Ok, I wake up this morning to go to my eye doctor appointment and find that it's snowing like a motherfucker. I go out briefly to get my prescriptions and it's so slick out I abandon the doctor's appointment and mail the rent check rather than deliver it in person.

The pharmacy, when I get there, has my antibiotic, but the painkiller isn't covered by my insurance. This is made especially frustrating by the fact that I explicitly told the doctor that my insurance was very picky about which painkillers they would pay for and that I knew they would cover vicodin. So naturally, they prescribe something else and I'm now stuck trying to treat extreme tooth pain all weekend with over the counter pain relievers.

And the snow just keeps coming.

Fortunately for the moment the tooth is mostly just kind of numb. Unless something touches it anyways. Then it hurts like someone hit it with a hammer. I'm hoping the antibiotics help with that, at least to the point where aspirin or acetaminophen can take the edge off.

Ugh.

Ok, so I have problems with eye irritation that frequently become infections. So that happened and I went to the doctor who gave me eye drops I told him eye drops alone wouldn't do it, I've seen this before and I know. He insisted they'd do the job and sent me away.

They didn't do the job. I ran out of drops and my eyes still look like I was present at the filming of a Cheech and Chong movie.

While I was using the eye drops I got an ear infection, which I told the doctor I would get, because I've seen this before and I know.

Shortly after the ear infection my teeth on the side of the infected ear started to hurt. Great, it's gone somewhere new, I mused. Well today one of them hurt so bad I thought I'd have a dentist look at it.

So the dentist says I have a cavity and an infection and I need a root canal.

Problem is, they won't do the root canal till my eyes are cleared up.

So I go back to my doctor. Then I get to sign a bunch of papers because there are fucking newspaper reporters following him around today, so I may have my picture in the goddamn paper (whoopity-damn-doo) and he says that the antibiotics that the dentist prescribed will also take care of my eyes, but not to take any of them till I go see a specialist tomorrow.

So my tooth hurts like a son of a bitch, my eyes are itchy and watery and very sensitive to light (and now full of fluorescent dye) and I have to go see another doctor tomorrow before I can start taking the drugs that will clear up my eyes so that I can go get a root canal.

Plus I have to get down to the realty office tomorrow and pay the rent.

On the up side he did say I can start taking the painkillers right away and I'm hoping that the antibiotics will help the tooth hurt less when they kick in, so if I have to wait till Monday for the root canal it won't be total agony.

All this is made extra fun by the fact that it's my first ever root canal in my first ever cavity. The dentist will be putting a temporary cap on it after the procedure (which I guess means they'll be sawing off the top of my goddamn tooth) and it will last for a little while, but I'll later need to get a permanent cap put on. My insurance covers everything but the permanent cap.

Good news is the permanent cap will only cost $800.

Did I mention it's supposed to snow tomorrow?

Oh goody...

I'm back. Haven't developed super-powers yet that I'm aware of, unless of course wanting to have a radioactive, barium chunk-blow is a super power.

So I'm up and preparing for my cat scan. It's not till 12:30, but I woke up at 5 AM (after going to bed at midnight) and absolutely could not fall back to sleep. So I got up, had a light breakfast (getting in right under the 'nothing to eat or drink 4 hours before the appointment' line) and here in a few minutes I'll get dressed and make sure the car is going to start. It's fairly warm, so I think I'm good there. Thanks for all the well-wishes guys. Now, does anyone know who in the radiology department I need to slip a few bucks to so they'll give me the Incredible Hulk superhero radiation as opposed to the old boring radiation?

Ok, so I went to the surgeon yesterday. Not a new surgeon, but one I've seen at least once before. See, he's the guy that referred me to the guy that referred me to a woman who referred me back to him again.

So I explain to him the reason for me being in his office yet again, that being the circle of referrals due, pretty much entirely, on the fact that everyone agrees that I need weight loss surgery but Medicaid won't pay for it.

Bear in mind that this very surgeon was one of the people that told me this when I last saw him. Not just that, but he recognized me (most people do, given my incredible studliness and all) so it was to my surprise that HE was surprised that this had been a problem. It seems that he's had several patients get weight loss surgery over the last year and Medicaid paid for all of them.

So I have good news, he's going to get Medicaid to do the weight loss surgery, but this is balanced by my wondering why the fuck he couldn't have told me this eleven fucking months ago.

Anyhow, upside is I should be well on my way to being well very soon. I'll post more details as they come up. I'm actually planning a lengthier post, but I wanted to break this to everyone right away.

Hey, it's within 24 hours of my finding out. To me, that's right away.

Ok... someone's gotta die.

I spend a week out at Mom's, which was ok except that the summer weather out there makes me sick as hell, then my relationship goes south (no fault to the person I was dating, but it's still a downer), then I get to go see one of my favorite movies Evil Dead 2 at the magnificent Ohio Theater and when I get home I discover that I have another red spot on my leg which indicates I have another infection.

Fuuuuuck...

Since it's well after 1 AM by that point I have to go to the emergency room where I stay till 7 AM. After having been stuck in every vein in my right arm they send me home with prescriptions and orders to see my physician ASAP. Not a problem, I said, I have an appointment with her on Monday.

See, I was supposed to see her last Wednesday about my stomach muscles continuing to rip open (which I see as something of a problem) but the appointment got canceled when my doctor called in sick. So I get an automated call on Thursday telling me I have an appointment on Monday, what would you think? You'd think that was a reschedule right? Now ask me why I'm fucking pissed...

I get to the office at 10 for my 10:30 appointment. I sit there till 11:30. They don't call me back. Eventually someone informs me that I was there for the weight loss group.

This was news to me.

I was moderately pissed.

I decide to go to the meeting just so that next time someone asked me I could say I'd been to one and have the paperwork to back it up. They ask me what my story is and I explain my whole story and how my hernia is my hurdle towards fixing my weight problem and they agreed.

They said, well we can't do anything to help that. Why are you here?

Now, I try really, really hard on your average day to not stab anybody, but today I really fucking wanted to. I wanted to stab someone in the fucking face in front of their fucking mother. Not only did I not get to talk to my doctor about my renewed concerns over my stomach and show her the infection in my leg, but I wasted a whole day going to this stupid fucking meeting where even they tell me I shouldn't fucking be there.

Buuut, while I AM there they go ahead and give me the lecture about how it's my fault I'm fat and I'm only not losing weight because I stubbornly refuse to make myself thin by doing whatever stupid fucking thing they've decided this week will make me thin, and it really ticks me off that these things are always disputed as soon as I start doing them. So it's my fault I'm fat if I don't do your new diet that's going to be discredited right after I go out and buy all the bland shit they say I'm supposed to eat, and since I refuse to do the thing in question then they're justified in telling me I've got a lot of nerve for wanting medical help.

