Sheer Heart Attack

I was in the back of an ambulance as a Florida State fan/paramedic tried to convince me that Bobby Bowden was the greatest college football coach ever.

My theories, that Bowden was a secret Klan member* and played in a wussy conference went unspoken, mostly because I didn't want the guy to put an air bubble in my IV. This is not how I thought my first official work physical would end up.

Things had started promisingly. I had a brand new library degree, I was freshly married, and I was living in Gainesville applying for jobs all over the country. Applying for real jobs was a new experience. With the exception of my job writing press releases for UF (which was really more of a starter real job), my previous job interviews went like this:
"Can you lift at least 30 pounds?"
"Can you work weekends?"
"Welcome aboard."

These interviews were a bit more intensive (although strangely they still asked those two questions). Most of them never made it past the phone interview, but I had my spiel down by now. This might have helped me land a job in the magical seaport town of Jacksonville.

Sure, I had to pass a physical, but that would be easy. I guess. When I thought about it, I realized I hadn't really had a physical since high school for track, which was pretty lackadaisical. What if they missed something back then? Or what if I had developed some sort of cancer in the years since? Not only will they not hire me, but I'll have to deal with the cancer. And I'm sure all these libraries talk - they'll tell everyone else I'm interviewing with and I'll end up homeless and cancer-ridden.
With these fears running through my head, I got up early and drove the hour or so to Jacksonville to get my health measured.

I had to have a hearing test first. That was pretty easy, mostly because I totally cheated. They lock you in this little closet and you hit a button each time you hear a beep come through a pair of headphones. What they didn't realize, however, was that if a patient were to crane his neck a bit, he could see a light flash each time a beep went off, no matter how faint the beep actually sounded.

After I convinced the doctors that I had super hearing, the real physical began. I had to pee in a cup and give some of my precious blood and was still doing OK. Then I had to take my pants off. The doc gave me that hernia check thing, which I think is probably just made up so they can play around down there and I started feeling funny.

Doc takes my heartbeat a couple of times, looks sort of puzzled and takes my pulse again. It was sort of like in Return of the Living Dead when the paramedics didn't want to tell the workers that they were technically dead.

"Call the ER."

Wait, what?

"Mr. Adams, you have an erratic heartbeat and your pulse is extremely slow. You might be having a heart attack."

"There's no way I'm having a heart attack. My pulse is slow because I'm all lightheaded. I pass out at doctors all the time. Then I wake up and everything's fine.Trust me, I've been through this before."

Doc was having none of it, and the next thing I know, I'm in the back of the ambulance while Cletus yaks about the genius of St. Bobby. I guess I probably could have just walked out of the office, but I was all dizzy and didn't think of that.

So I hang out in the hospital most of the day, even though my chart said "chest pains," which I always thought was like the golden ticket to hospital service. Possibly my chart that said "no insurance" cancelled that out.

It was pointed out that my heart was skipping beats and this could lead to serious problems down the road. This scared me enough that I didn't want to eat the wings that my father-in-law bought when he picked me up from the hospital.

It took a month or so for me to get an appointment with a doctor that insurance would pay for. In that time I quit drinking caffeine, which fixed my heart's beat so that it was as steady as ... I dunno, Buddy Rich. I was still a little nervous about the whole thing, so I asked him, "Hey, is there anything I should do or eat to help my heart?"

"Eh, don't worry about it," he said. "You'll be fine."

Of course, my doctor at the time had the physique of a beach ball, so I didn't really trust his dietary advice, but it made for nice justification when I would eat half a pizza for dinner.

Later I got a bill for $2,000, including $500 for an ambulance ride that I have since determined was about two miles long.

Upon reading the bill, I had a real heart attack and promptly died.




* I have no idea why I used to think that. I didn't really believe it or anything, but I would mutter it occasionally at the TV when I saw his stupid face on the sidelines. I'm sure Mr. Bowden is a wonderful, honorable man, and has friends from a wide variety of races and creeds.

Mama Said There'd be Days Like These

You know those mornings when you wake up and can already tell that it would be better if you went back to sleep, took a pass on the day and just tried again the next day? I had one of those Thursday.

I don't know what I was doing in my sleep the night before, but I woke up tired, not the best way to start things off. But who cares! I was only working half a day because I was finally getting a doctor to take a look at my ankle. I'd be home in time to take a nap in the afternoon. Yeah, have fun at work, suckers.

