August 31, 2011
I’m pretty sure that in 21 days I’ll only have one arm. Just like that guy James Franco pretended to be in that movie with the hiking and the rocks. Except I’m a girl. And I’m not stupid enough to go hiking alone and fall in a hole like an idiot. And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t cut it off. I’d do the spit and wiggle and set that bitch free, in like, 5 minutes flat.
I think I’m dying. Ok. Maybe not dying. But I did almost die once. And I was in the hospital for a week and all the nurses said my room was “the fun room” cuz I was so perky and chatty and everything. Even though I almost died. They took their lunch breaks in my room just to hang out. When something is serious, I make jokes about it and basically refuse to in any way acknowledge that it’s serious. But when something is minor, I like to freak the hell out about it.
That’s just hows I roll.
So right now I’m freaking out about a few things:
#1- I have to have a tooth pulled tomorrow. Because all of my other tooth hate it, and there’s a whole Bully situation going on, and it’s just probably best if he just gets the hell outta dodge before I get my Invisaligns, because those things and that a-hole tooth just aren’t gonna mix. And it totally sucks, because I really don’t trust dentists. At all. Peoples mouths are disgusting, and anyone who wants to go to work everyday and poke around in them has really got issues. And they do horrible, unspeakable things to you that hurt like balls. So obviously they’re sadistic. And according to an episode of Dateline 20/20 that I saw once, they like to touch your junk when you’re knocked out. Which is just wrong. If someone’s gonna go touching my junk I wanna be awake for it. Maybe if the dental assistant would fondle me while I’m getting my stupid tooth pulled, it would distract me from the horror happening in my mouth. So the fact that they put you to sleep before messing with your bits and pieces shows a level of selfishness that is really quite staggering.
#2- I am allergic to myself. Or The Hub. I’m not sure which one yet since I don’t actually see an actual doctor until Friday. But I’m quite positive that he’s gonna diagnose me with one of those. And I’m almost 100% sure that we’re gonna find out that I’m allergic to me. Because this problem started while I was in Missouri last month. Without The Hub. But with myself. But it HAS gotten worse since I’ve been home. Where The Hub also resides. So it is very confusing indeed. And the allergy went away last week for the entire week so I thought I was cured. But then it started up again. And I was totally periody last week, and I wasn’t myself. So maybe I wasn’t allergic to myself when I totally wasn’t myself. Cuz my bitchy PMS attitude fooled me into thinking I wasn’t me so I didn’t have any problems. Like I said, I’m pretty sure I have this whole thing figured out. And you can bet your sweet ass I’m documenting all of it for the doctor. Which I’m sure he’ll appreciate and probably publish in a Medical Journal someday. You’re welcome, Doctor V. Unfortunately though, I think that The Hub is kinda depressed, because I am pretty sure that deep down he was hoping I was allergic to him. And he’d get to get his own pad. Or at least his own room. And I sorta feel sorry for him. Cuz I totally get it. I need some space from me sometimes too.
#3- I am finally having surgery on my stupid asshole of a right arm. I ignored the doctor for, like, 8 months, so I could do things like this:
And I could not do these things in some douchey sling. But now my arm is mega-pissed and I’m finally caving in. But I’m not happy about it. At all. Because guess what? I don’t trust doctors. And I especially don’t trust surgeons. Because the list of “whoopsie” moments that I’ve had during surgeries is a long one and involves things like paralyzing my vocal chords (whoopsie!) and jamming things through organs into other organs (whoopsie!). Plus, every time a surgeon goes in to fix one effed up thing, he discovers another thing that is all effed up. So for some odd reason I’d just really rather not have any surgery of any kind ever again.
But since I’m getting to the point where my arm is hurting like a mofo most of the time, I decided it was finally time to give in. So I scheduled the inevitable medical f@cktastrophe for September 14th, specifically because 14 is my lucky number. And if there’s anything I need on a day of surgery hell, it’s luck. Then I got a call from the nurse yesterday saying that my doctor’s wife has up and decided to steal my spotlight and my number and have her goddamn baby on the 14th. So I was pretty pissed. Still am, actually. And I told the nurse it was pretty selfish of them, and she said “Well, it is his first baby.” And I said “They’ve waited this long, can’t they wait another day? Cuz 14 is my lucky number.” But she seemed to think I was being unreasonable. Which, if you ask me, was totally unreasonable of her.
So now I’m scheduled to have my surgery on the 21st. Which is a number that means absolutely nothing to me. Although I’m sure that if I thought about it hard enough, I could come up with something terrible that relates to that number. Probably even the specific day. And I’m sure that whatever it is I’ll have a flashback of it right after I wake up from my surgery and they break the news to me that due to the fact that my doctor had a new baby at home and wasn’t getting any sleep and was kinda super stressed out, he lost his focus and cut my arm off. And that is why, as I said in a past blog, I am trying to get my hands on one of these babies:
6 Responses to “I’m pretty sure that in 21 days I’ll only have one arm. Just like that guy James Franco pretended to be in that movie with the hiking and the rocks. Except I’m a girl. And I’m not stupid enough to go hiking alone and fall in a hole like an idiot. And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t cut it off. I’d do the spit and wiggle and set that bitch free, in like, 5 minutes flat.”
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