“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Ok, I know that there are big gaps of time between my posts. I apologize for this, but, as much as you may not believe this, I sometimes go great stretches of time without doing anything worth writing about.

Yeah, shocking, I know.

And sometimes there are things going on that I can't write about because they're too private. Well, private to other people. I don't give a shit about my own privacy. I come on here and write stuff about masturbating and fantasies about sodomizing Paris Hilton against her will. I don't care about MY privacy.

By the way, I don't want anyone to take that Paris Hilton thing as an endorsement of rape. Rape is a terrible, horrifying thing and truly one of the lowest acts mankind has yet thought up. However, I contend that you can't rape Paris Hilton because she doesn't have a soul. Anything that has no soul can't be raped.

Hell, if you did have 'non-consentual' sex with Paris Hilton it would be like her raping you as I'm sure you would lose some of your soul in the process.

On that note I'd like to welcome the two or three new readers I attract each week, every post is someone's first you know. Welcome aboard people!

But yeah, the last couple weeks have been me trying to get some artwork done (which I never seem to do) helping my sister promote a shitty minor-minor-league baseball team (good god they suck) and trying to get my medical shit together.

As it now stands I'm having one leg worked on July 19th, the other sometime two weeks after that and an appointment in Morgantown on the 25th at which we will FINALLY get me in the schedule to get my hernia fixed and get me back to work and back into something resembling a real life.

So naturally I'm terrified.

The thing with my legs is I need to get some minor veins burned out with a laser to improve circulation to the remaining ones and then I'll never have another one of my nifty leg infections. It's outpatient surgery, the actual procedure takes about 20 minutes, but they still have to put me out. Now I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I HATE anesthetics.

Actually, I'll amend that. I kinda like the anesthetics, it's the waking up I dread. See, one time in the local hospital/tire center I went fully under and they did their thing and then I went to recovery. I wake up in a room with sort of dim blue lighting and I quickly become aware that, although I can open my eyes and look around, I can't move.

As you can probably imagine, this was rather unpleasant. Now I want you to further imagine that you're a fan of rather morbid tales. Tales like the episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents entitled 'Breakdown' in which a guy is a big asshole to the people at the medical center he's running and then he goes out and wrecks his car, leaving himself paralyzed and he spends the rest of the episode trying to find a way to convince those around him that he's not really dead. I won't spoil the ending, but here's the episode:

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

That was the 50's version of the episode. The one I had running in vivid detail through my brain was the 1980's remake. I hate to give anything away, so lets just say it didn't end nearly as happily ever after as this one.

Oh, did I forget to mention the I happened to know at the time that they, as most hospitals do, refer to the morgue as the 'blue room'? This is so they can call someone to the 'blue room' over the intercom and people won't know someone just died. Now, knowing that, and knowing that episode AND having blue lighting (and, lets face it, having died once already) basically threw me into a kind of terror I can't even begin to describe to you. I honestly think that if I hadn't been so heavily medicated at the time my mind might have snapped.

I grant you the argument could be made that it DID snap, but my shrink didn't seem to think so.

Of course it really COULD have snapped and I've just been yaying in a hospital bed on life support and I've imagined all of this, but I'd like to think that if I was living in my own subconscious dreamworld it wouldn't suck quite so hard.

Or I'd at least get laid once in a while.

I have no idea how long I was semi-conscious like that. Probably not long, but with perception governing one's reality it felt like days.

Anyways, that's why I don't like to go all the way under. Fortunately, with the leg thing they're just going to give me what they call the 'twilight sleep'. I'm sure most hospitals do this now, but I don't know if they all call it the same thing. Basically it just puts you out for about 20 minutes or so.

I volunteered, even told them I would prefer, to go with just a local anesthetic and stay awake through the process, but they wouldn't go for it. They said they'd tried it before and they couldn't get people to hold still enough. Something about people freaking out a little bit when they smell the bacony scent of their own flesh being burned by a laser.

Pussies.

I even volunteered to have both legs done the same day, but they wouldn't go for that either. They don't seem to think I'd be able to walk out of the hospital afterward.

Apparently they don't know that I'm Superman.

Fuck, I'm willing to bet that I could have both done, not on the same day, but SIMULTANEOUSLY while awake AND singing a rousing rendition of Steve Earle's Copperhead Road.

They said no.