The day started with mandatory training about employee/management relations. I was daydreaming about going home early when the trainer mentioned that supervisors need to pretend to care about employees, even if they don't, or something like that. I have always ruled my departments with a firm, yet gentle hand, so I felt I didn't need to pay attention at that point, until I noticed she was looking at me.

Crap.

If there's one thing I hate about training, it's group activities or having to talk. Why can't it be like the old days when someone talked and we just took notes or doodled until the class was over?

"What's your name?"

Aw, man.

"Uh...I'm Scott."

"Hello, Scott. And do you have any hobbies?"

What? I thought this was supposed to be about managing. When did this turn into an inquisition? Hobbies? Geez, I don't know. And I don't really want to share anything with my co-workers. I don't know why, but I always feel strange about letting non-friends know about my interests and activities.

"Uh..uh..um, no. No."

"Oh, come on, I'm sure you have something you like doing."

"No. No, not really."

Everyone was laughing. This happens a lot, usually in situations like this when I'm not trying to be funny.

"He rides his bike," said the teen librarian.

This led to more questions about bike riding and if I went out the previous weekend and it was terrible and crappy and it felt like an intervention or something and why can't I just sit here quietly? Funny, I have no problem speaking in front of crowds, which I do at least twice a week, but ask me about my personal life and you're gonna get a whole bunch of this:

After that terribleness, it was doctor time. Insurance switched my doctor to a place closer to my house, which was nice. The day can be salvaged after all. I fill out the paperwork, and notice that the place is pretty swank looking. Then I go in the bathroom and notice this:

I realize this is a crappy photo, but I wanted to prove that I wasn't making this up.

The author asks for $20 for 20 minutes. I thought it was funny that they wrote "asshole" and scratched that out to rewrite the less offensive "butthole." Hey, kids might see it. I felt a little apprehensive that my new doctor's restroom resembled a truck stop, but when I got out some CNN health show was talking about Roky Erickson and mental health, so that took my mind off the fact that my new doctor catered to perverts.

I didn't get a chance to watch too much when I was called back. I got weighed, which proved that, yes, four weeks of almost no exercise and a diet designed by Henry VIII and a kid allowed to buy whatever they want at the store will make you fat.

Then I waited about 3 years for the doctor to show up. 

The doctor was younger than me and sort of brusque, not even commenting on the long, grey beard I had grown while waiting. He asked me about my habits and medical history after I told him about the ankle, but it seemed like he didn't really believe me.

"Do you smoke?"

"No."

"Do you smoke?"

Hey, John Grisham, I've never smoked. And if I did and was trying to hide it, you think you asking it twice would trip me up? This is when I started to think my new doctor was kind of a dick.

"Well, I'd like to go ahead and give you a full physical today."

When I get terrible or anxiety-triggering news, I have a tendency to lose the ability to speak.

"Whu? Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah dah oh ah ah ah n..n..no. No. No. No. I thought we were just looking at my foot?"

"I think we need a full physical first." 

"Whu? Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah dah oh ah ah ah n..n..no. No. No. I just had one. Last year. Everyeveryevery Everything's fine. Just want to get the foot looked at."

You can't just drop that on somebody. I need time to get prepared for a physical. I came in with a hurt foot, I didn't plan on getting naked today. He seemed even more brusque after that, probably because he wanted to see my pee-pee, then sent me to get x-rays and come back to his house of horrors.

He came back after another 7 years and said that it looked like tendon damage and he would refer me to a podiatrist.

"So, is that bad?"

"I'm referring you to a podiatrist."

"Is there anything I should be doing for it?"

"I'm referring you to a podiatrist."

Fine, be a dick, see if I care. I asked him another medical question that I had mentioned to the receptionist when making the appointment.

"I thought we were just looking at your foot."

Jeez, this guy was really upset about not being able to make me pass out. I guess I'd be upset, too, if I had perverts advertising their services on my bathroom walls. Anyway, he gave me a prescription and wanted to do blood work.

"How does blood work have anything to do with my tendon?"

"It can show overall blahblahblah and underlying blahblahblah and I really just want to poke you with needles."

"Yeah, maybe next time. I'll get a physical this year, I promise."

It was too late for a nap when I got out of there. I did get some cool x-rays, though - check 'em out:

There's gotta be something I can do with this for Halloween.

Next time I wake up tired, I'm calling, and getting back under the covers. Nothing good can come of a day like that. I've learned my lesson.

