No lie, I have been sick since June rolled it's humid ass into Arkansas. In the process I have formed a personal relationship with my doctor, something I have always avoided. This is the man who has to see me beg for sedatives, the man who stands unflinchingly in the line of fire breath during a bout of strep throat, the man who knows exactly how much I weigh. This is not a man with whom I want to create memorable impressions. I want him to forget my existence when I leave his office, my co-pay securely transactioned by his receptionist.
Instead, he now knows my real name, not the official name that populates my medical records and employment applications. It's just a middle name, nothing fancy like a mob nickname or anything. But it's how I differentiate between those I don't care to chat with (doctors, credit card companies, the weird neighbor who keeps asking for my "chat" i.d.) and those I do (friends, family, Robert Downey, Jr.). And to top it off, the nurse has "befriended" me. That's in quotations because let's be honest, we're not really friends. We just share laughs about how every time I come in and she asks me when my last menstrual cycle cycled on through, I respond with "three weeks ago." After she got that same answer seven weeks in a row she told me she knew exactly what my problem was- I was packed FULL of shit.
No, actually, I'm packed full of plegm with a little useless trivia thrown in for fun. (The Golden Girls premiered in 1985! The heaviest element is Uranium!)
The best thing to come out of all of this? I now know what it's like to be a fifteen-year-old boy. Thanks to several weeks of steroids I experienced the following:
1) Misplaced rage and an increased combative nature. Case in point: While walking through the Detroit airport I got so fed up with a woman who blocked my passage on the moving walkway I started to curse her, IN MY LOUD VOICE, and then sort of gently connected her rolling suitcase with my patent leather flat. Excuse me ma'am, my name is Temper, last name Tantrum.
2) Men are strangely attractive, even when they're not. I think that actually makes me a homosexual teenage boy if we stick with the analogy from above. Anygay, it's not that I don't find men attractive in a steroid-free world, it's just that I didn't appreciate the sheer number of hot y chromosomes strutting around. My usual standards were thrown out the window (too short, too tall, too stupid and listens to tween pop on his ipod) and suddenly everyone, in the words of Marlon Brando, coulda been a contender.
3) Teenage Fucking Acne. Oh yes. The malfunction at Skin and Pore Streets was just a taste, just a dangling dingleberry of what was to come. And apparently is still coming, all over my WAIT. Sorry. I should also mention that I developed the ability to make tasteless jokes at random. Back to the acne. It's awesome and very teenagery. So if we follow that out to its logical conclusion, that means the acne actually makes me look YOUNGER. I have found the secret to eternal youth. Spread the word.
4) "Are you going to eat that?" became my mantra. I have never been so hungry, never ever, not even when I managed to do things like exercise or let's be honest, extend any sort of physical effort whatsoever. During my steroid spell, I woke up in the middle of the night to EAT. In addition, I ate two breakfasts, two lunches and three dinners. It was during this cheek stuffing spell that I had flasbacks to my little brother's teen years and how we used to order an extra large pizza just for him. And how he ate it. All of it. But my brother had the metabolism of an actual teenage boy while I was just experiencing teenage boy-like symptoms. My metabolism remained firmly grounded in the nearing-thirty range, which lead to:
5) Weight gain! Nearly ten pounds in the first ten days! Insert fat ass jokes HERE.
Overall, I'd say my steroid abuse was pretty fucking lame, dude. (Keeping the teenage slang alive here at birdsovafeather!) I've still got an annoying cough and a very depleted checking account because apparently one can't just google one's symptoms and call in to request specific medication. They like to see you in person so they can do things like weigh you and check your glands. Greedy bastards.
Showing posts with label sickly and prickly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sickly and prickly. Show all posts
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Dear Santa: Your elves have shitty valium.
