It would seem that there are several things going on in my life that I've been failing to report, so I think it's time for a summary...if my babbling can be called a summary at all.
First, there's the grand adventure of trying to rewrite "The Suicide Note: Memoirs of an Insulin Dependent Diabetic," (or TSN). The original copy of this manuscript was on my laptop. I copied it to a floppy disc to ensure its safety. In this way, I was able to transfer it to the desktop I bought while living in AZ. That desktop, a Dell, eventually went BSOD on me. (That's "Blue Screen Of Death" for those who don't know.) I tried to get out the old laptop in an attempt to perhaps e-mail it to myself, but the laptop was dead, DEAD, DEAD! I would have to rewrite it from scratch.
Mind you, I knew I'd given a copy of TSN to my podiatrist back in AZ, so I hunted him down at his new practice in...Indiana, I think? Anyway, I left a message with his receptionist that if he should find it to please mail the disc to me. But I never heard anything from his office or him.
Another existing fact about TSN is that it needs to be updated. A number of things related to my diabetes have occurred. These things have to be added to the story, as it adds weight to my overall message. What is my message? That I screwed around with my diabetes enough to have shaved years off my life. I may live to be 80, but when that time comes, a part of me will know I should have lived to the age of 90. This book will hopefully save a few lives.
So...After my move to Pennsylvania, I sat down and started working on TSN. After 29 pages, which contain 9,440 words, I realized a few things. I was missing various facts and would have to renew my research. I was forgetting a few things, like Sir Frederick Banting's Nobel Prize, and the fact that he initially refused to accept it because his lab assistant, Charles Best, wasn't named on said prize. (He eventually split the money with the med student that would become a doctor.) Finally, the original was written better, as far as my tattered memory is concerned.
Shock of all shocks, I received astonishing news about TSN. My beloved friend Julie may well have a copy of it in her near-ancient computer. She'll be sending me a copy as soon as she finds the right size hamsters to fit in the wheel to run it. Meanwhile, I'll continue to write my current version, as I may accidentally write something wonderful that should go into the story. I'll work those new parts in as I see fit.
Also pertaining to TSN, I have reached out to my old friend Terence. As he writes professionally, I thought he might have a few links to help me get this thing published when the time comes. He said he just might have such connections, and this news helped to light a fire under my butt to get writing. What's more, last night I sent a message to author John Green, who seems quite personable in his YouTube videos. Professional authors tend to get nervous when you ask them for help if they're not friends you've had since the age of 15, as is Terence. I asked him for only one thing: to point me in the direction on an agent that might help me get TSN published. In this way, I'm networking as much as possible, as I'm taking this particular piece of writing quite seriously now.
Speaking of this writing, I'm trying to decide what to do once it's published. It would be nice to see this book turn me into a millionaire, but I don't think an autobiography of "some guy" will do that. It might well see me receive a nice paycheck initially, but I don't expect much after that. Besides, if large monies are offered to me, I'd like to see a good part of that go to...something. And here's where I'm undecided. Do I take the easy way out and just have money go to the Juvenile Diabetes Foundation? Or do I dare to start my own organization that gets insulin to those who are getting screwed by insurance companies? Like I was.
There are many different types of insulin out there. One of the best is called Humalog. This is a synthetic insulin that takes a half hour to start working, and peaks in three to four hours. The price per bottle seems to be around $110. Compare this to the alternative, Novolin, which costs around $70, takes an hour to get to work, and peaks in four to five hours. Humalog is better stuff, but using three bottles per month upsets insurance companies. Thus, they essentially said to me, "Insulin is insulin. Use the Novolin." Every time I'm on Novolin, my diabetes control gets worse.
With this in mind, starting a non-profit organization that helps diabetics get the proper insulin would be a very good thing. But am I up to doing such a thing? Will being disabled eventually cause problems with the running of the aforementioned organization? And how on Earth am I suppose to distribute a form of insulin so strong that it requires a prescription? Decisions, decisions.
Moving on to knee news, I believe I may have officially re-injured my left knee. Becky's parents, 'Nita and Turk, were here yesterday to work on Becky's car. (Her car stopped running last November, and the weather has prevented people from getting it repaired.) Deciding to be somewhat sociable, I spent some time with them while they worked, chatting about this, that, and Becky. (The usual stuff. How awful Becky is. How smelly she is. How yucky in general she is. (This was put in here special, as Becky will be reading this. None of it is true. =P )) I spent just enough time standing that my knee swelled up to twice it's normally swelled size. Upon waking up this morning, I could barely walk. When I'm done posting this, I'm going to make my calls today in an effort to find a doctor SOMEWHERE to help me.
Finally, under the "stuff" category, we have the fact that Becky is trying to kill me. Not literally. I'm not worth that much dead. But we knew for weeks that she had this lengthy sociology assignment that was due on 4 April, and I told her not to leave it for the last minute. What did she do? She left it for the last minute. She spent eight hours last night, not including short breaks, working on answering three questions per chapter of an 11-chapter book.
We've talked about this. I told her that doing so would chew up time that we could be spending all curled up and watching a movie, or just cuddling, or whatever. If she would just do the assignment a little at a time, she wouldn't be overwhelmed by trying to get it all done in one night. And it absolutely kills me when I have to be the one to stand over her and constantly say, "Do your homework." That's not my job. My job is to lover her, encourage her, and make her feel good. Instead, I feel like I'm a terrible overlord demanding that my subject pay tribute to me. I don't want to be demanding anything. In this way, Becky is trying to kill me.
And that's about all I can think of to report at the moment. I have a rather important call to make, so be well, all, and DFTBA!