I was going to tell you all about the awesome four day weekend I had this weekend just past.
I was going to tell you about bookstores and masturdating and parks and recreation and old fucks and Buddha by the rhododendron and fishing and fiction.
I can’t do that right now.
Because fuck me, that’s why.
I let the doc put me on geodon. It’s an antipsychotic. Hear me out. I had it on good authority that it could, in fact, help with the mixed episodes I’ve been experiencing a lot lately.
Problem is…turns out I’m allergic to the shit. Severely.
I’ve been throwing up for 2-3 days straight, no chaser. Seriously. I chased it with anti-vomityourgutsup juice, and I vomited the anti-vomityourgutsup juice out.
Big ass rash spreading across the back of my neck.
Bubbles on my arm (blister).
Dizziness and worsening headache.
Confusion. Randomly stopping myself mid-thought or even mid-sentence.
Fucking. (Yeah right. No such luck.)
Torn up guts.
Itching. Did I mention this COOKIEMONSTERFORSAKEN ITCHING?! MOTHERFUCK, I ITCH.I’d pay somebody to scratch my itch, but I think that’s called solicitation.
Anyway. The one thing it geodon DIDN’T fuck with, clearly, is my ragingly filthy mind. So there’s that. And also my cookiediction. Me want cookies. Now. (Also. May I borrow someone’s kids so I can “not” teach them this lesson by what is obviously The Real Cookie Monster, please stand up?)
The one thing I DIDN’T get as a side effect was the heart-racing arrhythmia. It’s a damn good thing, because if that box had gotten ticked, he was going to have to admit me. My heart was not only NOT racing, it was lower than he’s ever recorded it. 42. I think? OH MY GOD, MY HEART IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?! I KNEW IT!
Anyturtles. My GP said I met every single other criterion for the Rare and Severe reactions. Yay me!
A man once told me I was rare. Now I know what he meant. RARE AND SEVERE AND FUCKED UP.
Except I don’t kid. You kid. Keep the kids over there. Because I’m MANGRY.
On top of forvomigen, the nausea med he gave me that doesn’t work, he also gave steroids. Lots and lots of steroids that I have to take for six fucking days.
He asked if I had any issue taking short-term steroids to stop my allergic responses and wipe out the rash. I said no, except Hulk. He was mildly puzzled, then laughed when I said YOU know….then I made rage face and said Hulk Angry! Only some of that actually happened. I’ll let you work it out.
So I’m on steroids for a week. And I’m sweating and angry and itching and sore. AND NOT FOR ANY OF THE FUN REASONS.
And I can’t make my brainhole focus on the things I WANTED to write about.
Fucking fuckstick douchecanoe handledick. Oooo handledick. New one. That works a myriad of ways, that one.
Anyway. I’m gonna fuck off outta here.
Just wanted to say Hi.
Just wanted to say I’m Pissed Off.
Just wanted to say I Miss You.
Just wanted to say Bye Fuckers, Because ME MANGRY.
Oh. And for what it’s worth? Either I was on one of my upswings already, or geodon was actually helping me. Because starting the drug coincided with the start of a major uptick in my moods and mindset. So. Let’s hope it wasn’t the geodon. Because now I’m pissed that I can’t take it anymore. WAAAAAAH. Look at me. Crying like a bitch. MANGRY.
P.S. If that mangry music isn’t your thing, mute it and watch. Because Sully Erna is in Fine Fucking Form here. Shirtless. Shoeless. Perfect jeans. Yum. You know what? I’ll take my steroids with a side of Sully. (Unfortunately, that’s the only good part of the video. The rest of it is wrestling or boxing or nascar or some other lame shit where grownass boys beat each other up for money.) (Hey, don’t start in on me! I told you I’m mangry! It’s in the title! FUCKING STEROIDS. GRAWR.) (But now I’m sleepy and itchy and mangry and hungry and sweaty and ARRGGGHHHHHHH I SAID GOOD DAY!)
P.S. Numberonius Twovicus. How about a preview of last weekend, hm?
