse – snow is omnipresent here lately – we lost two detectives to other units – bringing the squad number to ten detectives from its usual fifteen – and I have spent the week in court.

Yesterday was my day off, and after coming home from court, I spent much of the day sleeping and shivering. In short, I am physically and mentally exhausted. I don’t feel like blogging, I don’t feel like going to court, and I don’t feel like doing, well, anything.

I don’t think this is the depression seeping back; I think I just need rest. I’ve been averaging five hours’ sleep since the trial started, and I need a day to recharge.

Everything will be back to normal tomorrow, and regular postings will resume. Thanks for your understanding.

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Wyatt Bueller’s Day Off

Like Ferris Bueller, I am taking the day off. My cellulitis came back in the worst way yesterday, and while I was able to drag my feverish, delirious butt to work, I was of little use to anyone. My fever spiked at 101, and everything hurts, so I plan on lying in bed most of the day, praying for a quick death.

Tomorrow will be our usual Monday, and I’ll post the caption contest winners then. Sorry for the interruption, but I literally feel like hammered crap.

The Dogs Must Be Crazy

Well, after a miserable two years of lying in bed, avoiding social situations, ignoring my book, and fluctuating weight gain, I am now officially off my depression meds. Hooray.

When I was first diagnosed with depression in late 2015, my psychiatrist said most people respond to medication quickly, and after six months I should be right as rain. Apparently I ruined everyone else’s bell curve. Things have been getting better, and I do see a difference in fairly even-keel 2017 Wyatt than 2015 I’ll-shoot-you-in-the-face Wyatt. And while I am still not a fan off social situations, and I still try to avoid phone calls, I am calmer and more positive than I have been in a while.

I SAID I’M CALMER, DAMMIT!

The shrink said I could whittle my Zoloft down over a two-week span, and yesterday was my – hopefully – last dose. I need to follow up with her in November, and if everything seems Jake, I’ll officially be deemed “sane.” (I think the proclamation comes with a placard and a Christmas ham.)

I’m sure I’ll have bad days here and there, and occasionally the voices will stop by and tell me to burn things, but otherwise I’m back to my old self. (Which, in reality, is not really a plus, is it?)

Continue reading “The Dogs Must Be Crazy”

The End Is Nigh!

A conspiracy theorist believes recent natural events have mimicked the Nibiru theory, which claims an invisible planet will collide with Earth. If it wipes out the NFL, I’m all for it.

Conspiracy theorists are preparing for a hidden Planet X, which for some reason has not been detected by Nasa, is going to smash into the planet, wiping out the human race and nearly all life this Saturday.

The Nibiru theory, as it is known, is a doomsday prediction based on biblical texts which some people claim predict the end of the world.

It might not seem like much, but to conspiracy theorist and researcher David Meade this passage is proof that none of us are going to see the sunrise on Sunday. He claims the ‘sign appearing in heaven’ refers to the solar eclipse which took place last month, and that the recent hurricanes which have devastated the Caribbean are proof that a cosmic ballet is ushering in the end of the world.

Oh my god, what are we going to do? We need to evacuate, and I have to find Milana Vayntrub for an end of humanity boink… Wait, this was supposed to happen on September 23rd? Oh. Never mind.

A Burning Ring Of Ire

You may remember a few weeks ago when I told you about the chemical burns I suffered while recovering from my sun poisoning. I followed up with the dermatologist, and he said everything was looking great. The rash was still there as was the itch, but the pain was mostly gone.

In the interim, the only thing I have been putting on the burns was Aquaphor. It’s safe, and bland, so no flare ups.

Yesterday, I was practically back to normal, so I tried a Neutrogena lotion to help the skin. It was a mistake.

Apparently my skin reacted to it… poorly. And a few hours later, the rash was seeping again – because I’m a dumbass. So another hospital trip, more excruciating pain, and I’m back to square one. The docs gave me the same antibacterial ointment I had before, as well as some steroids – I’m gonna be ripped!

In the meantime, I am in terrible pain, so if I’m a little scarce today, that’s why.

Feel free to ridicule my idiocy in the comments.

The Hateful State

Click the photo to embiggen.
There is an internet dating site called Hater which matches people according to the common things they despise.

This actually sounds like an app tailor-made for me.

Any hoo, they surveyed their users to find the most hated foods, and compiled the data into a state-by-state map.

A shared hatred of something has a funny way of bringing people together. That’s the idea behind Hater, a dating app that launched earlier this year. The app might match users based on their mutual disdain for certain pop stars, fashion styles, or—something many of us seem to have strong opinions about—food.

Hater put together this map of every state’s most hated food using data collected from its more than 600,000 users. Some state’s top hates should come as no surprise: Residents of Washington, America’s coffee capital, take a strong stance against Keurig K-Cups, and in Vermont, which is known for its cheddar, spray cheese is looked down upon. In the middle of the country, land-locked Kansas natives avoid shellfish, and people living in steak-loving Oklahoma can’t stand veggie burgers.

