So I scheduled myself for a cystoscopy on July 13 at 10am. I can always cancel. The doctor himself performs it, which makes me feel good. It'll be like a followup plus AHHHHHHHHH. I know people have reassured me that cystoscopies are not so awful, but when your urethra is a house of demons, you don't have such confidence. I'm sure they'll numb me, but I'm just as sure that the following day or two will be the same as (my two-with-vvd-total) post-sex days.
And I asked the nurse for some Diflucan because I'm pretty sure that's happening too. It's not really bad, but any yeastie activity is going to make me feel worse and topical stuff is not happening right now.
So (I begin again) I'm reading The Fall by Albert Camus because I've become wholly existential. Not that I wasn't already, but with existentialism, the curtains come in after a while and blind you to life's pointlessness and you live fine for a while. (I don't think it's possible to be really depressed over and over without becoming an existentialist. I now look at depression as the point of greatest honesty. Yeah, maybe because I'm depressed. So what. Don't you see that nothing, nothing matters, and we all know why...yes, I reread The Stranger too, as my existentialism kickoff.)
So so so, in The Fall Camus at one point writes
Do you know Dante? Really? The devil you say! Then you know that Dante accepts the idea of neutral angels in the quarrel between God and Satan. And he puts them in Limbo, a sort of vestibule of his Hell. We are in the vestibule, mon cher.
HAHAHHHAHAHHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm certain Camus wasn't thinking double entendre there, but what brilliance. We are in the vestibule, mes chéries.