I thought about describing my pill-popping Christmas by going into great detail about my mental disintegration after the vet “accidentally” killed Llama (with valium, no less). I would describe the ever-increasing emotional hysteria, culminating in an office meltdown of epic proportions. Then on to the brief but stern admonishment from my boss regarding throwing sharp projectile objects in spaces that might be occupied by other humans. My story would end when a sympathetic coworker popped open a bottle of valium and force fed three orange pills down my throat, which left me comatose and slightly drooly. After which I was fired for my unsatisfactory conduct.**
But then I realized not everyone finds me amusing. Plus, this is the holiday season, and whether you sing that crazy dradle song or the one about a baby in a poop-filled barn, most deities hate liars, especially blatant ones. And while I definitely cried, okay, sobbed, on the phone with my mother after the vet called with his bad news, I wouldn’t describe my emotional state as unstable. Pissed off would be far more realistic. And maybe just a little sad. Oh, and guilty. See below:
By the time I finally managed to call the vet back, it was late afternoon. I’d spent my morning within the bowels of a hospital eating eggs laced with nuclear matter and reclining under what appeared to be a giant black drum. While it’s inordinately uncomfortable for me to lie perfectly still for any length of time, this was by far the most enjoyable portion of my day. Possibly because I hadn’t been able to eat anything since 9pm the night before and I’m not one of those kids who forget to eat. Forget my keys, maybe. Eating, never. As such, those nuclear eggs were like manna from heaven.
The only moderately cool thing from that whole ordeal was watching the little nuclear bits hang out in my stomach. They kind of resembled very busy microscopic ants with a tendency to stay in a giant dotty cluster. I’m using the word ‘cool’ very loosely, because while it was neat in that ‘look at my innards!’ kind of way, I’ll be the first to admit that I have very irrational semi-fears about things. Mostly they involve aliens, alien babies and bird noises. My greatest fear would have me standing next to a long-armed alien while I birthed his alien spawn from my stomach, all while they communicated via bird noises. So it shouldn’t have come as any great surprise that while watching the little nuclear bits move around in my abdominal cavity, the Crazy part of my brain was all “You know that’s how they breed, don’t you? The eggs are merely a vehicle for their alien spawn. Look at them on the screen- invading every molecule of your body. You’re going to be the Mary for the bug-eyed alien race.”
The non-crazy part of my brain, the one that deals frequently with my overactive and slightly paranoid imagination, responded by sighing in resignation. “You’re going to write about this on the internet, aren’t you? This is not how you get boys to make out with you.”
However, I’m going to blame low blood sugar on the brief (but stunning) coup by Crazy Brain. I’m quite aware that nuclear matter does not equal alien babies and should the previous admission diminish anyone’s desire to make out with me, I’m deeply sorry.
Following my nuclear morning, I was sent to another hospital building for a CAT scan. This wasn’t nearly as amusing as the egg test, mainly because I had to drink a gallon of pink Crystal Light infused with some unidentifiable substance. I was not to drink it too quickly, however, because it would make me nauseated. I nodded my head in acknowledgement when the nurse told me this, then informed her that everything makes me nauseated so this should be wicked exciting.
The scan itself wasn’t anything to write home about, with the exception of whatever drug was injected into the vein in my right arm. After the technician left the room, her voice came over the intercom and told me that I would probably feel like I was wetting myself and that my pelvis would feel abnormally warm. Personally, I feel that this is the sort of information that should be shared before the drug injection. But hey, who’s judging?
Now that I’ve run through my six hours of hospital visiting, you can understand why it took me five and a half hours to return the message left by my vet. I thought it was just a normal update on the declawing and shot-giving for The Demonspawn. Maybe letting me know that they were resting comfortably, ready for pickup after 5pm. Unbeknownst to me, Llama was definitely resting comfortably. In a fucking body bag. He’d died when the nurse had injected the kitty cat valium into his hind leg. Dropped dead right on the table, the vet said. I got to hear about that ‘dropping dead’ part about eight or nine times, which is exactly the mental image you want of your pet. Right next to the one of an ice-encrusted ball of fluff inside the confines of a plastic ziploc bag. Because I’d taken so long to return his call, he said, they’d had to put him in the freezer. To halt decomposition. Again, THANKS FOR THAT MENTAL IMAGE, ASSHOLE.
So I drove across town to pick up Lily, because one pet death was really all I could handle. Had I ingested more than Crystal Light and nuclear eggs that day, I probably would have had the energy to disembowel the vet like I envisioned on my drive over. But hunger and sadness hand rendered me weak, and instead I just held Lily’s furry little body to my chest and cried silently all the way home. Feeling like a horrible cat-mother for sending them off for an unnecessary procedure, just to save my new couch from frenzied clawing. Feeling horrible and heartless for shoving a normally docile Llama into his cat carrier, clawing and hissing all the way. Feeling even guiltier for thinking, over and over, you had to kill my favorite one, didn’t you?
