Cookiepuss

Hey y'all, don't be horrified. You too would often feel it's not worth living with my disease. (That's not accurate. The tapeworm has been removed, and I'm only dealing with its after effects: ruined lungs). I'm telling you, you can't just hook up to oxygen and feel like your old self again. You have only so many alveoli left to process oxygen and that can't get any better. You don't regenerate alveoli. But you can only destroy the few you have left. Hence my choice to stay indoors and protect myself as best I can from being exposed to ordinary, dull upper respiratory nonsense. That, darlings, can do me in.

Beyond that, I know not why I always feel shitty. (I can guess, my body has to work so fucking hard to get oxygen in my bloodstream, it plumb tuckers me out. I need to nap every afternoon even though I don't rise until after noon. I'm a slug.)

I think I'm perfectly entitled to ponder suicide. (Thrusting out my lower lip. Eric (my brother) called it My "bulldog" expression.) Even try out a cut or two on for size. Okay, chill, I didn't like it. It hurts too much. (Hey, I despise when technicians have to take blood from my fingers. I whimper inside like a friggin' baby.)

Take my arm, please. (Psst, fewer nerve endings, a lot less pain.) I hate pain, and I have no desire to create more pain for my self. (Oh goody, let's slam my finger in a door and see what that feels like.) As I've said, I'm no idiot and I'm not a glutton for pain. There is a reason why M.A.S.H. included the vignette "Suicide is painless." (Then why even cut when you knew it was going to hurt, numnutz?)

Bob hasn't read yesterday's post. I almost thought I ought to to say something, but I think my doing so would have turned the natural flow of conversation to a grinding halt. I much prefer natural flow of conversations. Grinding things to a halt has never been one of my favorite things to do. But if I had, I could've shown him my scars. Next time. Show and tell.

I'm deaf again. I pop and get high pitched squeals occasionally during morning ablutions.When I hear the squeal, I think of "Deliverance." This illness gig has never reminded me of Mary Poppins or even Stand and Deliver. I can stand, but there's isn't a chance in hell I can deliver.

To be crystal clear, I would be much more likely to wash up dead after canoe rafting in the middle of nowhere or raped by inbred rednecks telling me to squeal like a pig. See, I already have the squeal. down. (Let's just say, never, in my entire life, do I wish to see that movie again.)

I have been "Since When-ing" for hours. I have no idea how many. It's always this way. My eyes are just laser beams on that damned computer screen. I don't move until I look up and see it's 2 a.m. I seem to have a little more self control today. (It's only 11:30.) but I still have to work out. Crap.

But I have made actual progress. Perhaps a little redundancy, but that's much easier to fix than trying to find an omission. (Finding what doesn't exist seems to be one of the activities that would be on the board in Hell's Club Med.) And this baby (Since When) is larger than Fudgie the Whale. You try finding anything in there. And what really shits, is that it's Since When, not Carvel. (sigh.) An ice cream cake book. You get another one if you don't finish it the first go round. Maybe a Cookiepuss?

Bob, please forgive todays inarticulousness. The pork buns were magnifique. Thank you!

I was on the deaf side today, and I don't think I was getting out too many words per breath. This is especially annoying when I'm trying to make a point. as I attempted to do this afternoon. I don't think I was very convincing. I kept getting stuck on sweeping generalizations that I only used to make a point. I didn't succeed. Not in the least. (About how Since When is evolving. And it is!)

When I'm on the deaf side, I feel like a complete idiot. And that's not entirely inappropriate. sonofabitch. Knee raises, here I come.