Taste the Floor

I was seven years old the first time I passed out. My sister and I had ear infections and the doctor examined her first. We were both in the room at the same time. I know that sounds strange, but it was the seventies. I'm surprised the doctor wasn't smoking at the time.

He stuck some gross machine in her ear and she started screaming. I started freaking out. Then, at least in the way I remember it, an Evil Dead like geyser of blood shot out her ear all over the office and I went from feeling scared and nervous to floaty and peaceful. It was sort of like I was being carried away on a pleasant little cloud. Then a nurse waved an ammonia pack under my nose and I was back in the House of Pain.

In the years to come I would pass out or come close in most of the doctors' offices I visited. The ammonia capsule would get waved under my nose to bring me back, and almost 90 percent of the time the nurse would tell me some lie like, "Oh, we have big construction workers and football players who faint as soon as I take the needle out" to make me feel better.

It wasn't always doctors that did it. Once I was sitting in a McDonald's with some high school friends. I took a big sip of Coke and thought, "Hey, that feels like it's caught in my throat." Before I could say anything, everyone's voices got all bass-y and echo-y, like my friends' conversation had been remixed by Lee Perry. Next thing I knew, I was floating back to Cloudland. I woke up confused with one of my shoes a few feet away. I wasn't sure how much time had passed.

Naturally, my friends thought I was just being an attention-seeking high school punk rocker, which honestly, was a pretty safe bet.

Sometimes I wouldn't even need needles or killer Coke bubbles. I once passed out at my desk after watching a particular gross film in health class. For the rest of the year the coach who taught the class swore I was on the dope.

Somehow I've gotten better; it's probably been over 20 years since I've passed out in a doctor's office. Actually, the last time I remember passing out I was sitting comfortably in my Gainesville apartment.

A friend called me with a problem. I don't remember the whole story, but he had started lifting weights and was having ....well, he was having male problems. Somehow this new weight lifting regime caused his balls to become swollen and painful. He was telling me how he had to walk down to the clinic and ....Hey. Someone was messing with the Earth's volume. Everything was going in and out and sounding all "whuhwhuhwhuhwuhwhuh." I was flying again.

I woke up sprawled across my mattress. I wasn't sure how long I had been out, but long enough that my friend had been asking if I was OK. I said I was and hung up.

A little known fact about passing out is that it's actually kind of pleasant afterwards. Your skin is all clammy and you're sort of light-headed, peaceful, and calm. Probably because all that adrenaline used for freaking out has been burned up. It generally lasts for about 20 minutes or so.

I walked down to the porch to get some air and try to figure out what had just happened. A couple of the guys from Less than Jake were on the porch. They thought I was on the dope, also. I didn't let that bother me. People were talking and drinking, as they usually were. I sat on the swing and stared out into the night, with my post-fainting calmness washing over me.

Then I probably bought some King Kobra and acted the fool.

Lend Me Your Ears

I was in the doctor's office about to get waterboarded. Every once in a while a bunch of wax builds up in my ears, so they squirt some water in them to flush it out. It sucks. I can feel them firehosing this water next to my brain and it takes about three hours. Well, three hours in horror time, actual time is about 5 minutes or so.

 The doctor (who is either my age or a few years younger) checks out my ears,  leaves and sends in the assistant who starts setting up the spray bottle and tarps and whatnot.

I'm sort of pacing around the room while she gets ready.

"You OK?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah...It's just that...well, the only thing that freaks me out more than going to the doctor is getting stuff stuck in my ears."

"Oh." Her face sort of fell. "Yeah, I remember you."

However, I didn't pass out, even though she used a bottle and a half in just one ear while I squirmed and gave up military secrets I didn't even know I knew.  Plus, with all that stuff out of my ears, I can hear crimes being committed three miles away.

A Pale and Sensitive Lad

Got a blood test early Tuesday morning. This morning I happened to glance down at my forearm and it's all yellow and purple. I think I can also detect a faint throbbing as the poison works its way through my veins. I knew Nurse Ratched was being a little jabby with the needles, now I'm wondering if she didn't slip some ebola in me just out of evil. I'd post a picture, but my no flash camera phone makes my whole arm look a lovely jaundiced yellow anyway, so you wouldn't get the full horror.

