Cranky Lesbian

Look what the homosexuals have done to me!

Category: Complaints

Medical Mystery Probably Solved

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On February 3, 2023

In Complaints

Not pictured: Dr. Seth Hazlitt, who was busy with chowder.

This week I disappeared from the Internet (much to the Internet’s relief) to take care of a medical issue. I’ve had problems with the upper left part of my body for over a year now and was subjected to CTs, mammogram and an MRI during that time, mostly to confirm nothing needed to be biopsied. Fortunately, I got the all-clear on that. But the unexplained pain and discomfort continued, disrupting my sleep and enhancing my crankiness.

I returned to the PCP recently and asked what to do next. She considered an orthopedist referral before sending me to a neurologist. This week, after a physical exam, the neurologist thinks he has identified the problem. It’s something I hadn’t heard of before: cervical dystonia, also known as spasmodic torticollis. The word “spasmodic” conjures images of wrenching spasms or tremors, but I’ve experienced neither.

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Methotrexate Patients and Post-Dobbs Fear

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On July 5, 2022

In Complaints

Apologies for the conversational detour here—new film or TV content is coming later this week. There is something I need to rant about, and this is as good a place as any to do it.

For the second time in two years, Republican lunacy is scaring autoimmune disease patients. You might recall the great hydroxychloroquine stupidity of 2020, a craze eventually replaced by mass consumption of ivermectin. What we have now is a little different: Confusion over the continued availability of methotrexate.

In the case of Plaquenil, some patients really did face shortages. I was fortunate: my supply never ran out, even as idiots like my uncle (physically healthy, mentally not so much) attempted to order a side of hydroxychloroquine with their MyPillows. My methotrexate refill isn’t due for another month, and hopefully there are no disruptions. I’ll provide an update once my prescription’s in hand.

It will be weeks before my next rheumatology appointment, and who knows what anecdata the office will have to share by then. My first opportunity to speak with a prescriber came today, at a routine GI appointment. To the best of my doctor’s knowledge, none of his patients have yet encountered difficulties obtaining methotrexate. He has seen some of the same “the end is nigh” tweets as me, and we both felt there was something incomplete about at least a couple of those stories.

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PinkNews, Queer Hikers, and Existential Despair

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On March 9, 2022

In Complaints


Whoever tweeted this for PinkNews needs to get off my lawn.

When I think of “cosplay queers,” who in my cranky opinion are overrunning the Internet and sucking all the fun, and air, out of the gay community, I think of content like this PinkNews tweet. Who else could be the audience for this crap?

Accompanying a photo of people gathered in nature you have the tweet (and headline) “Meet the queer hikers proving the great outdoors isn’t just for cis, straight, middle class folk.” Does an army of “yas, queen!”/oppression Olympics bots control this clickbait farm? How do the writers feel about these assignments?

Imagine all the minds that’ll be blown when someone lets readers in on another gays-in-nature “secret”: the storied history of gay men and parks! Or lesbians and camping!

So This is the New Year

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On January 2, 2009

In Complaints

And much like Death Cab for Cutie’s navel-gazing, flannel-clad frontman Ben Gibbard, I don’t feel any different. My height, my weight, my sour disposition, they’re all exactly the same now as they were at 11:59 p.m. last night. (And it’s a good thing, too, because I’d hate to have to update my wardrobe or start being pleasant to people just because it’s 2009.)

Or has the new year changed me already? My neighbors added a twist to their boisterous New Year’s Eve revelry last night when a family across the street spent much of the evening encouraging their children to play brass instruments outdoors, for all of us to hear. The results, which it would be generous to say were something less than musical, frequently sounded like the ignoble, pleading moans of an elephant in the throes of death. But rather than take to the porch, megaphone in hand, and bellow something like, “Hey, kid, take that trombone and shove it up your ass,” I chose instead to remain quiet.

This decision was partly influenced by the regrettable fact that I do not own a megaphone, and mostly by my belief that the kids weren’t really at fault; their parents were the ones who, without any regard for the eardrums of the rest of us, allowed this weirdly avant-garde concert to go on (and on, like Celine Dion’s heart or the Energizer Bunny) like that. I suppose I could have changed my message to, “Hey, kid, take that trombone and shove it up your parents’ asses,” but that didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

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