Oh yes. Go out into the heart of NYC, for dinner and a movie, as you do. Shall be off having Ethiopian cuisine and seeing Die Hard (Part 4 of the Die Hard Hardology) with alleynyc, nariya, and stephanierb.
It's awesome that I'm feeling super bloated today and even though I've Officially lost 30 pounds (since January) now, I probably still look like crap. Awesome. Well, I'm going to be busting ass (meaning, TREADMILL TREADMILL TREADMILL at the gym) this summer to get another ten pounds sent off to the ether. I've got some really cute shirts that I had to bundle up away that'll be fantastic to wear come autumn.
So last night, I went to see this movie that apparently other people might want to see.
SiCKO is really good movie and I heavily reccommend it. I find it amusing that my parents, who were never terribly "liberal" when I was a kid, have gotten all riled up thanks to Michael Moore's movies. For my dad, it took Fahernheit 9/11 and last night, my mom was just FURIOUS after watching SiCKO (SiCKO is a pun on PhARMA by the way). She'd been wanting to see it apparently, so when I told her I was going to go watch it last night, we went together.
It's a documentary/movie that hits hard, because the movie ISN'T about the 47 million Americans who don't have health insurance (and can't get Medicare/gov't programs), although they're mentioned. It's about US (not the United States, but us as in we the people), the Americans who did the right thing and got insured. And how our insurance companies are fucking us over when we are unfortunate enough to dare to get sick on their dime.
It's pretty grim seeing documents flash on the screen with your health insurance company denying people things that they need in order to SURVIVE. I guess I'm lucky in that I'm relatively healthy. And half of the reason why I restructured my eating habits, lost weight, and set a regular exercise program up for myself was because I was really getting worried at how easily my body was breaking down (every other week my knee was going out and I was EXHAUSTED all the time). And you know, I have a lot of relatives with diabetes, my mother included. So I've been concerned about getting diabetes at a young age even though my blood tests have been good. Here's a lovely fact: the medication that her doctor has her on, it CAUSES weight gain. For someone who has diabetes. And my mom has to LOSE WEIGHT in order to fight against the diabetes.
When I was having my throat problems back in February and was complaing about them on lj (and for that I'm kind of sorry because I shouldn't whine about that) and said how I'd been having trouble eating food and someone said, "go to the emergency room," I didn't know how to say that I simply couldn't afford that. I can't afford that. $100 for an emergency room visit under my plan. And I'm a "lucky" person because my insurance is fully covered by my employerers. My copays are "only" $30/$45. Thank god I don't take regular medication.
The American health care system is broken. SiCKO asks the question: But why do we just bend over and take it?
Moore's films are his films, you can poke holes in them, but his movies are there not to serve as a play-by-play of how to fix things, it's the starting point to get people pissed off and asking questions, like, why do we spend so much for utterly shitty healthcare, when Cuba, a country that's considered "third world" and is ranked 39th on the World Health Organization's list, is far more willing to treat patients in need (see: the last section of the film dealing with the 9/11 volunteer EMTs who cannot get medical care in the U.S.) while the United States seems to be set up to DENY care to those who truly need.
By the way, if you don't know, the U.S. is ranked 37 on that list. We're only TWO spots up from Cuba, a "poor" country that has a dirty, dirty "socialized" medicial program.
Ahh, it gets my rant a-going, sorry about that.
A quick fic roundup list. I've actually completed three stories, but one of them is the SPN Summer Gen, so I'll be able to post that to my lj some time in July, I believe.
Sam/Dean, NC-17. Word Count: 720.
Orgasm seeps like an ink stain, bleeding through Sam everywhere, anywhere, a twist of ugliness that makes it even better.
Sex on a vibrating bed. Because ignited has been roped into being my beta for *gasp* genfic! She handles it quite well, to be honest with you. This started off as total pwp chat drabble I'd IM'd her but I realized I wanted to write just a little bit more and well, this is the result. Buttsecks. Warning: Dean!topping and no Dean as a weepy bottom will be found here
El Viaje Misterioso de los Hermanos Winchester
My spn_j2_bigbang story has been completed finally. It sparkles and glows, y'all.
Gen, R. Word Count: 32,500.
And because it's so frikking, long, here's a snippet from Part One (it's four parts long, oh my god!):
“Dammit,” Dean grunts, irritably flicking off the radio and pushing in a well-worn, well-loved tape of AC/DC. He sighs in approval as Highway to Hell kicks on. It is appropriate considering where they’re going so Sam won’t bitch about having to listen to AC/DC in each state they’ve crossed since they left Connecticut. Another mile zooms by before Dean speaks again, asking Sam, “What the hell was that music?”
“Reggaeton?” It’s a bit of a blind scramble guess; Sam’s musical education may not be as questionable as Dean’s, but he doesn’t get a chance, particularly now, to follow up on current trends. Not when music released pre-C.D. becomes the background noise of your daily life.
Dean stares at Sam, that patented look of irritation well achieved thanks to an annoying little brother, a look so honestly flustered that Sam almost cracks a smile. There’s no smiling in Florida. Especially not when Sam’s a ticking time-bomb apparently and he’s set to go darkside at any moment.
Especially when Sam’s gotten a promise out of Dean that he still isn’t sure will be kept. His brother had been too relieved when he’d witnessed Sam’s admittedly pathetic hangover and had assumed that Sam had blacked out what he’d said...okay, Sam has to stop thinking about this. He knows it’s impossible, no way to keep it from encroaching on all his thoughts, but they have something to investigate and now they’re arguing about music. Necessary distractions.
“Sam,” Dean says in a gentle voice, almost cajoling, “I know Reggae. Bob Marley. That was not Reggae. That was hip-hop crap gone retarded.”
“It’s a form of Spanish dance hall music,” Sam answers patiently, wondering how Dean has avoided hearing it. He’s pretty sure that, on those rare occasions when they’ve gone into slightly more trendy clubs for investigations, the DJs have had this type of music playing, but maybe Dean’s fine-tuned to ignoring anything recorded with a copyright date set after the second millennium. That would explain a lot of things. “Mostly it’s a mix of older genres like salsa, Spanish rock, and rap.”
“Oh.” Dean takes that in, perhaps weirded out that Sam’s suddenly more knowledgeable about music than Dean, because at the very least, Sam is certainly spooked by that. Glancing at the rear mirror, edging into another lane, getting out of Dean-patented cruising speed, Dean succinctly sums up a genre of music by saying, “It’s crap.”
It's a good long story with a killer mermaid, Dean getting tied up by Sam, and lots of gore. I'm so happy that I'm done writing it, heh.
Now back to the business of real life.