Well, we're back home. Oh, and nice fucking snowstorm on the way, thank you very much. There's like a coupla goddamn inches of snow on the ground here. I'm not shoveling. Fuck it. Snow is dead to me.
So, yeah, I've been trying to process this whole four-month, snowballing health fuckstravaganza. I still can't quite wrap my puny brain around it. I started in November with some tingling in my fingers and toes, went to see my primary care doc, and four months later, I'm at the fucking Mayo Clinic getting my fat analyzed. Wha-happ'n?!
Don't get me wrong -- I'm fucking thrilled that they didn't find bupkus. I'm also kinda pissed that it seems as if all the testing leading up to it was completely mishandled. Sorry -- misinterpreted. Whatever. Someone, somewhere had his fucking head up his shithole, and I, along with my stomach fat and my bone marrow, paid the price for it. I guess I'm thankful that the clowns in Lansing realized that they were clueless and they bumped me upstairs to the big-boys in Rochester -- I'm just not too jacked about the 10 years of my life I worried away waiting for all the negative results to come dribbling in.
I'll tell you something, though -- I'm through worrying about this kinda shit. All I get for my fretting is loose stools and a hole in my pelvis that still hasn't fucking healed.
Of course, some good came out of it. I realized that, given 24 hours, I can fill up not one, but one and a half giant plastic jugs of steaming, frothy crabby-wee.
Oh, a little tip -- if you think you might need a second jug, don't wait until 7:00 the next morning to go pick it up. Especially if the next morning is a weekend, and the route to the building where you pick the jug up is closed and you have to somehow find an alternate route, without a map, and you've got about 40 gallons of bubbling tinkle that's starting to make your ureters look like a coupla over-filled water balloons, and every corridor you turn down looks exactly like this:
And you end up barely making it to the counter in time, and then you have to find your way BACK through all those corridors as you run-walk back to your room, and barely make it into the bathroom in time and end up blasting a Clydesdale-worthy steaming-stream of winky-tink into said container, creating a sound that's akin to that of a power-washer on full-blast-mode spraying the side of an Airstream trailer. Just an fyi.
I also realized that I've gotta get off my ass and start DOING more shit. Hell, doing SOME shit. I may not be thrilled with this fucking town, but if I don't start getting out and meeting people and getting back on the ol' self-actualization express, I may one day ACTUALLY find myself with some incurable disease and what'll I have to show for it? A piece of fucking shitfuck, that's what. So look out, Okemos -- Crabbydad's venturing OUT-OF-DOORS and he's gonna start DOING some SHIT... so outta my fucking way.
So, yeah, I should be done with all the bellyachin' 'bout my health for awhile -- though I know it has made for some fucking RIVETING reading. I apologize. I'll stop focusing all my crabbiness on my (still) tingling phalanges and get back to focusing it on the spawnage, where it belongs.
How am I going to do this, you ask? Well, for one thing, I'm going to spend a fuck of a lot less time listening to doctors and hanging out on WebMD and MedlinePlus, and a lot more time swimming, making music and hanging out with some new friends I met on our recent visit to Trader Joe's:
As a matter of fact, I think I hear one of my friends calling me right now. If you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment on the Island of Doctor Merlot.