To those of you without your thumbs in your asses, and maybe some of you with them, (do what you have to do, I won’t tell your coach) you might have noticed a small wild-fire of controversy surrounding yours truly. Sadly, it isn’t the kind we like, it’s that really fucking douchey kind of controversy. The one with the tramp stamp and foot tattoo of the snake that means ‘triumph’ in Nordic, the one that always comes to Thanksgiving without being invited. The kind that goes to bars and drinks tequila so that guys will think it’s cool.
This controversy has stemmed from a more than slightly retarded incident occurring in January. And I swore I wouldn’t write about it, and that I would continue being snarky and not funny and not let “misfortune” fuel my need to literary expression and yada yada yada.
And clearly I fucking lied, mostly due to the fact that you nosey assholes haven’t given me much of a choice. I will in no way be going into any substantial detail here, so if you’re searching for the expose on the death of a friendship and birth of a freak-accident and mysterious medical condition, I suggest you read Paris Hilton’s autobiography, close this tab and punch yourself in the face.
Where was I? Ah, yes, okay, so January, I had a minor mishap; Nothing major. (unbeknownst to me, that is) Turned out to be kind of a big deal, medically speaking, which took me on a swift ride from ‘minor mishap’ to ‘immediate surgery to remove infection’. Whoa. What? Okay man, do what you gotta do. Totally thought we were back on our rusty track, when again we were faced with some weird news involving my innards being sick, and how allegedly I needed some hardware to prevent death or some shit. The accessory in this case was a PICC line. For those of you that just tilted your head and quickly exhaled in confusion.
Percutaneously inserted central catheters (PICC lines), are long, thin, plastic tubes that travel from a vein in an arm or leg into one of the large veins near the heart.
(I know, right?)
Let’s keep in mind that with this cute little add-on they decided to sodomize me with, come terms; no drinking, no driving, no exercise, no traveling to “non-sterile environments”, no caffeine, no freedom.
So, whatever, I got arm-raped with this sunuvabitch and told to take some IV antibiotics for a while until these fucks felt like I could stop. 3 weeks later they discovered this ‘infection’ had spread itself from one part of my body to another, meaning I needed to go under the knife yet again to scrape the shit off of my bones. Awesome. They did, it was my favorite combination of both erotic and excruciating. And shit was cool, until we found out the medicine they were so generously giving me was making me ill, and not the cool weight-loss kind of ill, like the I want to vomit on babies kind. So we quit it, and they put me under again, this time only to repair the damage done to my tendons and joints because of this freak accident. They claim it was successful. I’m game for whatever they want to do to me as long as it doesn’t involve morphine or my creepy anesthesiologist that kept talking to me about his iPad Mini while he was injecting me with blue shit.
Rad news though, folks; after 9 weeks of IV drips every 8 hours, surgeries, treatments, physical therapy, EKGs, CTs, MRIs, sonograms, biopsies, emotional eating, Drew Barrymore movies and weird at-home-nurses taking my blood to various places in their Ford Focuses, I am PICC line free, and 31% less likely to chop up everyone around me. And for that, we’re pretty psyched.
It’s been an insanely shitty ordeal for me and most importantly, the unfortunate yuppies that have fallen victim to my manipulative ways and claim to like love me and shit. So the fact that we’re looking at some light-like substance at the end of this rotten tunnel, that’s probably somewhere in New Jersey, is some pretty amazing shit.
There. Now you know. Now you have an idea of what all of my mother’s Facebook posts and various ‘I’m praying for you’ posts, tweets, etc.. have been referring to. So go, minions. Go gossip and analyze and do what fuckers do. I’m not worried about it, I’m just amped to be able to do jumping jacks, or give a handjob to a really tall guy, or drink tequila.
Before I forget, I’d like to give a shout out to those of you that understand my neurotic and somewhat sociopathic demands for mystery and self-sufficiency during hard times, and have still stayed loyal, empathetic and an all around solid human being.
Peace & love & say no to anal