GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #656: A VISIT TO THE DOCTOR

 Welp. I've gained ten or so pounds since the last time I went to the doctor. That doesn't surprise me considering how I eat big dinners. Small breakfasts and lunches, but huge dinners. My blood pressure is back up in heart attack territory. My sugars aren't great, but at least they're not as bad as they were. My kidneys are doing really well, though, which isn't bad for a couple of organs that tried to stop working once upon a time, leading to an ER visit.

And now down to brass tacks. Do I have rheumatoid arthritis like that immediate care doctor said I probably do? I got the test results over the weekend, and there's some good news and some bad news.

The good news: it's not rheumatoid arthritis. That test came back negative.

The bad news: there's still something going on in my hands and some of my joints. The inflammatory tests came back indicating that something bad is happening. No shit, right? My hands are killing me all the time, now. It's worse in the mornings. But what is this bad something? The doctor doesn't know.

So I'm seeing a specialist next month. I was kind of hoping for some painkillers because aspirin ain't cutting it. Neither is Tylenol. I can't take ibuprofen because that's what led to my aforementioned near kidney failure.

Well fuck. Icing my fingers sometimes helps. So does running hot water over them. But those things only help in that moment. When I walk away from the ice/heat, it's right back to square one.

I wonder if the specialist will give me something at least to take the edge off. It would be nice to go at least one day without feeling this pain.

Well fuck.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #14: I'M DRUNK! DRUNK!

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Or something like that.


Seriously, I could never in a million years describe what happened tonight. I'm suddenly reminded of my youth, when any number of crazy things could happen--and then actually did.


This old man's got to rest his bones. I'm going to be 36 next week, and I have all sorts of medical problems. I should probably stop doing all the ridiculous shit I'm doing . . . but . . . well . . . when Charles Bukowski was a younger man, he was told by a doctor that he must stop drinking or he'd die. It depressed him so much he went directly from the doctor's office to a bar, because he needed a drink.


The dude lived for DECADES after that, drinking heavily the whole time. He didn't even die from his habits. Leukemia got him.


But still. I bet you fuckers thought I wouldn't post anything before passing out. Hell, I'm with you. I should have passed out hours ago. I'm not supposed to drink this much. I've had a half-pint of Jameson, a half-pint of Wild Turkey 101, five shots of Bulleit, a Gonzo Imperial (thanks, Katrina!), and maybe--MAYBE--four shots of Fleischmann's (but that was in the afternoon, when I was getting ready for the night).


My doctor is going to murder me. He's going to take one look at me and kill me with his eye lasers. FUCK.