We have presented evidence and arguments that huh?, or more precisely a short questioning interjection with the function of other-initiation of repair, is a universal word likely to be attested in similar form in all natural spoken languages. The similarity of this interjection across languages is unlikely to be specified in our genetic makeup and we argue that it is the result of convergent cultural evolution: a monosyllable with questioning prosody and all articulators in near-neutral position is the optimal fit to the sequential environment of other-initiated repair. source
I’m going to contest their findings, because I have a lot of huh? in my genes. They’re actually more huh than denim now. I’m also going to make a t-shirt out of my post title, perhaps a bored Sherlockian would buy one.
It’s been rough for a while now, but at least I’m getting help and information with the bigger picture, which I’ll probably be glad about, just as soon as my glad glands call off the strike and shuffle sheepishly back to work.
Thank fuck I found a cover version, the original became an earworm in a millisecond. It was touch and go, and I had to find mental floss asap.
Yesterday I woke and slammed immediately into anxiety (no, fear), tears, shakes and dizziness and dazed and… I felt like shit. Wednesday is therapy day and so I decided to go to my friend’s place to mellow out before driving into town. She always grounds me. She compared me to a drunk thundercloud and announced that she’d drive me, in one of those acts of kindness that remind you that humanity is beautiful. Therapy was great, shrink two and I discussed Tupac at great length; I like that in a CBT session, it’s much more fun than CBT. When we’d finished fervently declining things like, “the man was a poet!” we discussed my next destination on the never ending bipolaroadtrip™, which rather a lot of blood tests, followed by some clozapine. “We used to think it reduced lifespans,” said shrink one last week, “but recent research shows that it actually increases longevity.” “Oh fuck,” was my shiny happy response, “can’t you hook me up with one that doesn’t prolong this shit?” She said, “I want you happy, and you are going to live for a long and happy time.” I sighed inside (sighs matter), because as much as I like and respect shrink one, long is a thing I don’t want and happy is a thing I doubt. I shook morgue’s tragic h8ball™ (and with my diagnoses, I can shake with absolutely no effort at all – it must be one of those benefits of bipolar people keep writing about) and the answer was the h8ball™ baseline, “are you kidding me, sucker? If the brain don’t get you, the body will. I pity you, foo.” Ja it’s a big mofo of a h8ball™.
Fuck fucking treatment fucking resistant fucking bi-fucking-polar disorder and the whores it rode in on. It’s possible that the following song may offend you, but, well, frankly, fuck you if you can’t take a joke etc etc. Lol Yvette this one goes out to you blood.
So my drunken thundercloud ass was safe. My friend is the sort of friend produced in extremely limited quantities and won in a mystical and invisible lottery that only Odin Allfather understands. The nerves remained on high alert (they must be American) and my vision was blurred all the way to fuck and back, but I was safe and I have to tell you, tribe, that I smiled, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The anxiety, which the dictionary defines as an emotion, felt purely physical. Mosquitoid™ brain zaps buzzed through my cranium from the time I woke until the time I slept and as you know, those symptoms combined make for one hell of an exhausting day. I’ve never, ever had a day stuffed so full of physical symptoms and still smiled, felt lucky, felt good. At the end of it I was just tired and I wasn’t sad again till the evening. I suppose that in bipolar disordered terms, yesterday counts as part of this mixed episode. In my terms it counts as intensely strange and strangely lovely.
The evening whizzed and whirled and whirred along that ‘you must be really high’ version of the bipolar coaster (you know the one) by way of physical symptoms and emotional lows, and a few hours of a beautiful stillness. Fucking hell though, the muggles who think it’s all in the mind really need to spend some time in our bodies and our brains. Brain zap zap zap nausea shakes headaches zap zap zap weep RLS. You hate bipolar it’s awesome? I hate you so much right now. I slept, I woke at 2am (thanks Dog) and I slept some more and woke at 6am, too late for sunrise, too early to care. I’m sad, I’m down, I’m depressed, there is a teeny and malevolent goblin inside my head trying to stab its way out – I’m hoping the little fucker sticks to headache level and doesn’t venture into the here be dragons migraine zone.
™ means try me, not trademark.