Coffee, tumors, and brown chicks. Yup.

Here’s a tiny little update.

So this tumor thing, right. Let’s get that out of the way. 99% positive on all fronts from doctors it is benign. It’s still not a GOOD thing to have in your head, and if it’s what they think it is, it’ll come back. But my brain isn’t cancer’d. We don’t know if the problems I’ve already had will get fixed by the removal. I’m still not terribly good at hearing things, but hey. Could be worse. Problematically, some jackoff of a neurological radiologist decided to make my life hell and proclaim I shouldn’t get surgery, thus setting me back a lot in this attempt to get myself fixed, despite every other doctor and test speaking to the contrary. He had them cancel other tests, just as I was a month away from going to UW for some skull splittin’. I’ll be grabbing up a second, third, tenth opinion just to prove him wrong and get my shit handled. I do not like that man, he is not fun and I will not invite him over for tea.

My doctor put me on some form of beta blocker for these crazy heartbeats I’ve had for years. They came with a warning: Don’t miss your doses, and don’t take any stimulants. Coffee included.

Oh. Coffee. No… coffee.

This won’t do. At all. I. Can’t. Help. Myself.

Now, I know, I know. I should listen to the doctor. But it’s coffee. Coffee has been my perfect friend for most of my life, spawning many nights wide awake and tap-tap-taping away at a computer, doing just this. I would marry, make love to, bear the children of coffee, and always swallow.  Okay, maybe not. But you get the idea.

Hell, I’m in a coffee shop right now (I’m in Washington, for fuck’s sake, what else am I going to do with myself?) and it seems to be the only way I can keep myself sitting still for more than five minutes at a time. I’m a jumpy bastard, but somehow the coffee stops me in my tracks. It calms me, forces focus, gives me an excuse to do what I love.

I am trying the half-caf route. It’s going okay. I am not happy about this, of course. I want to buzz around all day wide-eyed and cracked out. It’s what I do! Instead, I have to stick with my run of the mill insomnia, with a dash of caffeine to keep it in check.

When they asked me how much coffee I drink in a day, I was given a look of “really?” Yes, really. I assured them I’ve even quit before to make sure it wasn’t the cause of the palpitations, under cardiologists orders. I just have a fucky heart. It does what it wants and doesn’t like to be told what to do, so sue me.

So for now I’ll have to take my brown death water at half mast. But I’ll shake a fist at the sky every damn time I order it like that, dammit. This is injustice.

And with that bitter little rant out of the way (not a pun, go away,) here’s the least fun thing I’ve noticed this week: Apparently when you’re surrounded by very, very pale people, you become an alien. I’ve been treated like some exotic creature from another world, and it’s very confusing. In Florida, there are brown chicks everywhere. Thanks to this, I am now some sort of token. Whatever works, I guess. I’m going to start using “is this because I’m black” for anything and everything due to these people.

I have some very neat people sitting down with me for stories soon. Until then, have this lovely song I’ve been obsessed with.