« Got Funny? | Main | Draw Me a Story »

Happy Days

You know when you have those days when everything just clicks? When projects seamlessly fold into each other and it's like the universe is going out of its way to pave the the streets with synchronicity and ease?

You do? Well, as they like to say over here, bugger off.

For the past couple of days, the universe has decided to toss me challenge after challenge in an effort to prove the "that which does not kill us makes us crave valium" addage.

Got my annual MOT results from the doctor. He's very concerned about my liver (which, to the shock of all, has been very healthy the past several years). Apparently my ACL has unexpectly spiked up rather high, so that's a bother. On the one hand, I know it could be a glitch or a lab error and I just need to wait for the retests to come back. But then again, I'm the king of imagining worst case scenarios and playing them out as the actual end result. So, natch, it's painful liver cancer for me and I can never have a martini again and yellow is the new tan.

Rather odd, since I've pretty much cut out both my prescription and non-prescription intake over the past couple years. And, comparitively speaking, I've hardly drank at all this year, what with my "I'm fat and need to get in shape for the marathon" mentality.

Coming out of the doctor's with my news, I called Larry. Phone not working.

HSBC has, again, decided that I don't exist, because they claim they got undelivered mail (which they have never resent) for me and they couldn't reach me via my email. They had my old work addy, which I changed with them over a year ago when I took the package. So they cancelled all my direct debits, which mean my gym membership got mucked up. My mobile got turned off. Neither Carphone Warehouse or 02 let me know about the retruned direct debit, they just put a block on the phone. Thanks.

It's all sorted now, but a pain. Especially when you queue outside Carphone Warehouse's door at 10am, waiting for them to open and then they can't take your money because "the system's down. Can you wait about a half an hour?" Argh.

On Thrusday night, my fairly new MacBook died. It was working fine when I went to have a little lie down/meditation after my doctor's appointment. Thirty minutes later, I come back to a white screen. Rebooting, it's not finding any system to boot. Call tech support. Find the startup utility discs. Nothing. It's like the hard drive ceased to exist.

So it's now at MacHosptial gettting fixed. No charge to me, as it's under warranty and all. But I wasn't as dilligent with the back-ups as I should have been and I've lost most all of the writing I've done over the past several months. Mostly journals and story snippets and the like. Nothing major, but sitll ... it's like the last six months of computer scribbling never even existed. Very sad.

And I remember being in therapy back in NY trying to get over a "why bother, it's all so pointless" mentality.

Fuck. I wanted Aaron Sorkin to script my life, not Samuel Beckett.

All right then. It's not the end of the world. Have a do-over with the writing. Figure out what's going on in my guts and do what we can to make it better. Call HSBC once a week and tell them I'm alive. Fail again, fail better.

And I know it could be so much worse. I didn't lose everything. And I still have my health. Ha! Well, at least until my next doctor's appointment. It's silly isn't it? There's absolutely no reason for me to believe there's anything terribly wrong, but one whacked-out test result (which has yet to be confirmed) opens up a whole black hole of unkown and insecurity. It's good to be neurotic. Right?

As for the files, there is an external hard drive with the really old stuff, and the not-dead-yet mac upstairs (the one with the red wine addled keyboard) has a bit on it as well. It's mainly the journals since January that I'm sad about, and the drafts of stories I've worked on for creative writing classes.

But oh those journals. They were genius, GENIUS I tell you. Very John Kennedy Toole and ripe for posthumous publishing. Now Larry will have nothing to publish after my dodgy liver demise.