Oh, and before you think I was kidding about the elves making shitty valium, I’m totally not. Tomorrow I promise to tell you how I made contact with the aliens via the radio transmitter implanted in my esophagus. And no, I’m not kidding. At least about the radio transmitter. The alien part is up for interpretation.
** Just so we're clear, I'm not terminated. Nor did I have a hissy fit and throw objects at humans. I did let a tear or twelve slip out when everyone at work stopped by to hug me, and it was all very Terms of Endearment-y.
But then I realized not everyone finds me amusing. Plus, this is the holiday season, and whether you sing that crazy dradle song or the one about a baby in a poop-filled barn, most deities hate liars, especially blatant ones. And while I definitely cried, okay, sobbed, on the phone with my mother after the vet called with his bad news, I wouldn’t describe my emotional state as unstable. Pissed off would be far more realistic. And maybe just a little sad. Oh, and guilty. See below:
By the time I finally managed to call the vet back, it was late afternoon. I’d spent my morning within the bowels of a hospital eating eggs laced with nuclear matter and reclining under what appeared to be a giant black drum. While it’s inordinately uncomfortable for me to lie perfectly still for any length of time, this was by far the most enjoyable portion of my day. Possibly because I hadn’t been able to eat anything since 9pm the night before and I’m not one of those kids who forget to eat. Forget my keys, maybe. Eating, never. As such, those nuclear eggs were like manna from heaven.
The only moderately cool thing from that whole ordeal was watching the little nuclear bits hang out in my stomach. They kind of resembled very busy microscopic ants with a tendency to stay in a giant dotty cluster. I’m using the word ‘cool’ very loosely, because while it was neat in that ‘look at my innards!’ kind of way, I’ll be the first to admit that I have very irrational semi-fears about things. Mostly they involve aliens, alien babies and bird noises. My greatest fear would have me standing next to a long-armed alien while I birthed his alien spawn from my stomach, all while they communicated via bird noises. So it shouldn’t have come as any great surprise that while watching the little nuclear bits move around in my abdominal cavity, the Crazy part of my brain was all “You know that’s how they breed, don’t you? The eggs are merely a vehicle for their alien spawn. Look at them on the screen- invading every molecule of your body. You’re going to be the Mary for the bug-eyed alien race.”
The non-crazy part of my brain, the one that deals frequently with my overactive and slightly paranoid imagination, responded by sighing in resignation. “You’re going to write about this on the internet, aren’t you? This is not how you get boys to make out with you.”
However, I’m going to blame low blood sugar on the brief (but stunning) coup by Crazy Brain. I’m quite aware that nuclear matter does not equal alien babies and should the previous admission diminish anyone’s desire to make out with me, I’m deeply sorry.
Following my nuclear morning, I was sent to another hospital building for a CAT scan. This wasn’t nearly as amusing as the egg test, mainly because I had to drink a gallon of pink Crystal Light infused with some unidentifiable substance. I was not to drink it too quickly, however, because it would make me nauseated. I nodded my head in acknowledgement when the nurse told me this, then informed her that everything makes me nauseated so this should be wicked exciting.
The scan itself wasn’t anything to write home about, with the exception of whatever drug was injected into the vein in my right arm. After the technician left the room, her voice came over the intercom and told me that I would probably feel like I was wetting myself and that my pelvis would feel abnormally warm. Personally, I feel that this is the sort of information that should be shared before the drug injection. But hey, who’s judging?
Now that I’ve run through my six hours of hospital visiting, you can understand why it took me five and a half hours to return the message left by my vet. I thought it was just a normal update on the declawing and shot-giving for The Demonspawn. Maybe letting me know that they were resting comfortably, ready for pickup after 5pm. Unbeknownst to me, Llama was definitely resting comfortably. In a fucking body bag. He’d died when the nurse had injected the kitty cat valium into his hind leg. Dropped dead right on the table, the vet said. I got to hear about that ‘dropping dead’ part about eight or nine times, which is exactly the mental image you want of your pet. Right next to the one of an ice-encrusted ball of fluff inside the confines of a plastic ziploc bag. Because I’d taken so long to return his call, he said, they’d had to put him in the freezer. To halt decomposition. Again, THANKS FOR THAT MENTAL IMAGE, ASSHOLE.