Then they asked for my shrink's phone number.

Damn that song kicks ass though. Here it is! Damn I love YouTube!



So they have me doing the surgeries on different days. Some wussy excuse about AMA regulations. Then once that's done, and the next one is done then you guys get to stop hearing me bitch about all this shit! Yes! I'll have all NEW shit for you to hear me bitch about!

Speaking of bitching, I don't know if I've mentioned it here before but I have a raging case of sleep apnea. My father had it and my brother has it too, but due to having had my nose broken three times I have a case of it that they're actually using my sleep test data in a major medical study.

I'll back up a bit. About three years ago I was in Ohio University Medical Center, a damn fine hospital, and I was being treated for one of the many infections I had to deal with after being hacked on by the butchers at our local slaughterhouse. I mean hospital. Anyways, one morning (ok, afternoon) I awake to find half a dozen people in lab coats standing over me.

I was less surprised than you might think. It happens every few years or so. In fact this time it seemed almost normal as I was actually in a hospital this time...

Seems this batch were from the sleep research department at the other end of the hospital. They heard me snoring. From the other end of a busy hospital. At the moment I awoke they were discussing theories as to why I hadn't died yet.

By the way, if anyone has any good theories as to why I'm still alive please email them to Ford_Maverick@hotmail.com

So I did a sleep study that night. In a sleep study they superglue wires all over your head, chest and legs and have you sleep in a room where they watch you on cameras to observe you. Then halfway through they hook you up to the sleep machine and observe how you do on it.

That night I slept like I never had before. In point of fact, I hadn't had any REM sleep at all from the ages of 13 to 28, so I slept like I hadn't slept in half my life.

So after three or four years the machine died and I've been jumping through hoops to get medicaid to help me get a new one. Step one was going to see the neurologist and getting a new sleep study done, which I did about a month or so ago. Half the night with the machine and half without. Well that wasn't good enough for goddamn medicaid was it? No, the condition that they just fester to tell me is potentially fatal can't be observed to their liking in four hours. No, they needed a full eight hours added to the four I already did to make a total of 12 hours with a condition that they themselves told me is potentially fatal.

So I had to go a whole night without the machine that the company let me borrow while I fight medicaid.

This just proves what I've been saying all along. The United States government does not serve the people. It expects the people to serve it. If you're not serving it, they'd just as soon see you dead. The irony of that is that if they'd helped me when I first asked them to I'd have been back to serving them years ago.

It also means that I'm, once again, picking bits of superglue out of my hair and will be for about a week. This is now all the more complicated due to my hair being pretty long now.

Some time ago I decided I was just going to let it go till I got everything patched up. Then I'd cut my hair and go back to work. There were two reasons for doing this. The first is I just wondered how much hair I could grow in the time it'll take to get all this shit done. The second is what Big John likes to call my 'Mullet Theory'.

See, whenever I have to deal with the government agencies that are “helping me” they give me a whole bunch of shit and make me fill out piles of paperwork, but the guys with mullets get in and out quickly. No one harasses them. They don't seem to fill out any forms. Hell, it's probably because they can't read. And they're out there fucking everything that moves and having kid after kid after kid while I, a semi-educated man of morals (questionable though they may be) haven't been laid since NINETEEN-NINETY-FUCKING-NINE.

Anyway, it's my theory that if I go in there with a big ass head of hair they'll just assume that I'm another illiterate piece of shit and just hand me a check so I can buy crystal meth and a couple bottles of Boone's Farm so I can go knock up high school girls in the back of a Camaro like everyone else in this shit-pit of a town.

By the way, I'm not putting down everyone that has a lot of kids or maybe had an accidental teenage pregnancy or something. You know, shit happens. I just hate the mentality of this place. Too many girls here have no ambition other than to latch onto the first loser they can find and get knocked up so he has to marry them (The shotgun wedding is still kinda popular here) and then they can all go hang out at the Department of Health and Human Resources and bug the shit out of ME.

I am NOT getting a mullet though. I'm letting it all grow out this time. I had a mullet from 1987 to 1996, and mullets are like the chicken pox, you only get them once. I am now immune.

But yes, everything in my life IS a goddamn calamity.

But then you know that already. That's why you keep coming back here, because my suffering amuses you.

Luckily for all of us it amuses me too.

But as we've established, I'm fucked in the head. What the hell is your excuse?

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