Great Balls of Fire

Being older isn’t really all that bad. Sure, there’s annoying stuff, like constantly being on patrol for ear and nose hair, but on the whole it’s not as awful as I thought it would be. Actually, I never really thought about being this old. As a kid, and probably up to my 20s or so, the whole length between 30 through 70 just seemed sort of boring, a vague halfway point between kick ass young adult-ness and the time when it would be acceptable for me to wear a white suit and give out long winded speeches about the old days to anyone who would listen. And yeah, before you comment, I realize that’s what I do here, but I don’t wear a white suit while doing it, so it’s totally different.

Luckily, I’m incredibly immature, so mentally and emotionally I’m about the same as I was in my 20s, with maybe a bit more self-confidence and knowledge tossed in as seasoning. Physically, I can probably do more now than I did back then; while this sounds awesome, like I’m Jack LaLane, or one of those senior citizens waterskiing on commercials, it’s more a comment on how sedentary I was in my 20s. After running track and cross country and skating daily in high school, about the only strenuous activity I regularly participated in was drinking King Kobra malt liquor, being an obnoxious loudmouth, and taking long showers.

But you know what’s really weird about getting old? Realizing that whole crowds of people are younger than you. Football players, sexy actresses, politicians, business owners, cops; all sorts of people that were always older than you are suddenly young enough to be your kids, if you started young enough.

But you sort of accept this, or at least don’t really think about it, at least until circumstances force you to confront this fact in the creepiest and most uncomfortable ways.

A few years ago I had a dermatologist appointment. As many of you know, I am terrified of doctors, but I’m OK with dermatologists, which you’d realize if you’d ever seen a picture of me from high school.


My Graduation Photo

This was a regular follow up visit to make sure I didn’t have skin cancer or whatever, and the previous visit took about 5 minutes. No big deal.

Except that weeks earlier I had noticed a little red spot. On my balls. I’m not really a hypochondriac, but this seemed like a good time to start. Was this the beginning of nut cancer? Some sort of weird ball leprosy? It couldn’t be a venereal disease, could it? I was happily having regular sexual activity, and was having a great time doing so. I knew there had to be a catch. But it couldn’t be that. I mean, I was with a regular partner, and we had discussed all that stuff before and besides, we used condoms, so…Oh wait. No, I guess we didn’t really. Shit, I wonder if I got it off some toilet in the library and spread it to her? How would I explain that?

This made for a stressful week before the appointment. I didn’t research any of this stuff on WebMD or any of the other sites geared to hypochondriacs, I knew too many friends who looked stuff up and became convinced they would die within minutes of shutting down the computer. No, better to wait and see what the doctor said.

My dermatologist was an older guy who told corny jokes and did his best to make his patients comfortable. He also played classic rock in the examining room. The last time I heard “The Boys are Back in Town” and “Maggie May.” While “Cowboy Song” or “Every Picture Tells a Story” would have been better jams, it was still nice.

I was early for my appointment. The assistant leads me back and starts talking to a group of young women in scrubs in front of the examining room. One of them is a youngish Asian woman. She is wearing pigtails and is showing off her new braces, both of which make her look about 12 years old.

“Oh, you finally got them,” the women exclaim, as I’m sort of paying attention but mostly wondering what sort of long and painful process they’re going to have to use to scrape this disease from my testicles.

I’m told to strip to my underwear. I notice there is no classic rock playing. It’s very quiet, a nice place for me to contemplate and accept my ball-less future, as I’ve now resigned myself to the fact that they’re both going to have to be cut off. I have a moment of acceptance. You know, what have they ever done but get me in trouble anyway? Things would probably be more peaceful and less stressful as a eunuch. OK. Let’s do this.

The door opens. Naturally, my new doctor is the Asian woman wearing cartoon scrubs, pigtails and braces.

“Wait,” I think. “What happened to Doctor Oldie?"

“OK, stand up, we’re just going to check your skin.”

I swear she giggled. Jesus, how old is this girl? Is this Take Your Daughter to Work Day?

She looks me over. I can’t stop staring at her pigtails and braces. When she left the house this morning did she purposely try to look as young as possible? I just came in to get my diseased balls cut off, not to feel like a pedophile.

“Everything looks fine. Anything new since the last visit?”

“Uh, no, not really.”

Tell her, tell her, tell her, tell her. You can’t ignore this. You have to have this looked at, if for no other reason than to stop freaking out.

“Good, then we’ll…

“Well, OK, actually there is something. Uh..you know, down there. I mean, it’s probably nothing but …”

“Down there? Where, exactly?”

“Uh…my …uh..”

“Your penis? Your scrotum?”