So I drove across town to pick up Lily, because one pet death was really all I could handle. Had I ingested more than Crystal Light and nuclear eggs that day, I probably would have had the energy to disembowel the vet like I envisioned on my drive over. But hunger and sadness hand rendered me weak, and instead I just held Lily’s furry little body to my chest and cried silently all the way home. Feeling like a horrible cat-mother for sending them off for an unnecessary procedure, just to save my new couch from frenzied clawing. Feeling horrible and heartless for shoving a normally docile Llama into his cat carrier, clawing and hissing all the way. Feeling even guiltier for thinking, over and over, you had to kill my favorite one, didn’t you?
Oh, and before you think I was kidding about the elves making shitty valium, I’m totally not. Tomorrow I promise to tell you how I made contact with the aliens via the radio transmitter implanted in my esophagus. And no, I’m not kidding. At least about the radio transmitter. The alien part is up for interpretation.
** Just so we're clear, I'm not terminated. Nor did I have a hissy fit and throw objects at humans. I did let a tear or twelve slip out when everyone at work stopped by to hug me, and it was all very Terms of Endearment-y.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Where I continue to overshare
I had every intention of keeping my mouth shut about future health malfunctions because I finally reread a week’s worth of entries and realized that I was one whiny bitch. My throat hurts, I feel bad, my body is achy, my toe has a cramp, wah wah wah. It’s like someone opened the floodgates and instead of just calling my mother every night to complain, I had to open my laptop as well. Super.
But then Friday morning I woke up with the Stomach Death and I realized I was totally going to have to word vomit my experience into the bowels of the internet again, just like I vomited up a week’s worth of dietary intake straight into my toilet.
It started at three o’clock, a time when the majority of the greater Little Rock area was fast asleep in their dry comfortable beds. When I woke up, my entire body was covered with the kind of sweat that says “I just robbed a convenience store and sprinted for two miles to escape the police, pardon me while I pass out in your front lawn from exhaustion.” Obviously something was wrong, but I’m a stubborn one. I had a vested interest in keeping twenty dollars worth of pan-seared salmon below the Mason-Dixon line.
Four Tums (useless fruit-flavored crap) and an hour later, I was begrudgingly sliding out of bed, only to be hit with a wave of nausea so intense my legs almost gave out. The blood vessels around my eyes, the ones that always burst unattractively after a bout of vomiting, were already preparing themselves by puffing up in excitement.
And so my fifteen hour love affair with the porcelain goddess began. By seven-thirty I was confident I had expunged not only the pan-seared salmon and a gallon and a half of stomach bile, but possibly a kidney as well. I made a pathetic attempt at lightheartedness when I called and left a message for my boss, not realizing until the last second that the stomach acid had damn near ripped my vocal chords in two and I sounded like an eighty-five-year-old man with a four pack-a-day habit. Which meant the verbiage about dying alone in my apartment with two hungry cats who would eventually gnaw off my face sounded unnervingly real. And I was only half joking.
When eight o’clock rolled around, the early morning sweat attack had dried to little crystallized spikes all over my body. Obviously I was dying. Best to speed it up by drowning myself in the tub, where at least I could die warm. Only I’d forgotten to purchase a drain stopper during each previous grocery excursion, which meant I’d have to figure out how to drown myself in the shower. But this required standing, and countless hours of compulsive vomiting had rid me of any coordinated leg movements. So I flipped on the shower nozzle and waited for the hot water to hit my hand before rolling myself over the edge, red trackpants and all.
Unfortunately, my hot water heater is a useless, malignant oozing sore on the face of humanity. It provides about nine minutes of shower-worthy water before abruptly giving out. There are probably ways I could fix this, but I’d lay money on it being older than the invention of fruitcake and I have a strict no-fondling rule for persons and objects greater than twenty years my senior.
And though there was nothing left to give up, no semblance of liquid left in my body, The Goddess and I continued to have a face-to-face relationship until mid-afternoon. I’d covered the floor in soft fluffy towels, where I reclined in wait of the next dry heave, the next organ-loosening contraction, the next near-death experience.
By late afternoon I had the following conversation with my stomach- here is the transcript:
Me: Hi, Stomach. This is me, Robin. First, I want to say I completely and utterly to submit to the rule you have over my body. If I have slighted you in the past, I do humbly beg your forgiveness.
Stomach: As it should be.
Me: Obviously Amanda contaminated us with a virulent strain of Vomiticus, which forced you to expunge last evening’s choice of dinner- the aforementioned dinner shall remain nameless as I have come to the conclusion that the mere thought of it sends you on a well-deserved jihad against my esophagus.
Stomach: You are observant, my child.
