So join the union while you may, don't wait until your dying day, for that may not be far away
I saw the condemnation of Trump's racism by the House of Representatives. I saw the shutdown of ICE headquarters by Never Again Action and Movimento Cosecha. I hope the Amazon Prime Day strike made a difference and not just news. I hate that these things have to be done; good for people for doing them.
No one ever got back to me from the specialist's office I called on Monday, despite a second call on my part. Thanks to the lethal nonsense of American insurance, I can't actually see my physical therapist without someone from this office ordering me further sessions with her. I will be getting up in about four hours so that I can get to the office as soon as it opens and talk to one of their staff in person, which was the only thing the secretary at the office could offer me, all actual appointments being booked in apparent perpetuity and the concept of calling patients back being apparently, equally borked. Frankly I'm expecting this to play out like The Consul. Oh, yes, yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the day before and every day for oh, so long . . . But my jaw still hurts to the point that the additional pain kept me from sleeping more than another two hours last night (during which I dreamed confusingly of Anthony Perkins as sort of Norman Bates c. Psycho II (1983), wiry dark in a blue workshirt, not very sane and a far more sympathetic figure than any authority I have had to deal with lately), so I might as well burn an entire work day waiting to see if I can be seen. I slept about ten hours the Friday night of Readercon, when I crashed hard with fever and food poisoning. Otherwise, between heat waves and health issues and the ridiculous complications of the past weekend, I think I have averaged three to four hours a night since the start of the month and I don't know how much longer I can keep up even the minimal coherence needed to sound amusing on the internet, never mind not lose jobs. The last time I slept this little, I lost grad school. I have started to feel glassy all the time.
Governor Baker owes me another $15 for my taxi today. At least Alan Turing will be on the £50 note.
No one ever got back to me from the specialist's office I called on Monday, despite a second call on my part. Thanks to the lethal nonsense of American insurance, I can't actually see my physical therapist without someone from this office ordering me further sessions with her. I will be getting up in about four hours so that I can get to the office as soon as it opens and talk to one of their staff in person, which was the only thing the secretary at the office could offer me, all actual appointments being booked in apparent perpetuity and the concept of calling patients back being apparently, equally borked. Frankly I'm expecting this to play out like The Consul. Oh, yes, yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the day before and every day for oh, so long . . . But my jaw still hurts to the point that the additional pain kept me from sleeping more than another two hours last night (during which I dreamed confusingly of Anthony Perkins as sort of Norman Bates c. Psycho II (1983), wiry dark in a blue workshirt, not very sane and a far more sympathetic figure than any authority I have had to deal with lately), so I might as well burn an entire work day waiting to see if I can be seen. I slept about ten hours the Friday night of Readercon, when I crashed hard with fever and food poisoning. Otherwise, between heat waves and health issues and the ridiculous complications of the past weekend, I think I have averaged three to four hours a night since the start of the month and I don't know how much longer I can keep up even the minimal coherence needed to sound amusing on the internet, never mind not lose jobs. The last time I slept this little, I lost grad school. I have started to feel glassy all the time.
Governor Baker owes me another $15 for my taxi today. At least Alan Turing will be on the £50 note.

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My grandad Snape loved that song. :o)
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I wonder (and will investigate) if it were possible to create an online spreadsheet where people could document the time and money poor T service takes from them. I suspect it'd need some push from rider advocates, but it could be a way of showing the impact of the underfunded system on the community.
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I would like that. If you know any rider advocates, please feel free to contact.
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In general I prefer to say out of emergency rooms, because they cost me a lot of money; also I went to urgent care yesterday, where I had to spend too much time explaining that I don't spend hours awake at night with homemade ice packs because of normal TMJ pops-and-clicks, and I really wanted to see a doctor who knew me and would believe me when I described what had happened and asked her for help. That didn't work out.
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Yes—we worked steadily together over the winter and I last saw her in April or May. I just got an entirely new referral, however, which will at least allow me to see her, although not soon.
Good luck, insurance is most certainly screwed up in this country.
Thank you. It is.
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Thank you. I got sort of about half of what I needed?
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I think I heard it first sung by Richard Thompson. It just seems relevant.
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Nine
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Right! It's not nothing.
(Assuming we still have an economy in 2021, I am of course going to want one.)