“Uh… yeah…uh… that one. Scrotum. Yep, scrotum.”

“You don’t have to be nervous. I’ve seen everything before. Just take your underwear off and let me have a look.”

Normally, I like hearing women say that last sentence but this time a lot of the sexy had gone out of it.

“Where is the problem?”

“Right …right here. That red spot.”

God, now this braces wearing girl is inches away from my equipment. Am I being filmed or something? I mean, they’d have to see that I didn’t try anything, right?

“Oh, that? That’s just a blood vessel that burst. People get them all over their body. Nothing to worry about.”

I swear she giggled again.

After that experience, I thoroughly research any doctors I might have to get naked in front of. They have to be at least 20 years older than I am. It’s much less stressful that way.

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

I'm standing in the doctor's reception area after my appointment.

"OK Mr. Adams, you're all done."

"Actually, he wanted me to schedule a physical."

"OK, when was the last time you had a full physical? Last year?"

"Uh..."

"Two years ago?"

"Well..."

"Five? Ten?"

"More like over 20 when I had to get one to run track in high school."

"Oh. That has been a while."

"Yeah. Hey, he said something about me getting a chest X-Ray. Is that like a regular service? Do I have to pay extra or anything?"

"That's all part of the physical."

The last time I went to the doctor's they waterboarded me in an attempt to clean out some wax from my ear. I didn't pass out, but things were pretty iffy there for a couple of minutes. Today wasn't too bad since I didn't have to take my clothes off or get touched, but using my Nostradamus-like powers of prediction, I'm already seeing me hitting the floor at some point during this physical thing next month. I decided not to ask if they have any butt stuff planned. That would probably work better as a surprise.

The Sting

I decided to take Thursday off. I had some errands to run and hadn't been able to get out on the trail in a long time, and besides, I just needed a little time off. Hey, get off my back, it was a long week. Jeez, what are you, my boss?

Say, you don't suppose my boss is reading this and realizes that I didn't have extra deadly swine flu Thursday, do you?

So I must have had my mouth open when I was riding down the trail. I've been perfecting my mouthbreather Halloween costume. All of a sudden I feel a bug fly into my mouth.

"Hey," I think to myself. "That was a really big bug." The thing is all tangled up in my mouth between my lower lip and teeth and I'm trying to spit it out while trying not to veer off the road. I'm also noticing my lip feels like I got slapped, but I figure that was just the impact.

The bug doesn't want to leave my inviting mouth. After a couple spits I finally get him out of there, but not before I start feeling sort of funny. "Must have been where he hit me," I'm thinking. "I mean, right there in the inner lip, of course that's gonna sting for a while."

So I've got about 6-7 miles to go and I can feel my lip swelling up. Again, I'm thinking that it's just the impact, since we were both going pretty fast and that's a sort of sensitve area.

By the time I get off the trail my lower lip has swollen to Popeye proportions. I get home and call the doctor for an appointment and sound like a stroke victim over the phone. Never one to let a gross medical condition go to waste (maybe I can squeeze some sympathy out of it, or at least post gross pictures of it on the internet) I try to take some photos of my swollen lip but nothing comes out.

Of course by the time the doctor can finally see me most of the swelling has gone down and he can't find any stinger or anything in me. He writes me a prescription for some steroid pills and sends me out into the world, wondering why I came into his office with such a made-up story. Later on I notice that doc's steroids haven't made my arms any bigger either so I'm thinking of just buying them from that dude that hangs out at the gym from now on.

So my relaxing no work day ended up full of bee venom and doctor tedium. To make matters worse, there was a retirement party that day so I missed deviled eggs. I have learned my lesson and will never play hooky again.

Health and Happiness

There was a health fair at work this weekend. I decided to brave my needle phobia and get my cholesterol tested.

About a month ago I was told my cholesterol was high. Not super-high, but I still figured I needed to get that stuff under control. When I went to my regular doctor to see how to lower it, I got to wait in a freezing room for an hour and a half flipping through golf magazines from 1998 under a poster of dissected lungs so he could give the following advice:

"Just don't eat food with a lot of cholesterol in it."

Thanks, doc. Glad that cost me twenty bucks. I hope Obama socialized medicines your ass.

So for the past month I've been watching what I eat, taking these terrible fish pills, and generally avoiding dairy and cutting way down on the sweet, sweet meat.

I was supposed to see my real doctor in January, but since they were stabbing people with needles on a floor below me for free, I figured I could at least see if any of this crap had made any difference. And if it didn't, I was gonna be pissed. You know how much fun stuff I've had to pass up this month?