Me: I wonder if I might run a few things by you- feel you out, so to speak.
Stomach: Please, go right ahead. I’ll be sure to inform you if I am displeased.
Me: Thank you, Stomach. You are most gracious. I was wondering how you feel about crackers?
Stomach: I believe this would be a hasty decision. Imagine what non-lubricated cracker bits will do to your esophagus on their way back up.
Me: Your opinion is duly noted. What say you about juice?
Stomach: What kind of juice are you suggesting?
Me: We have grape in the fri--
Stomach: DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A CLEAR LIQUID TO YOU?
Me: Um, no sir.
Stomach: Then perhaps you had best stay away from it.
Me: A pear, then? They’re awfully juicy. Very soft.
Stomach: That’s a negative, ghostrider.
Me: Where did you learn such colloquialisms?
Stomach: Please stay focused.
Me: My apologies. *pause* There are popsicles in the freezer. Cool and soothing....
Stomach: After the juice debacle, I’m afraid to ask what flavor.
Me: Well, they’re creamy coconut but you usually ADORE creamy coconut.
Stomach: Are you high?
Me: No, just sore.
Stomach: Stupid, then?
Me: So the coconut is a no-go. *long pause, cringing* How about some Sprite?
Stomach: Hmmm. Possibly. Maybe you should take a sip?
Me: Is this a trick? Because I did not like the previous revolt and-
Stomach: Do not anger me, missy. I will do as I see fit and you will like it. Do you understand me?
Me: Yes, Stomach. I understand you. So you’d accept a small cup of Sprite? Could I trade two sips of liquid for one cracker nibble?
Stomach: *thinking, thinking* Yes, provided the cracker nibble is extremely well chewed.
Me: *mentally shaking hands* Deal. Two sips for every cracker nibble. I will not disappoint you, Stomach.
Stomach: Let’s hope.
But then Friday morning I woke up with the Stomach Death and I realized I was totally going to have to word vomit my experience into the bowels of the internet again, just like I vomited up a week’s worth of dietary intake straight into my toilet.
It started at three o’clock, a time when the majority of the greater Little Rock area was fast asleep in their dry comfortable beds. When I woke up, my entire body was covered with the kind of sweat that says “I just robbed a convenience store and sprinted for two miles to escape the police, pardon me while I pass out in your front lawn from exhaustion.” Obviously something was wrong, but I’m a stubborn one. I had a vested interest in keeping twenty dollars worth of pan-seared salmon below the Mason-Dixon line.
Four Tums (useless fruit-flavored crap) and an hour later, I was begrudgingly sliding out of bed, only to be hit with a wave of nausea so intense my legs almost gave out. The blood vessels around my eyes, the ones that always burst unattractively after a bout of vomiting, were already preparing themselves by puffing up in excitement.
And so my fifteen hour love affair with the porcelain goddess began. By seven-thirty I was confident I had expunged not only the pan-seared salmon and a gallon and a half of stomach bile, but possibly a kidney as well. I made a pathetic attempt at lightheartedness when I called and left a message for my boss, not realizing until the last second that the stomach acid had damn near ripped my vocal chords in two and I sounded like an eighty-five-year-old man with a four pack-a-day habit. Which meant the verbiage about dying alone in my apartment with two hungry cats who would eventually gnaw off my face sounded unnervingly real. And I was only half joking.
When eight o’clock rolled around, the early morning sweat attack had dried to little crystallized spikes all over my body. Obviously I was dying. Best to speed it up by drowning myself in the tub, where at least I could die warm. Only I’d forgotten to purchase a drain stopper during each previous grocery excursion, which meant I’d have to figure out how to drown myself in the shower. But this required standing, and countless hours of compulsive vomiting had rid me of any coordinated leg movements. So I flipped on the shower nozzle and waited for the hot water to hit my hand before rolling myself over the edge, red trackpants and all.
Unfortunately, my hot water heater is a useless, malignant oozing sore on the face of humanity. It provides about nine minutes of shower-worthy water before abruptly giving out. There are probably ways I could fix this, but I’d lay money on it being older than the invention of fruitcake and I have a strict no-fondling rule for persons and objects greater than twenty years my senior.
And though there was nothing left to give up, no semblance of liquid left in my body, The Goddess and I continued to have a face-to-face relationship until mid-afternoon. I’d covered the floor in soft fluffy towels, where I reclined in wait of the next dry heave, the next organ-loosening contraction, the next near-death experience.