DOCTOR: “All you have to do to lose weight is stand on your head and eat nothing but peanut-butter!"

ME: “Well that sounds fucking stupid, but you're a doctor, so here goes...”

DOCTOR: “Wait! What are you doing?”

ME: “I'm doing the thing you said to do...”

DOCTOR: “Well stop it, it'll fucking kill you!”

After that happens a few times the only sane response is to quit playing the fucking game, but when you quit playing they use that as a means of further denying you, so you're just fucked.

So I have until Thursday to renew my driver's license, which I could have done today if not for the fucking medical snipe hunt I got sent on. Well, I suppose I could do it today still, they're open for 2 more hours, but I already want to stab someone and that's the feeling you're supposed to LEAVE the DMV having, you don't want to go in there already feeling that way.

That's how people get stabbed.

But guess what? It's my fucking birthday Thursday! And what a fucking great fucking birthday it's shaping up to fucking be!

I have plans to go out with groups of friends on Friday and Saturday nights and, in all seriousness, both promise to be a lot of fun. I just hope I'm not too much of a mopey pain in the ass for everyone to enjoy themselves.

PS: Just went out to go to the DMV. My car won't start. The starter is finally dead. It'll cost me about $30 to fix if I do it myself, but I just don't have it in me today.

PPS: Just a thought, but the last bit of life in my car's starter would have gotten me to the DMV had I not wasted it going to my bogus doctor's appointment.

So yes, once again I've been away for an inexcusably long time and once again I'm going to attempt to excuse it.

Truth is, I've barely been home in weeks. First I had the whole New Mexico thing, which I have yet to write about, and then I was house sitting for a friend and now I'm house sitting for another friend. Should be home tomorrow night though.

So, two things for now. First, I had an appointment with my new doctor the other day. I went in solely to get a referral to a surgeon. I have become very familiar with the referral system in the last few years. It is the process by which doctors simultaneously test the patience of both the person seeking medical aid and the patience of the planet as each doctor in the chain of referrals asks you to fill out the same stack of fucking forms as every other doctor just to keep you busy while they read the forms you've already filled out at the other fucking doctor's offices.

Personally, I think they're checking for lies.

That or they're grading us on our penmanship.

So I had something of a first at this doctor's office. See, every time I go into a new doctor (or the same doctor if they don't recognize me) they always ask if I'm a diabetic.

They do this because my hernia makes me look much larger than I really am. And this is a problem because, on top of the hernia making me look much fatter than I really am, I'm a gigantic fat-ass.

So right now, my look is fat on top of fat with a side order of hung over.

Yeah, that's right. I'm bringing sexy motherfucking back over here.

And before I get a bunch of emails from everyone giving me shit, I am NOT going to the doctor's offices hung over. I simply LOOK hung over because I show up about ten minutes late, sweaty and with hair flailing wildly because, invariably, I've overslept and just barely made it to the appointment.

This is almost excusable at 9 AM.

Somewhat less so at 3 PM.

Where was I? Oh yeah, so the forms ask me if I'm diabetic. I check no, because I am, in fact, not a diabetic.

So the intake nurse asks me if I'm a diabetic. I reply "No" because, as previously stated, I'm not a diabetic. At this point, rather than go through the list and ask me all the other questions off the form that I just wasted many valuable minutes of my life filling out for them, the intake nurse leaves the room and comes back with a blood glucose meter.

See, I have encountered this before. The scientific mind. They see a big fat fuck come in the office and he just HAS to be a diabetic. It's impossible for them to think otherwise. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck then it must goddamn, jolly-well be a big fat motherfucking diabetic duck.

But he continues as they all do. "When is the last time you had your blood tested?" I reply "The last time I was at a doctor's office." "Well we have a new test we'd like to try." They always say that and it's always bullshit. I'm willing to bet that the fucking test hasn't changed in like 50 fucking years. "We have a new test" is doctorspeak for "We think you're lying to us for some inexplicable reason because you're a big fat fuck and we learned on the first day of doctor school that every big fat fuck is a diabetic ESPECIALLY if they say they're not".

So he sticks me with the fucking needle thing and has the nerve to look surprised when my blood-sugar level was, in his own words, PERFECT.

He went on to look further shocked when I explained that I'd been fasting before the appointment (Nothing to eat or drink after midnight the previous night) because I KNEW they were going to test my blood-sugar. This meant that my blood-sugar was ASTOUNDINGLY perfect.

I expected, as many of you might be right now, that would have been the end of things.

So the doctor comes in. Little skinny woman. I could tell by looking at her that she'd been skinny her whole life too. I hate skinny doctors. They have no sympathy at all for fat people and they don't understand how hard it is to lose weight because they've never had to. They just say "You're too fucking fat. Lose some goddamn weight".

Alright, they don't say it just like that.

Well, a couple have.

Anyways. Doctor Anorexia looks at the forms I filled out, looks at the test strip and the form filled out by the other doctor and then tests my blood-sugar A SECOND FUCKING TIME!

Now, it's not like I don't have plenty of blood or anything and I've become almost comfortable with doctors thinking I'm lying to them, but now they're not even taking the word of THEIR OWN FUCKING STAFF.

Like what? For some reason I've not only lied about my state of health, but I've managed to get their staff in on it too? Was the other test stick some elaborate forgery? Or did she think the nurse fucked up the test? CAN you even fuck up that test? It's a needle stick, the blood drop goes into the machine and the fucking microchips do all the fucking work. Have I gotten the machine in on my little scheme? I'm pretty sure that if I could talk to machines and talk them into lying for me I'd be seeing a better class of health care people and I'd already have all this fucking surgery crap out of the way and be on to a fabulous run of world-domination.

And when I do rule the world (and I will) it'll be the skinny doctors that'll be the first up against the fucking wall.

Skinny doctors and Joel Schumacher, but that's another rant entirely that we don't have fucking time for right now...

But after all that shit, Doctor Skinny tells me I'm too fat, I need to lose weight and she hooks me up with a referral to a surgeon on the 8th of next month. Whichever month next month is. It's one of the hot months, I know that much. So on whatever the 8th at 2 PM I'll be seeing a surgeon back at the doctor's office where I had my last round of really good surgery done and I see from the paperwork that one of the doctors that worked on me back then is still at those offices which I take to be a good sign.

