MENTAL NOTE

"Though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run."
Blue, resist the urge to use facebook. You can do it. Good luck.
Cats and dogs can be friends. So can cowboys and indians. So can we.
Why try to be the best when there's no hierarchy in heaven?

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Back to Square One with a Vengeance (about Farts and Other Sounds)

If predestination's in full effect, I figure I'm nobody's favorite son. The plan was for me to somehow find a way to, well, maybe not fully recover but at least not let go of my fairly stable if hopelessly deplorable health. You may recall what I said on December 31. The only way is up. It sure is now that I'm back to square one. (Mental note: never confuse rock bottom with home. This is not normal. This is NOT normal.) So now I'm wondering: How far would I go to obtain the one thing that would make life bearable? Would I terrorize and, yes, murder my pestilent neighbors one by one to restore my health? Well, why not?

Those of you who have been with me for a while will know that my particular brand of blueness stems from the evil that is sarcoidosis, an noninfectious inflammatory disease that can affect almost any organ in the body, from the eyes to the lungs to the brain. (I pray it never finds its way to little Blue though I suspect it might be too late.) It causes heightened immunity, which means that a person's immune system overreacts, resulting in damage to the body's own tissues. And here's the fun part: what triggers this response is not known nor is there a cure.

What is also a fun factor is the awareness of there being his natural anti-inflammatory called Fucoidan, which, like my naughty neighbor's toys, is made in Japan and would help relieve my sarcoidosis symptoms. "Blue, what are you waiting for! Go get yourself a handful of that Fuckosomething!" Well, it's very costly, the good stuff is. It is not covered by my health insurance plan so it's basically Bora Bora in a bottle. And whereas Bora is an expensive place you'd hope to visit at least once in your lifetime (ka-ching!), this good stuff that I'm referring to called Fucoidan (not Fuckoidan or Fuckosomething, though I do feel like a Fuckosomething when looking in the mirror) is the kind of bottle you would need on a daily basis — like booze — until you kick that proverbial bucket (ka-ching ad infinitum!).

Minor problem is, I'm broke as a stick horse, what with all the medical bills that, very much reminiscent of the never ending barrage of square blocks in Tetris keep piling high as if trying to make a point about the futility of my human existence. And if I wasn't (broke, that is, and futile), we'd still be talking the kind of money that's way out of my league. Anyone who claims Benjamins, Yens or euros don't make a person happy is hereby invited to walk a mile in my shoes, all the while knowing fully well (and painfully, too) that somewhere in the distance (keep walking!) there's a costly beacon, an alternative to prednisone, that infamous synthetic immunosuppressant pill that scares the hell out of most people because of its horrible side effects — a typical case of keep your arm but lose the knee.

Which brings me to the question: How far would you go to obtain that magic pill? Well, I'm ashamed to confess I have not yet robbed any sizeable bank, pulled off a heist or mugged a little old lady with a little extra to spare, but I blame that entirely on me. I'm weak that way. Some would argue I've grown a conscience. Who knows, all this suffering might even secure me a spot in heaven if it weren't for a thing or two. You see, not giving me my magic pill can't just go unpunished and it doesn't. Someone has to pay the price, foot the bill and look the dead horse's head straight in the eye that I serve at room temperature.

The truth is, I have been terrorizing my hump-happy neighbors. I sound like a skunk on Broadway on account of the cheap-ass drugs prescribed to me. I wonder if the Doc is having a blast (I know I am, literally), now that he's given me the power to match my neighbors moans with blasts that are as impressive as they are terrifying. I wonder if the Doc is on my side, allowing me to torment my Olympian humpers with sounds of unspeakable alienness. I'm now a magician who can turn coughs into farts and with such unearthly conviction that I'm pretty sure my hump-happy neighbors lie dead in their beds as I type this report of my current tribulations. Cause of death: shock. Plain and simple. No, not the poetic kind of shock you find in your average Jane Austen novel ("So horrible an evil!"). I mean death from literal shock, as in... unexplainable earth quakes. I'm talking Blue in Concert. It would be on YouTube if my farting wouldn't take the whole system down.

All this hard work, and still no cure. Where's the justice in that? Where is my magic pill? 

Now, excuse me while I go take a nap.

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