By late afternoon I had the following conversation with my stomach- here is the transcript:
Me: Hi, Stomach. This is me, Robin. First, I want to say I completely and utterly to submit to the rule you have over my body. If I have slighted you in the past, I do humbly beg your forgiveness.
Stomach: As it should be.
Me: Obviously Amanda contaminated us with a virulent strain of Vomiticus, which forced you to expunge last evening’s choice of dinner- the aforementioned dinner shall remain nameless as I have come to the conclusion that the mere thought of it sends you on a well-deserved jihad against my esophagus.
Stomach: You are observant, my child.
Me: I wonder if I might run a few things by you- feel you out, so to speak.
Stomach: Please, go right ahead. I’ll be sure to inform you if I am displeased.
Me: Thank you, Stomach. You are most gracious. I was wondering how you feel about crackers?
Stomach: I believe this would be a hasty decision. Imagine what non-lubricated cracker bits will do to your esophagus on their way back up.
Me: Your opinion is duly noted. What say you about juice?
Stomach: What kind of juice are you suggesting?
Me: We have grape in the fri--
Stomach: DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A CLEAR LIQUID TO YOU?
Me: Um, no sir.
Stomach: Then perhaps you had best stay away from it.
Me: A pear, then? They’re awfully juicy. Very soft.
Stomach: That’s a negative, ghostrider.
Me: Where did you learn such colloquialisms?
Stomach: Please stay focused.
Me: My apologies. *pause* There are popsicles in the freezer. Cool and soothing....
Stomach: After the juice debacle, I’m afraid to ask what flavor.
Me: Well, they’re creamy coconut but you usually ADORE creamy coconut.
Stomach: Are you high?
Me: No, just sore.
Stomach: Stupid, then?
Me: So the coconut is a no-go. *long pause, cringing* How about some Sprite?
Stomach: Hmmm. Possibly. Maybe you should take a sip?
Me: Is this a trick? Because I did not like the previous revolt and-
Stomach: Do not anger me, missy. I will do as I see fit and you will like it. Do you understand me?
Me: Yes, Stomach. I understand you. So you’d accept a small cup of Sprite? Could I trade two sips of liquid for one cracker nibble?
Stomach: *thinking, thinking* Yes, provided the cracker nibble is extremely well chewed.
Me: *mentally shaking hands* Deal. Two sips for every cracker nibble. I will not disappoint you, Stomach.
Stomach: Let’s hope.
Monday, December 11, 2006
What? More snot?
Let’s be honest- at this point I almost have no choice but to morph this blog from a spewing of mindless drivel to a spewing of health related dysfunctions, including examples of my patheticness when sickly. This is not to say I’m over being sick, because I’m not. We have officially kicked off week two in Robin’s Misery Campaign and what better way to make my proposed format transition than by notifying everyone that from this point forward, I will talk incessantly about bowel movements, mucus balls, eye goop, bloody snot and vomiting.
Only I hate talking about bowel movements, this is just where I draw the line. They shouldn’t be discussed with anyone outside of the healthcare profession or that one friend who talks openly about dropping the kids off at the pool. The friend who will openly and unashamedly tell you that now is definitely not the best time to visit the ladies because she’s about to go in there and coat the pipes. We all have this friend so it does you no good to deny it.
It’s just I’ve spent a lifetime of listening to my grandmother describe color and texture and frequency and suppository insertion and pain of poop removal. Add onto that another lifetime of listening to my mother bitch about how she has to smile and nod with concern or appreciation during these stories, and it’s like being tag teamed by herds of angry rhinoceros and gassy warthogs. The rhinoceros are pissed because they’ve had their delicate ears assailed with stories of poop carnage and the warthogs are oblivious to the fact that a) eating the crunchy caterpillars gives them lower intestinal difficulties and b) the rhino’s aren’t really that keen on hearing about the rectal expelling of the caterpillars.
Obviously I need to come up with better analogies. The point being that I’m not going to talk about poop. My poop, your poop or your girlfriend’s poop. I will, however, talk about cat poop. Because that shit stinks and it’s especially foul when it gets stuck in the kitty cat butt-fur. Besides, my whole goal in life is to grow up to be the cantankerous lady next door who smells faintly of cat litter. It’s just an added bonus if I get to smell like cat litter tainted with poop. It’s like asking god to strike a trifling whore with a case of chlamydia and instead he gives her a kid plus thirty pounds of stretch-marked baby weight.
