#like listen people ive been here since the beginning but i was a casual watcher and learned a lot by being on tumblr at the time

[pettrichore]

look im probably late to the party since i only recently got REALLY into gravity falls BUT ive been thinking about stan and ford and how ford is the one who ruined both of their lives, not stan. yeah yeah i know all the stuff with his science fair project but really him not getting into west coast tech like… had no real impact on his life.

now what DID have an impact was turning stan away. they NEED each other. obviously they can survive without the other but things clearly went to shit for both of them. ford’s life Seems amazing but by not having stan there to ground him and pull his head out of his own ass (like mabel does to dipper) ford went over the deep end and got into some crazy shit.

and i dont think i have to explain why stan’s life was shit after being disowned by his entire family lol. but yeah ford fucked them both over by turning stan away

[braindamageforbeginners]

And now, a Special Guest Appearance on the Importance of Following Doctor’s Instructions and Healthy Lifestyle

Well, the hangover wasn’t too bad today, despite going to bed miserable. Not too much muscle pain/fatigue - that all happened last night, I think - enough to make me grab unhealthy amounts of Tylenol (The flip side is, the next NSAID I take will be the very first one I take today)(excuse me, head’s a little sore). The downside is that my leftside is off - noticeably less dexterous than usual (Dad was asking about this the other day, I told him I get a little wobbly and much clumsier than usual; he pointed out that since we weren’t exactly talented athletes to begin with, the effect might just amplify what other people would be able to shrug off). This could be a side effect of radiation (which, remember, usually isn’t permanent, but can show up from any point from here to eternity), it could be a side-effect of the experimental serum; it could be a side-effect of my left arm getting the improper sized BP cuff a few times yesterday (my right arm, like my nuclear bald patches, tends to get angry when people poke at it). Left leg’s wobbly on-and-off these days, based on how tired I am. And I am exhausted; that’s not only a very, very common chemo side-effect, it happens when you’re a good chemo patient that wakes up every couple of hours to chug more water and/or pee)(yes, that’s the best, easiest chemo treatment Research Coordinator and the Warlocks recommended). And it’s clear to me that I was definitely experiencing “chemo brain” last night (hopefully I’m not any more). To me, that manifests as a sort of mental haze that makes it hard to take initiative, concentrate, or do all the things humans have to do in society. But I did eventually crawl out of bed (that was unpleasant), get some coffee in the system, and take a walk along the beach (I was feeling a little too unsteady for the gym)

So, in keeping with the general theme, “Judge no man fortunate until he is dead” I need to introduce my grandmother these chronicles. All my other grandparents are dead (even my step-mother’s parents who acted as surrogate grandparents, Great Kraken Bless ‘em), so you don’t have worry about getting confused about which one I’m talking about; she’s Dad’s mother. I don’t think that’s particularly important, but it might save questions/clarification later. Now, just three months ago, while in the car with Dad and Grandma,we had a medical bitch-off. Grandma is 90 and recovering from a broken pelvis. Dad is 69 and has Stage III kidney cancer. And I have Stage IV brain cancer at 33. If you were a gambling man (and that’s all I am these days, it’s just that the stakes are my continued existence), and had to place a bet on which of us would live to see the next presidential election, the smart money would be on Grandmama. Well, she came down with a nasty infection over the weekend and had to be hospitalized. Now, to all my family members who may be reading this with surprise, don’t worry, everything appears back to normal-ish as of this morning (although it’s like playing medical telephone). However, Grandma seems to think she’s a member of the Medici family and it’s the 14th century, and she’d just as soon no one found out, ever. Meanwhile, people I’d lost contact with post-college are aware of my situation (an I appreciate it). Which brings up a teachable moment. I’ve frequently said that pride isn’t important until you can eat it; in the modern medical industry, pride might be fatal. Again, I had a former employer contact me offering to introduce me to research oncologists looking into GBM treatment - you give up those sorts of opportunities/help when you hide your disease in the name of pride.

The other interesting point in all of this is grandma’s general health, which doesn’t seem to be good, from an outside observer (she never lets anyone else into the doctor’s rooms with her; I insist that someone - I’ll pay a taxi driver if I can’t find volunteers, because I am deathly afraid my doctors will casually mention some possible treatment or complication, and I’ll miss it). To be fair, she’s mentally still all there (although annoying and combative), but she looks like I feel, 12-hours post-infusion. On the other hand, she has lived to be 90, which certainly qualifies her more to discuss health and human longevity than the guy who’s going to be lucky to get 10 more years.

However, after realizing I’d been living an extremely healthy lifestyle during my break, I decided to double down on everything (I think I discussed that in a previous blog post). Which means lots of fruits and vegetables, not too much sugar or fat, cutting back on coffee and beer (those were painful, I’ll admit; however, the key phrase is “cutting back,” not “cutting out”), lots of physical activity, and lots of sleep (I believe I have a sleep-debt of 120 hours). Yes, I’ll take two orders of chemo (which I sort of am doing). Pass the pills, the barbells, crank Clash’s “Straight to Hell” (it’s on the chemo playlist). And I have brain cancer (again, you’re not “cured” until you hit the five-year mark). I should be in demonstrably, objectively worse physical and mental shape than Grandma (mentally she might be far better off than I am, it’s hard to tell these things without a neurocognitive assessment). However, because she doesn’t follow doctor’s orders reliably, and isn’t careful about what she puts in her body (again, I recognize the hypocrisy in that statement coming from a man hell-bent on putting lots and lots of dangerous poisons into his body)(that’s what chemo is), she’s literally in the doctor’s office while I’m walking off chemo (again, family members, that was the follow-up to the infection, and everything looks good at the moment)(also, totally honest moment - I did get a cane, not because I needed it too much,but my leg hasn’t been reliable enough for me to attempt a lengthy hike through the beaches and beach-side parking lots of SoCal). The point being, if your doctor tells you you’re too fat, or you need to cut bacon out of your diet, or you need antibiotics, stick to it (again, don’t be passive, and get a second or third opinion, but, just as you wouldn’t walk into the Apple Store and question their judgement if they told you to do XYZ, you have to understand that you’re paying these people for their expertise, and maybe listening to them is healthy). And maybe a healthy lifestyle - not even something fad-based like weight watchers or Gwynyth Paltrow; I’m taking my cues from  Jack LaLanne and Muscle Beach - is healthy. Of course, I have absolutely no authority to say that, and it’s still very early in the game.