Not Dead Enough to Quit…I think

As I’ve mentioned before, I have a…”condition”. I don’t like to say what it is because I have this superstitious belief that if I do, I will somehow empower it…which isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds: autoimmune assholes–which is the technical name for autoimmunity, because that’s what they are, biological assholes–are very susceptible to stress and other forms of psychosomatic head trips. For the record, psychosomatic is NOT a synonym for hypochondria; hypochondria is just one of many flavors of neurotic self-absorption; psychosomatic symptoms are real and just as debilitating as the condition itself, but triggered by psychological/mental/emotional factors…which is why I try like a motherfucker to ignore my particular medical asshole as much as possible. And as I’ve mentioned before, living with the medical asshole is much like living with that metaphorical asshole roommate–most of the time, you go your separate ways and don’t even notice them. Until you do.

Here comes 2020.

To be fair, I don’t know that the sheer suckery of 2020 had anything to do with this year long flare (? still not sure), because another fun fact about autoimmune assholes is that once they stick around long enough–25 years and holding, here–they get bored and want to invite friends. Or find new and inventive ways to fuck with you. Or maybe it was COVID. Tests weren’t available here until July, I tested negative for the antibody, but this was Kushner’s test, so flipping a coin would probably be as accurate. MB is convinced that I was hit waaaay back in March, because of bizarre symptoms–of which I will not bore anybody, including myself, though it is true that my usual dog-like sense of smell (it’s a curse…really), suddenly failed me. His proof? I wasn’t obsessively cleaning the four litter boxes we have which stinks to me no matter how often I change it. One day, I was chatting away, completely oblivious to the fact that I was standing right next to a filthy cat box that even offended MB’s deaf nose, so…maybe? Other factors which have proven true was a vitamin D deficiency–I’m allergic to dairy and we were all staying inside too much…oh fuck it. Who knows? Point is for the first time, I couldn’t recover. Sofa surfing simply begat more sofa surfing but anything else would send me to bed. This was the new normal for a better part of a year.

But then, hey–half a million people probably would’ve preferred that to being dead, so I’m not complaining…just explaining why I had pretty much abandoned this blog. Also, I have a lifelong crippling case of imposter syndrome which has caused me to self-sabotage everything…always.

But two things occurred: large doses of Vitamin D3, fresh air and the folic acid I was supposed to be taking anyway has made a significant difference and et voilá, suddenly, two people liked my Ravenous blog, Part I and II and I felt guilty that I never even finished III (ironically, a third person literally just liked my rant on the monsters who spoil movies…must be a sign). In the meantime, I’ve accumulated a shit load of horror DVDs and have seen some really decent indie horror on streaming, especially on Shudder, but also on Netflix and some of the smaller channels as well, and I’m lying awake at night sick with worry that people don’t even know to watch them. Not really, but…well, kinda. If people don’t watch these movies, then wonderfully talented people will have no other choice but to give up and go sell insurance or suffer some other hellish fate. Besides giving me the excuse to talk as much as I want about horror without annoying the people around me, the entire micro-mission of this blog was–is, I guess–about promoting lesser known horror and supporting horror movies–wait…I mean, films–as a legitimate art form and not just yank fodder for jumpscare junkies and gore hounds.

And quite frankly, I’m sick of feeling so…purposeless.

So. I guess first thing I need to do is write Part III of Ravenous. Which probably won’t come out until tomorrow because it’s been so goddamn long, I’ll probably need to rewatch it just to get my bearings (I know–such a sacrifice). I really hate that I’ve done this; the Wendigo/Wetiko metaphor was far more apt in 2020 than it is now (Jesus…I hope), but the Wendigo will always be with us. Our survival depends on recognizing one when we see them.

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