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Ozempic

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  A post about Ozempic is long overdue.  It'd be easy to write 5k words about it - the miracle diet drug that actually works and is transforming one of the deadliest modern pandemics into something effortlessly curable; its high monetary cost and so far near nonexistent side-effects cost; my history of overweight to morbid obesity from age nine to fourty five; the fact that Ideas have people, not people have Ideas, and the Idea of 'Bell is fat' has been driving me as its vehicle all my life - and what it means to have... that... stop. What it meant as a life-long struggle was feeling like a hopeless loser, a spoiled, lazy and damaged person. Hold on, this gets happy, I promise. The doctor put me on it four months ago. I was morbidly obese, with 100kg overweight, a metabolism confused by 30 years of diets, and a history of repeatedly losing and gaining large amounts of weight, always with a method that requires constant effort, willpower, discomfort, time and hunger. I'm...
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Last year's scrapbook - Jungle

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This blog was reset a few times and it's mostly no great loss, but I miss the digital scrapbook pages I made last year. I think it started as a way to memorize words in Thai, or an attempt to indulge in making roleplaying props without actually roleplaying, or possibly to make use of AI images that deeply moved me but, being AI, are morally wrong. I can't remember; but it developed into being a sort of journaling-with-images thing. And that blog is gone, and there weren't too many of them, so I'm just going to re-post them here.  - When I was a kid I dreamt of knights and fairies and green meadows and rain, which stood to reason, what with being a D&D player who lived in the desert in a town where most teens cared mostly for surfing. Then I grew up and realized that rain was cold, that green meadows were also cold, that sunshine on said meadows didn't necessarily mean it's warm, and that I hate the cold. And somewhen in my 30s I realized what I now fantasize...
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Hopeful

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  In Hebrew there's a saying: there's comfort in the fact that everyone 's suffering along with you. I always thought that wasn't true, but after this year I think I understand it better. It's not that another's pain brings joy or comfort, it's that it gives a different perspective. My year was what it was; but a friend had seven surgeries and nearly died, others are undergoing divorces or the scariest thing of all, an ill child. And, of course, the war with all its horrors.  And that changed the way I felt about my year. Not about the past two months, but all the other dramatic events my life underwent suddenly feel - and this sounds absurd - lucky. I'm so lucky. And I cherish it, and I'm grateful for it, and I wish I could pass it on, especially to the people who gave me that new perspective. There's a small apartment, my own little tent in the proverbial desert. There's a chair probably designed by Torquemada, a white IKEA desk and a very ...
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Oasis

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  My tropical dream life is gone, which has enough upsides (decent, free medical treatment, for one) to make this not feel like a tragedy, but rather a change I can even enjoy. I know the mentality in this country; my friends are here; I can have a real-life tabletop party to run Call of Cthulhu to if I feel like it (and I might, which is great, as I haven't felt like GMing in years). Writing this makes me feel better. This past month, though, has been not good. In a year that was one of the worst in my life even before the war, this past month was close to the worse of the past 14 months; I lived at my dad's, and it was unhealthy. The thing is - I know  he means well. I know he loves me to bits. I know he'll give me any money I need and more, except the right to say 'no'. And, later, except the ability to say 'no', or speak without being scared. I didn't see it when I was a teen; I did, now. I'm 47. I took a temporary place in the next big city, 250...
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And your wise man don't know how it feels

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  It's hard to explain how surreal this is. Me, middle aged, after several unwanted, unplanned, sudden changes in my life, in my childhood room; with all the tropes of my adult life - Blender, Warcraft, managing my own time more or less - but in my childhood room. In this city. With my dad in the living room.  The reason I wanted to write was that I put on Jethro Tull. Jethro was my first 'official' fave band. I inherited love for the Beatles as a child from my dad, moving the record-player's needle back again and again to listen to Eleanor Rigby on repeat, as as eight years old; but come age 14, with meeting the LARP people and finally slotting into a group where I belonged, I was introduced to Tull; the guy I was in love with, five years older than me and as decent as to initiate nothing sexual when I slept over at his, whistled Bouree for me on the phone. I can no longer tell whether I was hooked or did it to impress him, but I've been listening to Jethro Tull fo...
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Good vs Evil in Castle Bedbug

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In all my imagined futures I couldn't see one where I'd be happily living in dad's house, with him; and in none of the futures I feared was the biggest problem bedbugs, but there you have it.  Yesterday was spent waging a useless war against the horde until the exterminator gave up, stating anything he does is useless due to the amount of stuff in, on and around the furniture. Did you know bed bugs love living in picture frames; he went through ours with the steamer and it looked like something from an ancient Egyptian crypt curse. Bottom line - we need to empty the living room before any extermination could be called effective. Also, my dad's a hoarder, so there's a problem. Mum sewed the covers for that sofa. Mum also died on that sofa, from a smoking-related heart failure at age 62; but that sofa has more bedbugs than the exterminator could deal with, so, much to my joy, said agreed to get rid of it. My dad, the hoarder! That was uplifting. I'm all for removi...
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From the jungle to the desert

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  Having left Thailand in a hurry, and having never gotten along well with my dad, and having never liked this town nor the desert, I wasn't looking forward to moving here. I rebelled emotionally, like the teenager I was when I lived here thirty years ago.  But I'm not the same person, and neither is dad, and we're both shocked at the fact we do  get along now. We had our three days of merciless fights at the beginning, but after that - this is like a miracle; we both tweaked and softened and adjusted, and it's been two weeks and it's fine. I can hardly believe that. None of the things I feared happened. The house is still a hoarder's depressing lair, dusty and full of junk and disappointment; but somehow, when he and I get along, that doesn't bother me - no little because I tend to spread order wherever I go. I used to work in arranging and re-ordering and de-hoarding people's homes; it's was many years and a young, healthy spine ago, but while I ca...
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