So yeah, sometime after the 8th I should have some small inkling of when my next surgery might be.

And what else? I said at the beginning that I had a second thing...

Oh yes, the whole reason I started writing in the first place tonight. I was sitting here fucking around on the internet when I glanced at the newspaper and saw that they've brought back Jarts (or 'lawn darts'). For those of you that don't remember them, Jarts were quite possibly the most insanely stupid fucking idea to ever make it off the drawing board. They were huge, plastic darts with metal points on them. These miniature javelins were then given to CHILDREN to take outside and hurl INTO THE AIR in an attempt to hit a target several yards away.

It's no wonder that they were banned shortly after the ganja cloud that was the 1970's dissipated, but now they've brought them back, but they're all fucking Nerfed and shit! You can't bring back lawn darts and have them be fucking safe! The whole point of them is to show just how blindly stupid marketing people are and how consumers are even fucking dumber for buying these emergency room visits in a fucking box!

No wonder our industries are in the toilet and our children are getting dumber. Things like lawn darts used to serve a function. They thinned the herd! If you don't clear out some of the dumb ones then how do the smart prevail?

Stop making the world safe for the stupid people! You're not doing them or yourselves any favors. Either have lawn darts continue to be banned or bring back the old dangerous ones, but don't ruin my Darwinnian existence by making everything safe.

Stupid people NEED to die dammit!

The people that made Jarts safe will be up against the wall right behind the skinny fucking doctors...




Oh yeah, for those of you keeping track, this was post number 666 so hail Satan and all that.

You know that thing where I need to do something, but before I can do that thing it turns out I have to do a second thing, but that second thing can't possibly be done till I get the first thing done?

It's called a Catch 22 and it's the story of my fucking life.

See, I found the perfect apartment in Columbus. A 2-bedroom for less than I've seen some of the efficiencies going for. I can easily afford it on what I'll be getting from disability when it's adjusted for me paying rent. Problem is, the apartment people don't feel that I make enough money to rent their apartment right now.

This is because, since I'm living in my Grandmother's house and not paying rent I'm getting less than the full amount from SSD. As I tried to explain to them once I move I WILL have enough money, because when I start paying rent I'll get the full disability benefit. It's the way disability works. In fact, the disability people said that no landlord should have a problem with this and if they do all they have to do is call the local disability people and they'll explain it. Unfortunately the apartment people don't wanna call the disability people. No, they want a letter from my Mom saying that she's been helping me financially.

I'm 34 years old and I can't rent their apartment without a note from my Mom.

Well Mom doesn't want to write that letter because she's afraid that if she puts it in writing that she occasionally helps me out then disability will use that as an excuse to stop helping me themselves and
I must admit it's a valid concern.

Ironically, part of the point of moving is that once I move and disability adjusts I won't need Mom to help me.

So here's where we are:

I want to move to Columbus to use my medicaid benefits to get surgery to get off of medicaid and go back to work.

I found the perfect apartment and even a potential roommate, but the apartment people say I don't have enough money.

To get the money I need to move, but I can't move without the money.

If Mom writes the letter so I can move then I could lose my health insurance (and with it the money from which I'd be paying the rent on the apartment) and if I lose my health insurance I can't get my surgery done.

If I can't get my surgery done then that eliminates the main reason for moving.

And no, I'm not missing the obvious solution of simply starting to pay my Grandmother rent. It's just that God only knows when they'll finally fix things with the disability. Probably not till at LEAST next month, and the apartment people want to see proof of TWO payments. Even if I wait that long to get the proof they want odds are the apartment will be gone.

Plus, I'd hate to potentially mess up Grandma's medicare by suddenly giving her an income upon which she'd have to file a tax return, not to mention that she'd probably have to file an assload of paperwork with the city. It's not that I have a problem with giving her money, it's just that I don't want to put her in the same boat I'm in.

Fuck it. I'm gonna go get a few hours sleep.

Certain events are about to be set in motion that should help my situation and will, at the very least, change my life very dramatically.

I'm not ready to post them here yet, but soon.

Till then, here's a little something that always makes me happy:

K, you might not want to read this one.



So I had a doctor's appointment in Morgantown yesterday.

Actually, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Remember that CAT scan I had a couple months ago?

Wait, that's too far ahead too...

Remember that fucking surgery I had last fucking August that was supposed to fix all my fucking problems?

I get it done and the next day. The NEXT DAY, they make me get up and walk. Yes, I know, I had to get up and walk, but Christ, I had a goddamn two-foot hole in me. Can you give me a goddamn DAY?

Apparently not.

The pain, even through the morphine, was exquisite.

I get about three steps down the hall and I feel something pop.

The last time I had something pop in my midsection all this horseshit started, so I head back to my bed and tell the nurse who said “Well he's sure moving fast NOW.” to gargle my fucking urine sample.

I didn't realize the significance of that pop.

Anyways, few weeks later I develop the MRSA infection, back into the hospital, shortly afterward the 'swelling' begins. I complain about the 'swelling' to my surgeon on no less than two occasions. The swelling and the sounds of gurgling fluid and the little lumps that I can see moving around under the skin.

You know, cause things like that kinda fucking BOTHER ME.

Well my surgeon, who was just showing up for his last few weeks at the hospital before he moved on to North Carolina told me it was nothing (on both occasions) maybe some fluid. Call them back if it didn't go away after a couple months.

It didn't go away, I started calling, nobody answered my calls.

After a MONTH of calling (during the regular business hours they themselves quoted in the recorded message) someone answered the goddamn phone.

I told her what the problem was, told her who my now-absent surgeon had been and that he'd said one of his staff members would see me when he was gone. She said she'd call back when she knew who I was supposed to see.

She didn't.

After a few more weeks I get someone on the phone again. I explain things AGAIN. She (maybe not the same she as last time) told me that they'd lost a lot of surgeons and advised me to get a CAT scan here in Parkersburg and send it up and someone would look at it and call me.

I get the goddamn CAT scan.

The goddamn hospital sends the goddamn CAT scan to Morgantown.

I don't hear a goddamn word.

I call a few more times and eventually get someone to answer again and I explain that They were supposed to get my results and have someone look at them. She seemed confused. Like I'd just asked something completely absurd.

Receptionist: “What surgeon were they sent to sir?”

Me: “I don't know.”

Receptionist: “How can you not know? Who did you see when you were here last?”

Me: “Dr. *******.”

Receptionist: “Dr. ******* no longer has an office here.”

Me: “Yes, I know.”

Receptionist: “Then what do you want?”

