Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Take My Wife, Please

Happy New Year, mein kinder! I'm much less deaf today. I think it's because I choked on the super-hot mustard that comes as a condiment with tonkatsu last night. The stuff is wasabi-esque, and I love it madly. Last night, it must have hit the wrong bit of gullet as it was going down. (This was not one of those "wrong pipe" deals) That piece of gullet didn't like the mustard. Though I can't imagine why, it so perfectly compliments the tangy/sweet tonkatsu sauce. A perfect go-with. In fact, my gullet had a major problem with it, so I ended up in a coughing fit that lasted about ten minutes, long after the guilty mustard was washed down the pipe.

I believe that fit helped clear out those stuffed eustachian tubes allowing me to breathe like a person. I don't know the last time I felt like this. Even though there was something really pleasant about the utter silence. I felt at peace with the stuffed sinuses, excruciatingly-painful back, and one quarter lung capacity. Chip reminded me last night that the last time I had one of these mega coughing fits, it ended with my throwing up. I forgot that part. And lucky me, I didn't get a chance to re-experience it. Dinner stayed down. What a great night!


Today is 9/9/10. The massage therapist came in yesterday and beat me up. And how. That is exactly what I wanted and asked for but shit, it hurts like bloody, fucking hell. (I already have an enormous visible bruise on my right buttock). We've booked her for ten more sessions.

A few years ago, I saw a seriously gentle massage therapist a couple of times. I couldn't take it. I couldn't stand having someone making nice to me like that. Forget the foot reflexology. I didn't get it then, and I'm sure as hell not going to get it now. I went batshit (internally) She was a very sweet woman and gave a great massage, I'm sure. But I couldn't ever see her again. It's probably then I knew I needed the deepest deep tissue massage or fuhgedaboutit. I want to ripped open from the inside out. I want to be purged, dissected. I want to hurt like hell. I want my guts removed and shoved still pulsating in front of mine own two eyes. I found my torturer and muse. Her name is Rachel.

Now, my hormones have been roiling for a week or so. They've gone totally batshit, which means I've gone totally batshit. My hormones, this very second are orbiting Jupiter when they're supposed to be here, minding the store. I hate roiling.

Oh, my deafness, to spite me, I got clogged up as the day wore on. Right now, I'm in aural limbo. Chip still needs to look at me if I'm to understand him. But his hearing stinks, so it works out well for the two of us. You should listen to a minute or two of my therapy sessions, "What was that? Could you say that again? Huh? Wha?" Very revealing stuff. Now that's what I call getting to the heart of the matter.

Rachel asked if I suffered from any panic disorders. I said no until I remembered, you numnutz, you've been diagnosed with PTSD. That's one cool panic disorder to have. And I didn't have to to Iraq or Afghanistan or 'Nam to get it. Just go in one door and exit as a shard of your former self, needing to relearn most physical functions it took you forty-five years to get right. And no longer able to breathe. That'll work just as well. Like a charm.

I've been walking the hallways every day, and I hate it with a passion. Each lap ends with five to ten minutes of gasping for air. Who knows why some days are more difficult than others. To maintain some semblance of human-ness, I have to force myself to reach a point where my body is crying for air every fucking time. (I have to make sure I've made a visit to the bathroom prior to all exercise because when reaching gasping apotheosis, you want to empty both bladder and bowels. So far I've avoided this.)

No wonder I want someone to rip my guts out.

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