So I forgot to tell y’all about my MRI. (Y’all can thank my dear friend Magarisa for staying on me – not like that ya pervs – to post! Go have a visit. Poke around – still being pervs, I see – do it. Or I’ll cut you.) What on earth can I possibly say that’s even remotely interesting about an MRI? And did y’all even see that title? I mean seriously. What in the name of Cookie Monster does any of that have to do with an MRI? I know; I know. Thou shalt not take the name of thy Cookie Monster in vain, but damnit times are tough and I was desperate. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that one must occasionally utter cookiefanities in order to get one’s point across with the proper amount of vehemence. (Feel free to use that little truth nugget. Go on. Write it down. I’ll wait. Well fuck you, too, then!) (Don’t worry. I don’t know what the fuck I’m on about, either.)
Without further ado, let us commence with solving the title/content conundrum.
Commencing to Solve the Title/Content Conundrum
The Players: One Stephanie, complete with all body parts, at least according to last year’s inventory. One attractive middle-aged Rad-Tech, with a warm smile and an ice cold handshake. One MRI machine.
The Place: Are you paying afuckingtention at all, people? I mean, seriously. Why do I even bother? Let me reiterate: an MRI machine in a deep freeze frigid ass room. Seriously, I think they teleported me to Antarctica. In a lake. That was covered in ice. Without a jacket. Because everyone knows that jackets keep the chill out when one is submersed in frozen Antarctic lakes. Duh. Where the hell did y’all go to school? I learned that shit from my esteemed instructor, Señor Cracker Jack Box.
The Setup: Stephanie’s jacked up left foot has been hurting since Jufuckingly. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Stephanie together again. So a lowly peasant woman (a lovely Nurse Practitioner) referred her for an MRI while one of the kings was out playing croquet or shagging his lawyer’s wife or having his pool boy give him a pleasure enema or some shit. Fucking sicko. (Apologies if you get off on enemas.) (Sicko.)
Having an MRI: A Duet That Always Goes South when Someone (ahem MRI) Exposes a Nipple at Halftime
Step 1: Get naked. Really? Y’all believe that? What the fuck is the matter with you? If you got naked at your last MRI, you totally got hospital herpes (aka hospes) and got knocked up by the dude who cleans up the vomit and diarrhea that splatters on the floors in the rooms of the less healthy patients. Yeah. Naked. You hodonkey cockgobbler. Will the real Step 1 please stand up?
Step 1: Get naked. Dudes, what is wrong with y’all tonight? The real step one involves a buttload of paperwork, a hospital wristband (seriously?) and meeting your entire fucking deductible and maxing out your HSA on the seventh damn day of the year.
Step 2: Wait for the rad-tech to show up. Rather impatiently, I might add. Gotta get to work, people! Time is money! Life is short! Why oh why the fuck can’t I be in the forest around Cape Flattery? Le sigh. Oh here he is now!
Step 3: A little more paperwork, and a slight bit of eyeing the forty-something cutie.
Step 4: Doff the hoodie, hang it in a locker. Shoes in the locker. Earrings in the locker. Wallet, phone, keys in the locker. He kindly informed me I wouldn’t need to don a gown and wouldn’t even have to remove my bra. Thanks, doc. Here I was hoping to lose my virginity at prom. Thanks for stringing a girl along. He also said my fillings wouldn’t be a problem. I assured him of my relief, seeing as I’d left my pliers at home. Silly me.
Step 5: Go into the doom MRI room, receive instructions, lie down and have the rad-tech position my legs (very funny, guys) and my pillow (oh yeah, this is getting good now).
Step 6: Squish the proffered earplugs in. (Wait, what? Earplugs? Kinky.)
Step 7: Rad-tech slides in (me, that is, into the machine). I go in all the way to the hip and that’s it. Then he leaves the room, and I get superduper still, as instructed. Stephanie’s totally at ease. “I’ve got this,” she thinks, mentally thrusting her fist in the air.
Step 8: Stephanie embarks upon a slow descent into madness. Let’s peek into her thoughts, shall we? Shhhh, we’ll simply be quiet observers. Leave nothing disturbed (it’s already quite disturbed, as we shall see). Listen and be edified.
Seriously, I’m really fucking cold.
Stay still, dumbass. You don’t wanna be here all day. OhmyFUCK how about a blanket, fuckwad? I read about MRIs online, and I’m supposed to get a motherfucking blanket! WHERE’S MY MOTHERFUCKING BLANKET.