Me: “My CAT scan was sent up there for SOMEONE to look at and tell me what's going on.”

Receptionist: “I'll have to have someone call you.”

So after that bullshit the hospital down here tells me that everything fixed in the last surgery has come open again in one giant clusterfuck-catastrophe.

But how can that be? Things haven't changed that much since the last TWO times I saw my surgeon and he said I was fine.

A few more calls and I have an appointment in Morgantown.

That was March 15th.

Two months ago.

The appointment was May 15th.

Yesterday.

I know because I WROTE IT DOWN. I didn't just write it down, but I called my Mom and told her and arranged for a ride (because, sadly enough, her 99 Mercury Mountaineer SUV gets better gas millage than my precious automobile) and got tings rolling as soon as I could.

I go to Morgantown, two hours away, with gas at $3.99 a fucking gallon. Got there early, noonish, because I couldn't remember if my appointment was at 1 PM or 3 PM.

I ask the woman behind the counter when my appointment is.

She says July 11th.

I'd always heard the expression 'blood boiling', but I was suddenly seconds away from scalding people to death as flaming plasma shot out of my ears.

“No, (I said, maintaining my composure) my appointment is TODAY.”

And I got in. That is, of course, after they asked me my entire medical history again and who I was there to see and again through the story about how I didn't know who I was supposed to see.

And I remarked to myself, not for the first time, that it was almost like they didn't want to see me.

So I wait for three hours (which did WONDERS for my mood) and finally get to the back where all the previous conversations throughout the day had to be gone through AGAIN.

I've often wondered, maybe one of you readers can tell me, I see them writing shit down every time I have to go through this bullshit about my medical history and unless they're just doing fucking Mad Libs to pass the time you'd think one of these written accounts of my bloody saga would save me the breath of explaining all this shit more than once per fucking VISIT. It's not like it goddamn changes from telling to telling.

But we get through all that shit and I get to ask the nurse who looked at my CAT scan (the one sent two months earlier) and what they thought of it.

She explained that they didn't have it, so nobody had seen it.

I think at that point I DID feel a tiny trickle of blood run down from my left ear.

Must have evaporated into steam.

Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to go to the hospital and get copies of my CAT scan data myself the day before and bring it with me (after first making a copy for my personal records) to the goddamn appointment that apparently never goddamn existed.

But I am looking at the fucking note right now...

So I give her the disc, she takes it to the doctor, she looks at it, comes in and explains to me that everything fixed in the last surgery has come open again in one giant clusterfuck-catastrophe.

But how could this be? Since all the symptoms I described were present at my last two visits and I was told I was fine and sent away?

Something I've noticed about doctors, they're damn good at avoiding questions when they want to.

They avoided the living shit out of that one.

And I did ask more than once.

They WERE nice enough to explain that once I lost a little more weight they would be happy to try again. Then they set up a return appointment for July, probably the same day as the other one I supposedly had, and sent me on my way with two new hernia binders.

So at least I got SOMETHING out of the trip



Now at this point I need to ask everyone their opinion. Is it just me, or does it seem that they knew something they didn't want to share with me? Something that might have been A LITTLE FUCKING BIT IMPORTANT?

I think tomorrow I'm going to sleep half the fucking day, then get fucking drunk off my fucking ass and call a fucking lawyer.

What do you think?

Yeah, I know it's April Fools day, but the following post is, unfortunately, very true.

If anything it's life playing April Fool's on me.

A few weeks ago I had a CAT scan on my stomach and groin as the next step in taking care of my lingering post surgery swelling. See, the surgeon in Morgantown told me that if the swelling didn't go away in three months or so to call them because there may be a problem. After several months of them not returning my phone calls they finally told me to see my doctor down here and get a CAT scan and we'd go from there.

Well last week I call my local doctor. The results are in. They want me to come in so they can talk to me in person about them.

Fuck.

Seems the report from the hospital says that the entire hernia has come back open, a possibility my surgeon once referred to as 'catastrophic'. It says that the surgical mesh has come undone and 'rolled up like a window blind' and what I thought was swelling was actually my large intestine and bladder sticking out through the newly opened hole.

Now I'm not going to panic just yet. I have a few very good reasons to be skeptical of their findings.

#1: I still feel better than I did before my last round of surgery and my stomach still looks and feels the same way it did the last time my surgeon looked at it and said it was ok.

#2: I'm not being egotistical when I say that the geography of my abdominal area is unique. I think it would take someone very familiar with my anatomy and very good at reading CAT scans to know which end was up.

#3: I surely would have noticed the kind of damage he described happening. I've become sickeningly familiar with the feeling of my guts ripping open over the last few years. I think I'd have noticed the complete catastrophic failure of a surgery that ranks among the most painful experiences of my life (and it's quite an impressive list).

#4: I walked into and back out of the office under my own power, something my doctor had to admit would have been difficult for someone in my supposed condition. Ok, granted, I am still walking with the cane I bought right after my last surgery, but it's less because I need the support and more because it's a socially acceptable reason for carrying around a three foot length of pipe. Plus it's got skulls on it and it looks totally bad-ass.

#5: The doctors/hospitals in this town SUCK.

So I remain hopefully optimistic. I already have an appointment back in Morgantown on May 15th. Problem there is apparently the surgeon that performed my surgery has left. He actually left last December. Since then pretty much everyone he worked with (and everyone else from the sound of it) have also left. So chances are that anyone there that might have some insight into what was done in my operation probably isn't there anymore.

This leaves me to try to maintain a sense of calm for the next month and a half while I wait to see someone that's never met me or my innards before and might still not know what they're looking at when they get the film.

On one good note my doctor down here said that he was sending the scan results up there and they would look at them and call me if they decided I needed to come up sooner. How is this good? They've had them for a week and they haven't called. I take that to mean it can't be too bad.

Best case scenario, there's nothing wrong at all and the local idiots have put me on the edge of complete panic for no good reason at all.

Worst case scenario, it has come back open and they refuse to fix it again, which is a possibility they had mentioned ad-nauseum. If I just keep it bound up I can live with it. It'll suck, but I can live with it. At least it doesn't hurt. I mean, it's taxing as all hell, but I'll take that over the unbearable pain that I should be feeling.

Chances are if it has re-opened someone will try to fix it, but probably not till I've lost another 100 lbs. I am still losing weight, but very slowly. Another 100 lbs will take (conservatively) up to a year.

Guess I'll just have to continue living off you taxpayers till then.

You know, I take it back, I guess this is kind of an April Fool's isn't it?