Only I hate talking about bowel movements, this is just where I draw the line. They shouldn’t be discussed with anyone outside of the healthcare profession or that one friend who talks openly about dropping the kids off at the pool. The friend who will openly and unashamedly tell you that now is definitely not the best time to visit the ladies because she’s about to go in there and coat the pipes. We all have this friend so it does you no good to deny it.
It’s just I’ve spent a lifetime of listening to my grandmother describe color and texture and frequency and suppository insertion and pain of poop removal. Add onto that another lifetime of listening to my mother bitch about how she has to smile and nod with concern or appreciation during these stories, and it’s like being tag teamed by herds of angry rhinoceros and gassy warthogs. The rhinoceros are pissed because they’ve had their delicate ears assailed with stories of poop carnage and the warthogs are oblivious to the fact that a) eating the crunchy caterpillars gives them lower intestinal difficulties and b) the rhino’s aren’t really that keen on hearing about the rectal expelling of the caterpillars.
Obviously I need to come up with better analogies. The point being that I’m not going to talk about poop. My poop, your poop or your girlfriend’s poop. I will, however, talk about cat poop. Because that shit stinks and it’s especially foul when it gets stuck in the kitty cat butt-fur. Besides, my whole goal in life is to grow up to be the cantankerous lady next door who smells faintly of cat litter. It’s just an added bonus if I get to smell like cat litter tainted with poop. It’s like asking god to strike a trifling whore with a case of chlamydia and instead he gives her a kid plus thirty pounds of stretch-marked baby weight.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Misery also loves The Real World
Much like yesterday, I spent the majority of my time today in heinous fits of misery. I rotated from the couch to the bed and from the bed to the couch roughly every four hours. Not because I really wanted to, but because I once watched a Primetime report about nursing homes and the horror that is an oozing bedsore. Obviously my bedsore risk rates fairly low, seeing as how I've only been confined to my apartment for three days. I never claimed to be totally rational.
I wish I could enjoy what is effectively a four day weekend but it's amazing how old forcing down popsicles and yogurt can get, especially when one's throat feels like someone set your esophageal area to the pureed setting. I also tend to doze off at the oddest of times, normally snapping to attention when my body has text messaged my sleeping self with 'Hey bitch. U have snot rnng dwn ur face and ur throte needs sum h20. Thnx!! xoxo.'
And then there are the really confusing moments, like when you wake up to two over-zealous Real World sluts performing a vicious oral examination when the last thing you remember is watching a polar bear documentary on Animal Planet. Just in case you're wondering, that's a whole twenty channels worth of flippage or some very coordinated channel selection, all while heavily sedated.
Tomorrow I'm going to make a concerned attempt to make it in to work. This requires that many things be accomplished before 7:30am, specifically, a shower. I'm not sure how that's going to work seeing as how I've had the same black scarf around my neck since Sunday at 2pm. That's going on fifty-five hours of crustification, including the mounting yogurt stains achieved by attempting to feed myself in a semi-prone position. I couldn't be bothered to do more than wipe half-heartedly at them, seeing as how I was conserving my energy for the next time I was going to have to get up and pee.
I wish I could enjoy what is effectively a four day weekend but it's amazing how old forcing down popsicles and yogurt can get, especially when one's throat feels like someone set your esophageal area to the pureed setting. I also tend to doze off at the oddest of times, normally snapping to attention when my body has text messaged my sleeping self with 'Hey bitch. U have snot rnng dwn ur face and ur throte needs sum h20. Thnx!! xoxo.'
And then there are the really confusing moments, like when you wake up to two over-zealous Real World sluts performing a vicious oral examination when the last thing you remember is watching a polar bear documentary on Animal Planet. Just in case you're wondering, that's a whole twenty channels worth of flippage or some very coordinated channel selection, all while heavily sedated.
Tomorrow I'm going to make a concerned attempt to make it in to work. This requires that many things be accomplished before 7:30am, specifically, a shower. I'm not sure how that's going to work seeing as how I've had the same black scarf around my neck since Sunday at 2pm. That's going on fifty-five hours of crustification, including the mounting yogurt stains achieved by attempting to feed myself in a semi-prone position. I couldn't be bothered to do more than wipe half-heartedly at them, seeing as how I was conserving my energy for the next time I was going to have to get up and pee.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
