I am currently blogging under the influence of hydrocodone. It’s fabulous (for me).
Last week I started feeling a little achy in my upper back. It wasn’t a big deal, hardly noticeable. I vaguely thought maybe I’d strained a muscle while lifting weights or running. Then I suddenly had a burning ache in my upper left abdomen under my ribs.
An internet search helpfully suggested everything from an enlarged spleen to gastritis to Hodgkins Lymphoma. I’m too much of a lightweight to develop a raging case of pancreatitis; but in the off-chance the Mormon god is fer realz, I knew I was screwed anyway. He gets off on making women suffer in the most ironic ways and saves his richest blessings for lying politicians. Proly cuz they have better lobbyists.
It would be just like Elohim (that’s his name, now you know) to curse me for savoring two beers the preceding Friday, while blessing Mitt Romney with capital gains income totaling $57,000 per day — for standing for nothing — for very long that is. Maybe Elohim is partial to nice hair? We’ve already established he favors dicks. True story.
Anyway, I quit reading at pancreatic cancer. If I’m going to die I’m more interested in getting my affairs in order and finding a reliable and discreet dealer than in graphic details involving lots of pain.
On Monday of this week, various tests from blood taken last Friday came back normal. In the meantime, I broke out in a lovely humungous little rash, raised pink splotches dappling my left side, wrapping from the pit of my stomach to my spine, creating a pattern like playful sunshine mischievously peeking through aspens in a pristine alpine forest. Or like John Boehner’s face getting all splotchy and moist while he reminisces about being a janitor. Choose your own visual.
The rash follows a nerve line. Aha! A clue. I would take a picture and plaster it right here as a visual aid but for the risk of a wardrobe malfunction exacerbated by my temporary intoxicated state — and temporary aversion to certain articles of clothing, particularly of the supportive kind. And you all know how hard I work to keep this blog family-friendly. (insert smiley emoticon here)
Anyway, if you guessed shingles, you guessed right. Damn nasty little buggars they are too. Of course I’ll take them over pancreatic cancer, lymphoma, or internal hemorrhaging. Hell, I’ll take them over gluten sensitivity. Indeed, when the rash showed up my first thought was one of relief.
Although it’s my personal thing to generally avoid drugs and go easy on the alcohol, I am currently gushing with gratitude for antivirals and certain narcotics with the ability to KO aches that ibuprofen can’t touch. Being able to sleep without snuggling up to the feeling of a knife inserted under my ribs is a good thing.
And I can hardly wait to watch tonight’s GOP debate while flying like a birdie under the vaulted ceiling. Intoxication will add a new dimension of hilarity while buffering my disgusted, “You did not just say that. Oh no you di-n’t!”
Watching Romney and Gingrich destroy each other during the last debate was delightful enough without narcotics. I’m having too much fun seeing flummoxed Republicans agonize over choosing between the Rombot, the Despot, and the Zealot — not to mention the Crackpot who actually speaks some sense about some things but when that happens he looks like a liberal. Anyhoo, it promises to win Best Comedy of the Year.
Bring on the popcorn and the little white pills.