Had a doctor's appointment in Morgantown yesterday. The doc seems satisfied that the killer infection is gone and the wound is almost healed. I've lost two more lbs, I'm sleep deprived and I still suck at Halo 3 multiplayer.

Now on to the bitching.

I went out today to pay some bills and, as always, I was amazed by the number of Dale Earnhardt stickers on peoples cars.

FUCK DALE EARNHARDT

Jesus I'd love to say that out loud in this town, but if I did the coroner would retire before he pulled all the bullets out of me.

Seriously though, he was a fucking NASCAR driver. He drove in a fucking circle for a living. Then he died. Why the fuck do people still have “Gone to race in a better place” (Rather a presumptuous assumption I might add) stickers on their fucking cars? And they're not old stickers. Cars that came out THIS YEAR have those fucking stickers and he died in 2001. I died in 2001, where's my fucking stickers?

Interestingly enough, I died the same week as Wendy's founder Dave Thomas.

That doesn't have anything to do with anything. It's just the first thing I saw on TV when I came out of my miniature coma.

Sometimes I'll be in a place where I feel safe enough to ask a NASCAR fan what their fascination with Earnhardt is and they always give me a big story about how talented he was (he turned left REAL GOOD) What a good role model he was (again, he turned left FOR A LIVING) and how selfless he was because when he died he was blocking for his son and the other partner on their team so that one or the other of them could get their first 1st place win.

Selfless? Motherfucker owned ALL THREE CARS. Trying to win 1st, 2nd AND 3rd place in the same goddamn race isn't selfless. Fucking greedy and assholish is what it is. And it always bothered me that in NASCAR they have 'teams'. It's just a way of ensuring that the people with the most money to spend come in first.

I guess NASCAR makes a pretty good analogy for our capitalist culture that way. Going around and around in circles for an eternity and the richest guy always wins. I may have to look into that metaphor a little more.

Come to think of it, haven't I bitched about this before? I think I did a few years ago. It's still going on.

Get the fuck over it assholes.

On to more important matters, Jay sent me this link, but I've heard this elsewhere too. Hollywood is having it's worst October in years, like 27% below average, and they're blaming it on Halo 3.

Now there is a lot of credibility to this seeing as how Halo 3 totally rules, but you can't lay all the blame at Microsoft's feet. The example everyone is using is The Heartbreak Kid. They're a little upset that it totally bombed. They spent like 60 million on it and it grossed about 15 in it's opening weekend. Is it Halo's fault that the trailers for that movie looked fucking god-awful? Is it Halo's fault that maybe people are sick to death of romantic comedies by the Farrely brothers and/or starring Ben Stiller?

And can someone explain to me how you spend 60 million fucking dollars on a comedy? What, was one of the main characters CGI or something? And beyond that, how do you spend 60 million dollars on ANYTHING and still have Carlos Mencia in it? I'd say deport him, but he's not Mexican. He just plays one on TV.

For a comedy you'd think they would have gotten someone funny for the role.

But I digress.

Look, they spent three years making Halo 3 (about the length of time it takes to film a movie), it was budgeted and promoted like a feature film, it has a better story to it than anything Hollywood has produced in a while, with multiplayer (on or offline) it's virtually endless, and you can buy it for about what it costs to take a date to the movie theater for the evening.

Plus, it's Mencia free.

So yeah, buy Halo 3 and fuck Hollywood.

At least till they make the Halo movie...

Ugh.

So I'm still in at my place, where I appear to still be healing.

Yay.

Actually I feel pretty good, but dammit, I'm ready to be fucking healed up already. Oh well, nature is nature I suppose.

So when I went back into the hospital they cultured the infection (some of this I've already touched on) and it's that MRSA crap. Yeah, the shit that's immune to every form of penicillin. Not type that's going around the high school gymnasiums (I know what you sick fuckers are thinking) it's the strain that you can only get in the hospital.

Yes, that's right, somehow my toxic pit of a house didn't make me sick, the fucking HOSPITAL did. In fact, the hospital has made my house more toxic since I have to keep changing the bandages on these wounds and have thereby acquired a big plastic bag full of this nasty bacteria.

It's ok though. Thursday is trash day.

But yeah, that second infected spot? I was watching it and it was only getting worse so I performed a bit of minor surgery that night and then went to the emergency room the next day.

And before you all bitch me out they actually told me that I did TOO GOOD A JOB taking care of it

I'd also like to announce that I've now done about a week and a half without any painkillers and almost two months with no narcotic diet pills.

However, I've noticed that with the decline in my intake of controlled substances I've really fallen back on my old feel-good habits. Namely refined sugar and porn/masturbating.

I'm not proud of it, but I fell off the wagon. I bought a six pack of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

I only ate four of them though.

The other two are best not asked about.

We will not speak of this again.

But yeah, I'd mentioned before that I was getting Halo 3. I pre-ordered it and Jay was going to pick it up for me. Unfortunately, the day he was to deliver it was the day I went back into the hospital, so that was three days lost right there. Three days was apparently enough time for every goddamn twelve-year-old to memorize every goddamn multiplayer level...

Yeah, that's right. I finally signed up for X-Box Live (XBL). I didn't want to. My friends MADE me do it

Just like some of them MADE me play World Of Warcraft and then fucking bailed on me.

Dicks.

I'll get a bit more millage out of the XBL though I think. At least with it I can play Halo with the people I used to play it with before they caught that most dreaded of sexually transmitted diseases: CHILDREN.

Be a cold day in hell when that happens to me I'll tell you that...


So just for the record:

World Of Warcraft: Shadowmoon Server
Character #1: Yorack, Undead Warrior
Character #2: Azzaziel, Blood Elf Paladin

X-Box Live Gamertag: Ford Maverick


I'll be on one or the other a lot as I continue to recover from the injuries I already have and whatever new ones medical science intends to inflict upon me before we're through here.


By the way, I've already seen the Halo 3 ending twice. It rules. Really brings the trilogy together. You must though, MUST, watch the bit after the credits.

The graphics are gorgeous (even on my standard-def TV).

The story mode, though too short, is nonetheless sweet.

The multiplayer is an improvement over Halo 2, and those are words I never thought I'd ever be able to say. This is regardless of the fact that I really hate most of the random people playing Halo online. This is nothing new, as I hate probably 90% of the people playing Warcraft too. The secret is to add your friends and only play them.

Unless you're really good, then you can suck my balls.

Figuratively, of course, as you're probably underage.

Fuckers.

Went to the Emergency Room here in town, they said everything is cool. So I'm gonna chill out till tomorrow and call my doctor's office in Morgantown. They may want me to go back up, maybe not, who fuckin' knows?

