Morbid

 

So. . . it looks as if I don't post early, nobody looks.  WTF?  Do you ever just want to say fuck you?  Whatever.  I post every day, not most days.  Show some loyalty, motherfuckers.  I'm dying here. 

Maybe.  Literally.  I mean we all are, but some more than others.  We are culling the aged with Corona, of course.  "We" being an attitude that aligns with nature.  Of course "nature" is a metaphor like "god."  Right?  It has congregational meaning.  There is actually no "nature" any more than there is anything else outside of our language construct.  But if we are all in agreement about what "nature" means, then we can proceed.  

I mean, the aged are fucked.  

So is my house.  We tore out the floors and walls.  Three layers of subfloor--three!!!--were wet and covered in mold.  The wood is waterlogged and scary.  I have a cardiology appointment on Monday morning, and I will be even sicker when. . . I find out what lies beneath.  I know doctors are supposed to be there to protect your health, and I believe that they believe that by and large, but we and they all know why they are really there.  It is the foundation of capitalism.  

I have always been an advocate of preventative health care.  Now I feel as if the information I receive will only lead me to despair and depression.  I'd rather not have to hear from them.  But there is no other way to get the needed drugs.  

If I receive the expected bad news, the only drugs I'll want are LSD and heroin.  

Oregon here I come!

There are better ways to die than nursing homes.  

My entire body aches tonight and I am worn out beyond reason.  I've decided to take Xanax and a giant Naproxen and drink some scotch.  I thought I would forego all drugs and drink tonight, but it makes no sense.  Whatever happens tomorrow, I want it on my terms, not the cardiac salesman's.  Perhaps it was a mistake to watch this tonight (link).  

Of course, I am being morbid.  I have no other way of being tonight.  Tonight, I say, for I have no idea what time Mr. Fixit will arrive tomorrow, and once he gets here, my day is shot.  

If I can write in the morning, I will.  If not. . . well. . . this is it.  If you come.  It is obvious you never share the site.  "I'm melting. . . I'm melting. . . . "  All of my evil talents are shrinking, that's for sure.  Perhaps I would be better off resuming the old position.  Remember?  Hey. . . both of you. . . I'm talking to you!!!!