Anyway, it takes forever to get there in front of the lunch lady-looking nurses sharpening their needles when one of them says, "Are you OK? You look kind of pale."

I assure her I'm going to be alright and get stabbed without passing out or feeling dizzy, which might be a personal record. I should mention that this is a diabetes health fair so they're also testing for that, and I am terrified that I either have or am going to catch diabetes.

I'm not really sure where this fear comes from, possibly just the idea of getting poked with needles daily and giving up on the sweet, sweet treats is such a horrible idea of Hell that it terrifies me.

I wait around another 15 minutes or so and another lunch lady gives me my results.

"Are you taking medicine for diabetes?"

"No, I ...what?"

Somehow this was her lead-in to tell me that my glucose levels are great and I don't have anything to worry about. What the hell? Is this some sort of nurse bad news first thing they're supposed to do?

"Do you have any final words prepared for your mother?"

"Yes, I need to see her and..."

"Well, that's good, because you won't be needing them for a long time. She's perfectly healthy."

After toying with me the nurse points out that I am now the proud owner of some new and improved low cholesterol blood. Only problem is that in my zeal I've also lowered my good cholesterol.

"So what can I do to raise the good?"

"Do you eat fish?"

"My stomach is like the briny sea."

"Oatmeal?"

"Every morning."

"Olive Oil?"

"Yep."

"What about exercise?"

"I'm riding my bike 10 miles a day and going to the gym three nights a week. I don't think I can squeeze anything else in there. And come on," I said, ripping off my shirt. "Does this torso look like it needs any more exercise?"

Then the nurse let down her hair and took her glasses off. It was kind of like a Van Halen video.

"Well...there is moderate alcohol use."

"Well, OK! I think we're done here."

So I've beaten cholesterol and the doctors told me I've got to get drunk regularly to avoid a heart attack? Man, they're gonna love me at this year's Christmas parties. I'll be the guy with one of those Henry VIII hunks of meat in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

Dental Damn

Had a dentist appointment really, really early this week. Apparently, time snuck up on me and I hadn't been in a couple years. Hey, I've been busy.

You can add an extra three months on to that since I've had two appointments with this dentist fall through. I was going to pull out of this one since I specifically stated I needed a Monday morning appointment that wasn't too early which they interpreted as 7:45 Wednesday morning.

After waking me up a couple times, the dentist and cleaner lady tell me I've been grinding my teeth in my sleep. If you are reading this and are someone I work with, my wife, my family, or possibly a friend of mine, this is all your fault.

Actually they mentioned this the last time I was there and tried to sell me some $500mouth guard thing that isn't covered by insurance. Like any problem over $100 or involving health, feelings or effort, I put it way, way in the back of my mind and proceeded to forget about it. I've found that this novel compression of stress and worry to be an effective way of...hey. You don't think that would have anything to do with the whole tooth grinding thing, do you? Yeah, me niether. I think they're in some sort of scam with the insurance company.

This time the dentist and cleaner lady (and why do I always get the old lady cleaners? Is my wife involved in this somehow?) showed me how my teeth were getting looser and looser, which sort of freaked me out. Maybe they weren't making this all up after all.

Now our TV blew up a couple months ago, which brings me to a decision. Should I use the money for a new TV or for my teeth? I'm getting kind of tired of watching stuff on the laptop, and TV has provided me with much enjoyment in the past, but I guess not having my teeth fall out would be OK, too.

Although I do like pudding.

Here Comes Sickness

I've had a fever of about 100 degrees since Thursday. I even got sent home from work yesterday. Luckily the weather turned bad the last few days, because nothing is worse than being sick when the sun is shining and the world is laughing at you lying on the couch watching Godzilla movies.

So I guess I'm going to have to go to the doctor tomorrow. Going to the doctor is always a crapshoot; sometimes I get the good one, sometimes I end up with the guy who just tells me to, like, just drink some juice and get some rest instead of using the hundreds of years of developments in medical technology to give me some medicine rather than tell me to do stuff I sort of figured out myself, then take 30 bucks for it. Plus, I feel this doctor tries to "go downtown" more than is absolutely medically necessary.

On the plus side, I came up with at least one side-splittingly funny post last night. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember anything about it when I woke up and the Nyquil wore off. How about if you just drink some Nyquil and pretend that this rambling post is that hilarity?