Let the record state that I started writing this entry yesterday and it was wiped when Mozilla crashed midpage.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, those of you who took the time to answer my silly-assed questions. In no particular order: %%diary-pandionna%%, %%diary-fulminous%%, %%diary-palinode%%, petit hiboux, %%diary-bloodrunsred%%, %%diary-girlsdontcry%%, %%diary-zeroreverb7%%, %%diary-mangofarmer%% (who I gather is no mango farmer, despite her nick) %%diary-petris-girl%%, %%diary-carbonbased%%, %%diary-greebs%%, and %%diary-grouchetta%% whose answers are still a work in progress. And these are the ones I know of. So thanks.

I did get a little sneaky with the questions, I have to admit; the reason I asked you to name ten books you'd like to teach and also the one book that mattered most is because I was curious to see if that book would be on the list in question #2. In some cases it was and in some it wasn't.

Everyone, pretty much, had a different answer to the first question, about politicians. Shocker: people seem to like honesty and humility and beyond that had some unexpected things to say.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

So, I'm now bordering on the first stage of insulin withdrawal.

Stage 1.) This is when you run out- or are close to running out- of either longacting or short term insulin. Anxiety presides. You're wondering who you're going to borrow money from, or in mild cases, when you're going to have time to go get a prescription from a doctor you can't afford but who will bill you and you will pay them back some year when your insulin needs are taken care of, i.e., far down the road. You have trouble sleeping. You are still eating, but mostly you compensate for your shortage by taking a lot of whichever kind of insulin you *do* have left and subsisting on proteiny foods like tomato juice and meat. You stress your friends out and chew on your lips and drink to forget and plan how to get more insulin. This one sounds like Talking Heads' Crosseyed and Painless. Still waiting. Still waiting. People with scrip copay plans or in countries with socialized medicine rarely get past this stage, from what I hear. For that matter, neither do I, very often.

2.) You are now completely out of one kind of insulin, and running low on the other, and broke. Much like Stage 1, this stage is a little more vocal. You have now asked someone if you can borrow money so you can buy insulin and they have said no. You are on plan B. This stage sounds like Alan Parson's Eye In The Sky. What're you going to do next, kiddo? Everyone wants to know: borrow, sell something, check into a hospital where they HAVE to feed you and give you insulin, or just sit around and hope you get a letter with $20 in it from Grandma?

3.) Stage 3 is panic. Utter, utter panic. Ask %%diary-fulminous%% about the time I started crying in the Daisy Diner over a full plate of eggs and bacon and home fries. I went home and listened to Modest Mouse and sheepishly called my parents and asked them to wire me money because I had just run out of insulin and I was hungry and broke. If you are a woman, you are probably figuring out who you're going to bum tampons from, because that's five bucks you can put towards insulin. If you're unemployed, you desperately look for work, any work that will get you a quick cash infusion. You are not yet ready to sell your tush, but getting there.

The very ugly stage 4.) is distinguished by the atavistic state of mind it puts you (or, at least me) in. There is no insulin except the insulin others have. It always makes me want to beat people up and take their money and buy insulin, and food. They Took Your Insulin And Food And Now It's Time For Some Payback. Its soundtrack is nails on chalkboard and it feels like last August. If it was a board game it'd be a long game of pictionary; no one understands what the hell you're drawing, because they're all thieves and took your insulin. It's sweaty and embarassing. They're all looking at you, because they KNOW you're thinking about beating them up and taking their money and buying insulin. Getting a job won't help because you need nutrition NOW. You're OK at parties because you're so worried about being OK at the party and not beating anyone up and taking their insulin/food. Stage 4 makes you want to find the nearest person who badmouths universal health care, and eat them, once you get twenty bucks for some insulin. You dream of the Good Ship Syringe, where a friendly cap'n administers shiny little ampules and implores, take and eat.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

But this time, insulin is within reach and I'll have it within a few days. In the meantime, it's a beanie wienie and beer diet for me.