Christiane F. v. Aguirre

and so I started shooting up yesterday. how Christiane F. am I? except for not at all, as I'm actually doing it so as not to develop a morphine habit, which was definitely starting to loom promisingly in the foreground. I would, however, love my very own bowie soundtrack, and boyfriend named Detlef.

I had to go to the hospital to learn how to do it and was given a small plastic fleshglobe with realistic veins to practice shooting into. It was all kind of amazing. J. and his one year of medical school (which, alarmingly, involved no shot-giving) are actually taking on the shooting responsibility, as the whole idea still creeps me out, lots.

It's actually working, though, and I'm off codeine for the first day since September. and I can walk reasonably well, though the subway stairs are still kind of a bitch. So I'm not complaining, really. The other man in the shooting class looked to be in his 60s, and had had rheumatoid arthritis for 40 years. His hands were formed into these prehensile talons and he gripped his coffee cup with both hands. So really, I'm happy to be diagnosed both early and now (as in, now that they have these medications) but it struck me as bizarre that I'm considered to be more severe than he is. (my dosage is twice his, which means at least I don't have to mix my own drugs. I have pre-filled syringes in the butter compartment of my fridge - that is, one of the butter compartments; my fridge, possibly designed with me in mind, has two butter compartments).

And really, I'd rather be Christiane (shooting) than Aguirre (limping) if we're going to keep this in the German film pantheon.