For the time being I'm back home.

FUCK!!!

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So they sent me home, cause everything was cool, and I'm not home two whole days when I start to see another of these fucking blisters that's gonna pop.

This means I'm probably going to have to go back to the hospital tomorrow.

This means I'm goddamn pissed.

Know what bugs me the most? The spot that developed the blister is a spot I complained about to the doctors THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME I WAS FUCKING IN THERE!!!

FUCK!!!

Fuck 'em. I'm not going. I have the meds here. Not much more they can do there. Just means I'll have an extra wound to pack is all. I'm not going back the fuck up there, three hour fucking drive, for something I fucking TOLD THEM ABOUT BEFORE I FUCKING LEFT!!!

Why ask me if anything is bothering me if you're going to ignore my fucking answer?

And the CAT scan? The one that I had to drink radioactive shit for? Yeah, it said there was nothing wrong. I guess it meant everything but THIS.

Awright, it is a teensy bit my fault. They said "Looks like we may be able to send you home today." And I said "Sweet!" Cause I had a copy of Halo 3 waiting for me at home. I should have fucking questioned it and stayed another day or two.

There is the possibility that the medication will kill enough of the infection overnight that the blister doesn't rupture.

There's also the possibility that my shit will turn purple and smell like rainbow sherbert.

Guess we'll see tomorrow.

Ok, so Friday evening I'm sitting around watching TV with the guys and I find a small bump in the middle of my scar.

I figure "Great, I tore open a couple stitches and have already started on a new hernia."

I make plans to go to call my surgeon in the morning.

I end up staying up all night because I felt like shit and decided to have my Mom give me a lift to the Emergency Room. So I'm just sitting in the living room, watching TV, feeling like crap. Mom comes in and says "What's bleeding?"

Bleeding? I wasn't bleeding.

I look at my shirt.

There's a spot of blood.

Oh, FUCK.

Well I pull up my shirt and my hernia binder is soaked clear through. Open the binder and there's blood freely running out of a nice quarter-sized hole where, previously, had been my little bump.

I found this a tad vexing.

So we go to the local hospital that didn't kill me. They gave me some shit at the front counter. Went kinda like this:

"What's the reason for your visit?" (The blood spot is quite visibly getting larger through my shirt at this point.)

"I'm BLEEDING."

"Ok, fill out this form."

The form simply consisted of my name, asked about any drug allergies, and again asked why I was there.

I was starting to wonder myself.

I fill it out and hand it to her.

REASON FOR VISIT: Profuse bleeding from abdomen.

SYMPTOMS: BLOOD!

They eventually take me back. In all fairness, it WAS the fastest I've ever gotten into an Emergency Room.

I think I only lost a pint.

Well they check me over, the bleeding stopped, and they send me to Morgantown.

They DID have the nerve to ask me if I'd ever been diagnosed as anemic before. I told them I wasn't fucking anemic till they made me bleed out in the fucking waiting room.

So I spent the last couple days in Morgantown. They pumped me full of antibiotics, made me drink radioactive dye, got a CAT scan (where they gave me MORE radioactive dye) and then they decided that they gave me the wrong antibiotics because I have that crap you catch at the hospital that's immune to all forms of penicillin.

So now I'm on the right drugs and I'm back home. How was your week?

Ok, I couldn't take it any more. I'm back in town.

I think the fact that I was sleeping in the same room with the gun cabinet had a lot to do with my decision.

Look over at the TV, to whatever inane show my sister left it on. Knowing for a fact that the remote control is IN the goddamn room somewhere but she refuses to look for it and I can't. Bracing myself for that first gut-wrenching of the morning, and then I see the guns...

Yeah, that wasn't good for me at all.

I mean, I wouldn't do it, but my resolve WAS wavering.

Not to mention Mom was starting to assign me chores. It started with little things like wanting me to paint things on umbrellas (I don't know either) to building birdhouses and evolved to having dinner ready when she got home and pruning the trees in the yard.

No, I didn't do any of it. I got sick of hearing about it though.

I also had to get back in town where I could buy things like FOOD.

See, Mom works and Grandma gets "Meals On Wheels" so Mom doesn't keep anything in the house. She brings home dinner and that's about it.

Now she told me she'd pick some stuff up for me, which I offered to pay for, but I just couldn't go get it myself. Well it didn't take her long to realize that I had to eat whatever she gave me.

Exhibit A: I explained that carbonated beverages hurt like fucking hell passing through my newly shuffled innards. From that point on the only thing we had to drink was either soda or unsweetened, powdered, iced-tea mix.

Exhibit B: I asked for milk. That's it. MILK. However, milk now costs $4.00 a gallon (which I AGAIN offered to pay) but Mom couldn't understand why I didn't just drink the old pints of milk that Grandma got with her Meals On Wheels that had been left out for hours, then frozen, and then had to be thawed out and no matter what you do with them they still taste spoiled.

Well I didn't give up on this one. I kept bitching about it and she took it a step further. She bought powdered milk.

The powdered milk alone wasn't really the bad part. It's the fact that she mixed it herself. I didn't drink any, but I know her well enough to know that, like the tea she swore she sweetened, she mixed that milk so thin that it was nothing more than white water.

She demanded that I use the powdered milk she bought. I said I'd use it to make tomato soup if she'd buy me some.

In a month I saw not one can of ANY kind of soup.

I found that the surest way to guarantee I wouldn't get something was to ask for it.

Honestly. Gallon of milk. Apparently too much to ask for.

Now there is SOME food in her fridge, but it's all spoiled. I think it's there just to vaguely remind us what food used to look like.

I could have dealt with the food thing though. It's the fact that Mom had started making up things for me to do. For instance, you remember me bitching about the lawnmower deck that she insisted I could fix if I'd just shut up and go do it? Well she finally paid someone else to fix it. Cost her $20. If I'd have known that I'd have gladly paid the guy a fucking year ago so I wouldn't have to hear about it.

Anyhow, it's fixed, it's back at the house, she wants me to put it back on the mower.

THIS I actually know how to do. Problem is the fucking mower deck weighs well over 100 lbs. No amount of explaining can make her understand that there's NO FUCKING WAY I CAN POSSIBLY DO THIS. I'd have to drive the tractor out of the garage (I was forbidden to operate motor vehicles for a month) maneuver the 100 to 200 lb deck under it, and then, on my back, lift the heavy steel thing with the blades into position and with THE OTHER HAND clip it in place.

