CYSTIC FIBROSIS STAIR CLIMB – 28 FLOORS! Yikes!

OKAY, GUYS! This is for my grandson, Caleb. I’m going to climb 28 stories on September 27th, in my state’s capital city. If you could please donate anything at all, it would be appreciated! It’s for an extremely good cause, and the money has to be in before that date for me to participate. Thank you anybody who will help out!

http://fightcf.cff.org/site/TR/Climb/11_Carolinas_Raleigh?px=2143672&pg=personal&fr_id=2820

Even if it’s just $5, it would mean the world to me!

UPDATE: I have worked out since 7 PM tonight, and finally stopped about 8:30 PM. Biking (almost 8 miles), stepping, jogging, then some yoga to cool down (half moon), and finally a hot shower. I’m pooped. But coupled with a half hour of exercise around lunch time, the Wii says we put in over two hours today. I’m in training mode, baby! Bring it on!

Where there is life, there is hope.

Well, the tests are done. It’s all a waiting game now. Waiting to see if the mass was really there or merely ‘artifact’ on the film, waiting to see what the options are, waiting to see what the risks are, waiting to see if I have cervical cancer, waiting to see what happens next.

So today I’ve been listening to Tim McGraw singing “I went skydiving – I went Rocky Mountain climbing – I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu – And I loved deeper – And I spoke sweeter – And I gave forgiveness I’d been denyin’ – And he said some day I hope you get the chance – To live like you were dyin’….” and I’ve been thinking about all the things I want to do in the next year, even if it’s just living.

Which brings me to the rant that I didn’t write last week, at least not in here. I did write it on my Facebook page and it made me very unpopular with half of my friends and well supported by the other half. Two words, one action – Robin Williams. Suicide. Okay, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say – Hey, I’m not for that. Not for any fucking reason you can dream up.

One friend said, “But he was depressed.” Oh hell, who isn’t? I know I am! Half of my friends are on medications for it; some of them even see the doctor on a regular basis. I choose to cry alone, fight with my emotions, and sometimes almost physically force my ass up when all in the world I want to do is sleep, sleep, sleeezzzzzzp or lie in the road and wait for a semi – but I don’t. I get up, go to work, and cry, alone and come in here and whine to you guys sometimes.

One friend said “he had the onset of Parkinson’s”. Okay. Michael J. Fox told us he had that, when, in the 1980s? Still hasn’t killed himself once. Millions of people suffer from depression and probably another million have Parkinson’s. (Yes, I totally made those numbers up.) But the point is – everybody doesn’t kill themselves. He had children, for God’s sake! What the hell? You don’t just hang yourself when you have kids! Grow the fuck up. Get a pair of balls. Get some help! So life’s hard. Big hairy deal.

ANYWAY. So one of my supportive friends said, I wonder if he’d had cancer, would he have waited? I know if I have it, I will be fighting with my last breath and I for sure won’t end my own life.

WHERE THERE IS LIFE, THERE IS HOPE.

Let’s not forget that. Life – hope. Key words right there. Anyway, goal for next summer – walk the Appalachian Trail. I want to do the whole thing. Time being a factor in terms of the weather means I may not get to do the whole thing but I am going on it, I am going to walk just as far as I possibly can before I either give up or become bear food. But I won’t become a statistic; I won’t come up with a pathetic excuse to end my own life. You want me, God? Fight me then! Where there is life, there is hope.

The wonder of it all, for me.

She rolls over and smiles,
and my heart pounds a little bit louder.
She leans her lips toward me,
and the kiss is so soft
I instantly want another one
just so I know I’m not dreaming.
She kisses me again,
with more urgency, harder,
and still I wonder, Am I awake yet?
This goddess chooses to love me,
and yet she doesn’t get it,
I’m certain she doesn’t get it -
the how,
the why,
the wonder of it all,
for me.

Old letters

Do you ever write late at night and then never send your thoughts in the light of day? I ran across some of those this morning.

“The very idea of you dipping your finger into your wetness, and then sucking it off of your fingertip is absolutely so sexy, it almost makes me dizzy. I just went into the bathroom and I was so slick, it was almost unnatural….this wetness you cause me to have….this desire that I feel so deeply for you….and it’s somehow strange to me how just your words, without even your caresses, are enough to stimulate me beyond belief…arouse me so completely….your provocative nature is so very sensuous, virtually inflaming me with such a deep desire for you…and I love that you admit your power over me…that you know how you affect me and that you delight in doing so…yes, I truly love that…just as I delight in knowing my power over you…for I do feel I affect you, I do feel I stimulate you, I do feel I make you wet, and I hope to make you wetter still when I see you again, soaking wet, dripping wet, dripping into my mouth, soaking my face with your juices, letting it run down my chin, my neck even…yes, I do hope for such things to happen and I am just the woman to lick all of that up again and again and over and over.”

“I want to give you a gift…I think it actually begins with my tongue and winds around through my brain picking up the most sinfully delicious thoughts and delivering them to your ears…for the things I want to say to you make me actually tremble with anticipation for you.”

And now they’re finally read.

There’s one in every crowd, or not.

DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU!

“The Journal of Sexual Medicine reported a 38 year old woman arrived at a local hospital after suffering from weight loss, shaking, lethargy and incontinence. Doctors discovered a foreign mass protruding from her bladder into her vagina, it turned out to be a sex toy that she lost ten years ago.”

I’m not even sure what to say after this.

Reality check. Damn.

http://www.ehow.com/how_5116134_physically-prepare-hiking-appalachian-trail.html

Okay, so after much deliberation, maybe I shouldn’t try to hike across America.  But I still want to hike the Appalachian Trail; that’s almost 2,200 miles from Maine to Georgia.  But according to this guide, you know a publication that most sane people would use and commit to memory, I need to be able to carry at least 22 to 25 pounds on my back for 8 hours a day or something like that, blah blah blah.  I got tired of carrying my water bottle with me in the woods, and have taken to leaving it at home.  *sigh*  This does not bode well.  Why did I learn to read?  Shoot, ignorance was bliss.

Couldn’t I just stuff my socks and bra with beef jerky and peanuts?  I do have a water tote that’s like a back pack.  I can’t remember the name of it right now but I think it holds two liters, which is what they say I’ll need each day.  And carrying my own bed, well, I was just planning on flirting and sharing somebody else’s bed.  What?  Is that wrong?  I mean, I don’t want to carry one.  That seems hard.  This was supposed to be a fun trip, not manual labor.  :P  I can’t even tell if I’m being facetious or for real.  I’m starting to sweat typing this.

Damn.  The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, isn’t it?  Stupid hard work.  Now I need a gym membership.  Thank goodness they’re building one right across the street from where I live.  Training, carrying stuff…hmmm, maybe I should get a mule instead of an alligator.  The mule could carry stuff, and potentially me.  Oh snap!  Wait, am I allowed to have a mule or is that cheating?  How about a Red Ryder wagon, with a long handle?  That seems fair.  If I were in Switzerland, I’d get a St. Bernard with a keg, right? 

I’ve got to stop reading stuff.