Are my nipples hard? My nipples are hard. That’s about fucking right.
My bra covers that up, right? He can totally see my nipples.
That’s it. I will never leave the house again.
What the hell was that?
Did that ceiling tile just move? Oh my god, that ceiling tile just moved!
What if that’s a secret ninja hatch?
What if they’re here to kill me? What if they’re here to recruit me?
Ohfuckyes, that’s it! I’ll be the world’s first Fat Ninja!
I’ll sneak up on people, kill them with my ninja stars….then eat them. Hannibal Ninja! Ninjabal Lecter!
I bet they’re here to kill me.
SON. OF. A. BITCH.
My fucking leg just moved.
You traitorous motherfucker. Just wait’ll we get out of here.Just. You. Wait.
Oh my fuck, my foot just moved! It’s the drugs. The psychiatrist conspired with the MRI people to make you pay more to take more images because YOU WON’T STOP FUCKING TWITCHING YOU STUPIDHEAD!
I’m really, really, really fucking cold.
I can’t feel my legs anymore.
I’m shivering and I’m gonna fuck up this test! What would Buddha do? I know. I’ve got it. (Stephanie begins chanting in her head.) There is no cold. There is no cold. There is no cold. There is no cold.
You’re on a warm beach. Feel the warm sand and the cool breeze.
No! What the fuck is the matter with you? WARM breeze! WARM!
You’ve ruined everything.
There is no cold. There is no cold. There is no cold. There is no cold. Fuck it. If this isn’t over soon, all that’s left will be a Stephsicle.
You know what would be really awesome?
If this were a time capsule!
Where would I go, though?
Back in time to kill George Lucas before he can fuck up Star Wars, like Patton Oswalt said?
Maybe just to find out the winning lottery numbers, like everyone else says!
No, I totally wanna have a drink with Winston Churchill. We’d be homies!
Or maybe! Maybe! Back to July and not step off that fucking ledge all recklessly like you did! I just wanna go back 5 fucking minutes and ask for a motherfucking blanket.
You’re being crazy.
You’ve got to stop this nonsense, or you really will fuck the test up.
And stop thinking about fucking the test up!
Thinking about it will make you fuck it up!
Don’t you know anything?
Wait, I really can’t feel my legs. Except when they twitch.Oh no. I know what’s happened.
This can only mean one thing. I’m not in an MRI machine. No, it was never an MRI. It was all a ruse. It’s…it’s….it’s!
A Sarlacc! And it’s eating me! Legs first!
And I’m strapped in and can’t get out!
Why hasn’t the rad-tech spoken lately?
Oh my fuck, I know what’s happened!
He owes a blood debt to the Sarlacc, and to save himself and his starving children…. He feeds the beast the blood of the innocent!
Step 9: The rad-tech enters the room, helps Stephanie up and out of the machine and waits for Stephanie to remove her squishy earplugs.
Step 10: Rad-tech tells Stephanie she did such a wonderful job staying still. Rad-tech asks Stephanie how it was for her (snicker). Stephanie replies:
Oh that? I could hardly tell time was passing, I was so relaxed. I can’t believe it’s over already!
Stephanie thinks in her head:
You are fucking insane. Seriously. Certifiable. And if anyone ever tells you to have an MRI again, cut them. Into tiny little pieces and feed them to the Sarlacc. Because fuck this shit! P.S. He totally knows you’re lying. He saw your nipples, too. Whore.
And that, my darlings, is how not to take an MRI. Or do, because I have to admit…those crazy fantasies were kinda fun (when my heart wasn’t racing because I was alarming myself).
Oh yeah. P.S. The MRI showed that my foot is broken in two places. Since July and never healed. No joke, five doctors, eight visits, and two sets of x-rays…and no one could figure out why I’m still hurting. Frankly, none but one podiatrist and my rheumatologist’s Nurse Practitioner believed me. It’s thanks to her I got the MRI and am now be-booted. I thunk around like a bad TV version of Frankenstein’s monster. But at least I finally know what’s wrong and can start to heal…so I can go hiking again. Booyah!