Now, perhaps I'm laboring under a great misconception here, but you'd think that most people might be able to grasp the idea that this act might FUCKING KILL ME.

Mom ain't one of those people.

But I knew this was going to be a problem from the start. The trick is to escape before you lose your will to live.

Here's another good story for you:

WARNING! THE FOLLOWING STORY COULD BE CONSIDERED VERY DISGUSTING AND CONCERNS MY BIOLOGICAL FUNCTIONS! PROGRESS FURTHER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

The day before I had surgery I had to drink an enema to clear everything out in case they punctured my bowel when they sliced me open. So I didn't eat anything that day or the day before it and I induced the power shits so I was completely empty. Mom, of course, bitched continually that I wasn't drinking the enema the right way.

Ummm, yeah. Is it POSSIBLE, physically POSSIBLE to drink a saline laxative a WRONG WAY? Maybe if I crammed it up my ass?

Anyhow, I go into surgery completely empty. Go out, wake up, no unscheduled trips to the netherrealms (which was nice for a fucking change) and spend three days with nothing but an IV. Three days of Mom bugging me that I have to go shit.

That's right. She was bugging me that I had to go shit. And she would argue with me when I tried to explain to her that I could probably just as soon lay a fucking Dodo egg as take a shit given the circumstances.

Well the doctor's listened to my stomach and said that my bowels were making good sounds and they'd let me go just as soon as I had a bowel movement. The hospital definition of a bowel movement includes passing gas. Mom's doesn't. This comes into play later

Well after three more days of an all liquid diet and Mom still not comprehending why I was being a jerk and REFUSING to go shit, they released me from the hospital because I farted.

Yes,my release from the hospital was prompted by my farting.

Well that and Mom's panicked notion that Medicaid wouldn't pay for more than six days in the hospital. Where she got that idea I have no fucking clue, but going in the plan was I'd be there for five to seven days. I should have stayed seven. She insisted on six.

But they wouldn't have let me go if I hadn't farted.

More than once.

So I'm home for two more days and I still haven't shit yet. It takes a while to get things going again when you've been completely emptied out you know.

In a panic Mom calls the hospital and tells them that I haven't had a bowel movement in eight days and plead with them to call me (at 8AM) to tell me to knock it off and go shit.

Cause, you know, I'd been holding it in just to spite her. Couldn't have had anything to do with there not being enough solid ANYTHING in there yet.

Well the hospital calls me alright.

They call to ask what Mom's fucking problem is.

They then proceeded to agree with everything I'd told Mom about gas being a bowel movement and my bowel being too empty to expect much. They then reiterated the fact that they wouldn't have released me if I hadn't farted at the hospital.

Now, this kind of validation is nice. It feels real good at the time, but if Mom isn't right there to witness it then she won't accept it. She just assumes I'm lying to her because I couldn't possibly have been fucking RIGHT.

Well the next day I finally did shit.

I plugged the toilet and left it for her to plunge.

I had to. If she didn't see it she wouldn't have believed me.

Now I understand that a lot of this insanity is related to my other medical mishaps. She's concerned for my health. That's nice and all, but what good is concern about my health gonna do if it makes me wanna eat a fucking bullet?

So that's why I'm back in town.

It’s been a month now.

I’m still trapped out in the county.

Mom grows more insane.


It’s a haiku. Like it? Yeah, it’s a gift of mine. Got me through that stupid poetry class I had to take for my major. An entire semester yielded one poem that didn’t suck (not this one, obviously), but since art is subjective the only way to flunk a poetry class is to not write anything.

Gotta love them liberal arts don’t ’cha?

Anyways, I’m getting better by the day, but I’m still not quite ready to go back into town. I may change my mind tomorrow, but last Saturday I went in to the house to watch the WVU Mountaineers ruin the shit of the Marshall “University” Thundering Herd. It was like watching the LA Raiders play against toddlers. Not that I was surprised though as the same thing happens every time we play the boys from the Marshall ‘Book Learnin’ and Tire Emporium’. Seriously, there are single buildings at WVU that are bigger than Marshall’s entire campus.

For some reason, however, the Governor wants to make the WVU v/s Marshall thing a big rivalry. He thinks it’ll be good for tourism. He’s also the guy that wants to change our state motto from “Wild, Wonderful, West Virginia” to “West Virginia: Open For Business” which is about the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever goddamn herd.

Well, all right, not quite as dumb as the WVU/Marshall “rivalry”.

But really, does he honestly think that changing the motto to “Open For Business” is really going to attract business? We only have two goddamn industries here, Coal, which ain’t as good as it used to be and has killed thousands of people and pollutes the environment, and the chemical companies, which only came here because there were no other jobs and people would gladly be poisoned a little every day in exchange for a job that just barely kept them above the poverty line.

That’s it. Those are the only reasons any business comes here. Because we will tolerate things they won’t tolerate elsewhere. Like polluting and killing and violating civil rights.

Yeah, sure, we have other businesses here, but they’re either tangential to the polluters and killers, ‘Land Rapists’ as Hunter Thompson used to call them, or they were started by people that already lived here because the internet and eBay hadn’t been invented yet.

Anyhow, I’ve strayed far from my point (why break with tradition, right?) so if you want to voice your concerns to governor Assface contact him here: Governor Assface

And the first person that gives me any shit about Marshall being ahead at halftime in that game is gonna get stabbed in the fucking eye. It’s sooooooooo obvious that the Governor (that’s Governor Assface), who was in attendance, told Coach Rod to keep the game close till the half and not make the game a repeat of last year’s anal-violation. The second half of that game was fucking BRUTAL. If we’d not been told to hold back it would have been something like 100 to 3 and the game would have been over in the third quarter because they wouldn't have had enough players left to take the field. (The three points is because we're not completely merciless. They'd only have them because we'd have spotted them to them before the game.)

And we dropped in the goddamn rankings because of it, AND it couldn’t have helped the status of our two, count ‘em TWO Heisman trophy candidates.

Fuck Marshall, Fuck the Governor, and fuck Matthew, fucking, McConaughey!

He was in that Marshall movie. Some of you saw it. I didn’t.



Getting on with things though; I went back to Morgantown yesterday to get the rest of the stitches and staples removed.

This has made me feel a whole goddamn lot better. I didn’t realize how much pressure those seven or eight stitches were exerting, but I’m sure glad they’re gone. Actually, he missed one of the staples, which I found when I got back home.

I pulled it myself.

I have a surgical staple puller in my home surgery kit.

Yes, I have a home surgical kit. I also have quite an array of dental tools, including a drill.