Pennsylvania’s most hated is Chai Latte, and to be brutally honest, I have no idea what the hell that is. It sounds like something fru-fru millennials would drink.

True Neighbor Stories

Our first day back from the beach did not go exactly as planned. We hoped to have a quiet day, interspersed with unpacking the cars and placing the beach gear into the shed. Unfortunately, our jackass millennial neighbors had other plans.

You see, these wastes of oxygen have loud, drunken parties every summer weekend, and many weekends throughout the year. Their idiotic white trash pals come from miles around because my neighbors apparently are the only ones in their MENSA clique who own a backyard. They swipe the parking spaces on our street, blast music through the neighborhood, and let their dogs roam free.

(The idiots next door removed part of their backyard fence; apparently to make it easier to roll kegs in.)

At about 11am, the first wave of stupid rolled in. Most of them were females, which would normally be a good thing, but my neighbor and all her girlfriends are either morbidly obese, tattooed up, or dumb as dog shite. We soon learned the girls were here for a fantasy football draft; which naturally had to be held outside.

Stereotypes exist for a reason, as I soon learned during their first round. Consider these actual quotes:

“Um, what team does Aaron Rodgers play for?”

“I really only know players from the Eagles.”

Girl power, indeed. These bints were as clueless as a white girl marching in a Black Lives Matter rally, yet they persisted. Any hoo, about an hour later the beta males showed up. The conversation took a decidedly stupid downturn, and at one point a male and female were discussing slavery. I did not catch the entire conversation – I was in and out of the shed – but I did catch this little tidbit:

Male: “You do know the underground railroad was an actual railroad, right?”
Female: “No it wasn’t!”
Male: “Yeah, true story. It was a real railroad which sometimes went underground.”
Female: “Really? Wow.”

And Then, Depression Set In

Last week I posted the stories about being a big, whiny baby my knee injury and the subsequent MRI. The follow-up appointment was yesterday, and there is both good news and bad news.

The good news is I only waited forty-five minutes before seeing the doctor, as opposed to the two hours last week. At this rate, I’ll be able to see the doc in a timely fashion by… 2022.

The bad news? Well, it’s pretty much what I expected.

The orthopedist came into the room and pulled up my MRI. (I assumed he would have done some show prep beforehand by actually, you know, looking at the MRI first, but hey, what do I know?) He scanned through the images – I have very sexy bones, by the way – stopped at my kneecap, stared at for a few minutes, and gave his diagnosis…

Continue reading “And Then, Depression Set In”

The Saga Continues…

So my orthopedics appointment was scheduled for yesterday, and I was finally upbeat about this knee injury. I’d see the doc, he’d get me an MRI, and fix me up, good as new. Reality chose a different path.

First, the doctor’s office was packed tighter than Ho-Hos inside Melissa McCarthy’s gullet. I arrived at 10:15am for a 10:45 appointment, checked in, and was not seen by the doctor until – wait for it – 12:30pm. I hadn’t worn the immobilizer because I’d just have to remove it anyway, so I sat (mostly) quietly, throbbing with pain.

I finally got into a room, waited another fifteen minutes, and the doctor came in. He asked me the pertinent questions, scanned my x-ray, and immediately said, “You have severe arthritis underneath your right kneecap…”

Yeah, tell me something I don’t know, since I’ve heard that for twenty years.

He continued, “I’m going to give you a cortisone shot, and schedule you for an MRI.”

Now we’re getting somewhere! The cortisone shot hurt like hell, then made the knee feel great, and now it’s back to being annoyingly painful. The good news is my MRI is scheduled for today at 1pm, and maybe – just maybe – they’ll find something which can actually be fixed.

Those Aren’t Pillows!

While many low-class insomniacs – like myself – treat their sleeplessness with Xanax and vodka, members of high society cure their woes with a $57,000 pillow.

Created by Thijs van der Hilst, the world’s most expensive pillow is made of Mulberry silk, Egyptian cotton, non-toxic Dutch memory foam and 24-carat gold fabric, while its zipper is studded with four diamonds and a huge 22.5-carat sapphire. It sounds pretty expensive already, but it takes more than high-quality materials and jewelry to justify such an outrageous price tag for a pillow.’

Using a portable 3D scanner, the inventor is able to offer detailed 3D scans for clients around the world, which are then sent to van der Hilst’s team. There an in-house algorithm is used to calculate and draw the right pillow, which is then carved out of non-toxic memory foam memory by a robotic milling machine.

But wait, there’s more!

And as an added bonus, the pillow comes in a custom-made Louis Vuitton case so you can take it everywhere with you.

The memory foam was great, but the Louis Vuitton bag was the icing on the cake. I’ll take ten!