…it’s tomorrow. 13h EDT (GMT -5), I get in front of a one-person tribunal (do I address them as “Tribune”?) to hear my appeal of the decision that I’m not disabled. My lawyer is cautiously optimistic, depending on whom we draw in the lottery of tribunes. She thinks we shouldn’t have had to get this far.
The hard part is going to be overcoming my tendency to understate things. But we’ve warned the lawyer about that, so if she’s prepared, hopefully it’ll be alright. And Her Ex-Cellency will be there to be supportive, and she can slip me the Eyebrow of Doom if I’m minimising.
If performing the bureaucracy hoop-jumping to get disability is the Monkey Dance, ths is the Monkey Dance Iron Dancer Super Challenge Round: 1 hour to talk someone into making my life liveable.
The up side, if I’m turned down, I can apply again the very next day. My doctor would probably kill me, because it’d mean she’d have to do all the damn forms again, but it could happen. Let us hope it is not necessary.
On another note, Fuck. Cancer. Susan, we hardly knew ya, beautiful.
Fullmetal Feminist 