But yeah, the Doc says I’m healing up nicely even though, due to fluid and swelling, my stomach is still pretty lumpy. This should fade, however, and my stomach will look almost flat. At least it did when I woke up from surgery. Even if it doesn’t completely flatten out I’m just happy that my innards are back where they belong.

Mostly anyhow.

Yeah, it seems that the legacy of having had this massive hernia for more than five years (damn near six now) is that my abdominal muscles have atrophied and scarred up to the point where he couldn’t pull the hole all the way closed.

This isn’t a total disaster though. As long as the mesh doesn’t tear it’ll hold my guts in and it’s possible (theoretically) that the mesh will allow the hole to heal (or scar) itself closed. I say ‘theoretically’ because the hole is still the size of a small dinner plate.

In any event, It feels a lot better even though everything else still feels like shit. Less like shit every day, but still like shit.

The drugs help.

A lot.

So for all those concerned I may be back at my place for a day this weekend (though if things go as planned I’ll be quite busy) and possibly back permanently later next week. It all depends on how I heal up and what new injuries I sustain over the weekend. ;D

Stay tuned kiddies, the ride ain’t over yet…

Hey, I ain’t dead!

So unfortunately, I haven’t been keeping in touch as well as I’d rather optimistically hoped, but now I’m back!

I’d have written sooner, but till like yesterday it was too uncomfortable to get into any position that allowed use of the computer for long enough to type anything.

Which reminds me,

OW! Owowowowowowowowowow, FUCK! God-Dammit that fucking HURTS!

Yeah, so you missed about a week of that.

Anyhow, I was in surgery for about six hours, an hour over their initial prediction, but they say things couldn’t have gone better. That’s a good thing too, because based on how bad this fucking hurts I’m never this done again even if I need it and according to my surgeon there’s a 20% chance of that.

Relax though. I intend to continue wearing whatever means of medical whatzits to help keep my innards, well, IN.

Well, she was kinda already looking. Now she’s looking at them in my size.

Ain’t she a peach?

So the first three nights in the hospital went ok, slept pretty good. I like it cold when I sleep and WVU Medical has good AC. After that though Mom decided to sleep in the big chair in the room which meant that because she’s a woman, the thermostat got set on 80 and I couldn’t run the fan.

Thank God for darvocet or whatever the fuck they put in Mr. Happy Plunger Thingy.

If only there was a Mr. Happy Plunger Thingy for regular life…

Well, I guess there is Turkish Black-Tar Heroin, but that’s the kind of thinking that makes junkies.

Speaking of which, I’m happy to tell everyone that was worried about me getting hooked on the amphetamines that I haven’t had a single dose in over a month and I haven’t even thought about it till just now.

The fact that I washed down a tablet of Oxycontin while typing that has NOTHING to do with it either.

But yeah, seriously, this fucking hurt like nothing else EVER and coming from me that’s really goddamn saying something. It hurt like eight bitches on a bitch-boat, but now it’s a lot better. Hence the uprightness and the typing and all.

I’m still out at my Mom’s recuperating, where I’ll be till at least after going to Morgantown to have stitches and staples removed (like Wednesday or Thursday) so if you wanna call you can email me at Ford_Maverick@hotmail.com for the number.

I’ve still got a lot to write about, but this is getting uncomfortable. So I’m gonna sleep and then I need to come up with a new life plan. “Get Surgery” and “Don’t Die” were the last two things on the old list.

Probably would have seemed more optimistic if I’d had something on there AFTER “Don’t Die”, but you know, don’t wanna leave things unfinished.

PS: Congrats to Jay and his lovely wife for getting knocked up. If you’re looking for a name, I’d suggest ‘Billy’ (as in Gates) seeing as how the pregnancy has coincided quite conveniently with your X-Box 360 being in the shop.

So I just got back in from my 8 AM appointment to have my stitch, that's right STITCH, as in SINGULAR STITCH, removed from my ankle.

I'm not sure which I'm pissed at more. Having to go there for ONE FUCKING STITCH, or having to have it done at 8 in the GODDAMN MORNING.

Fucking Daywalkers...

Anyhow, it didn't take that long so I went to my family doctor to get my speed prescription refilled since I'll be out of town when I run out of my little pals (oh, how I love them so) and then I ran to K-Mart to pick up some of that mane and tail shampoo and conditioner.

See, I've been growing my hair back out. I started doing it just so that I could get a decent haircut after the last time I butchered it trying to thin the sides out myself. I continued growing it when I saw that it was coming in really nice because of all the niacin in the drugs I've been taking. The two side benefits to this are that it really annoys my brother (who started losing his hair around age 19) and chicks really dig it.

So, despite every manly instinct in me, I got the special shampoo. I assuaged my maleness by reassuring myself that, while it may be a special shampoo (AND conditioner, which is even worse), it WAS designed for farm animals and was therefore ok.

I had to go to K-Mart for it because I only know of two places that carry it and FUCK WAL-MART.

Anyhow, while I was there I had another of those 'mortality moments' I've been going through. I was looking through the meager grocery selection while I waited for the glob of shampoo on my forearm to react with my skin.

See, my sister used the stuff a few years ago and broke out in a bright red rash everywhere it touched her skin. Given that I wasn't about to pay twelve bucks for this shit (it's two big-ass bottles, but still...) without a test.

So while killing time waiting for a rash to break out I found myself looking through the diet products when it occurred to me, why am I looking at diet products when I'm having major surgery in seven days? Given my propensity for shuffling off the mortal coil, why not enjoy myself?

So I picked up a double-feature DVD of Friday the 13th parts 1&2, seven days worth of liquor and Krispy Kreme Donuts. And not just any goddamn Krispy Kreme's, oh no, the cream-filled, chocolate-dipped motherfuckers!

I'm going out in a blaze or refined sugar!

Cause the way I see it, you gotta face death the way you lived. In my case that's jerking off while teetering on the edge of a diabetic coma.

Fuck. I just realized that I spent an awful lot on a bunch of shampoo I may never get to use.

Even worse, if I do die I know my hair's getting cut before I go into the box.

Oh well. It's booze and pills time, so very soon I won't care anymore.

See ya in hell motherfuckers!




PS: By the way, several people have asked me who I was talking about in my last post. It wasn't anyone that has commented on, been pictured on, or even read this blog. Someone that I haven't spoken to since before I even had this blog. She is, however, largely to blame for the insanity you've all been enjoying here so much, so you all owe her some thanks.

So here's another song that comes to mind when I think of her.

And I do think of her.

Far too often.