serves me right for gettin' cocky.
with a flu "epidemic!" in 47 states, this immunosuppressed bitch couldn't wait to get all up in yo facebook face over my successful dodge of the PLAGUE OF 2013, now batting nearly a thousand across this gray nation. the young, the elderly and the immunosuppressed so at risk, i would've triumphantly tooted over my loud-ass-speaker,
"I AIN'T SICK, BITCHES!!!"
[well. catch ya on the flip side.]
even with 7.3 % of this week's deaths caused by pneumonia or flu, it still ranks waaay behind those dying from cancer sticks or road ragers crashing to bits upon impact, or, better yet, those sucking hard on cancer sticks while crashing to bits upon impact.
folks, grab some perspective.
but perspective is hard to spot when you're thrown into epileptic seizure watching the evening news. images flashing, graphic on repeat - "BREAKING NEWS!' - fanning the flame of people's fear into raging wildfires, while the truth smolders.
is it the glare reflecting from their chicleted choppers, chomping, tossing dirty laundry around like a lion rips on raw meat, that blinds?
[what is it with americans and their teeth anyway? antarctica is less white.]
is it omission of All Things Considered, teleprompting with equal enthusiasm a [gasp!] "5 Car Pile-Up!" or [awww!] "Baby Born in a Car!", that fries?
or is it those talking heads, nodding with bouncy empathy; pixelated Bobble-heads, that discombobulate?
i can never pay attention to anything they are saying. i'm too distracted by his pancaked glow - the shade: "oompa-loompa oomph!". too disturbed by her juicy, anus-shaped lips, too moist, like she mistakenly ate a tube of lip gloss and not the ziplocked sticks of carrots and celery stashed in her purse; lips oozing glossy gossip shellaced as hard news, dripping words of wisdom only the young and the ignorant heed.
they are so blown out, wrinkleless, poreless, it's like auditing a panel of blow-up dolls at an adult film convention, which still has more personality than these drones. i can only attribute their adrenalized parroting to the abuse of their child's adderall and not any hard nosed analysis.
[she steps down from her soap box.]
i've never really understood the idiom, "sick as a dog".
any dog owner will tell you it's a canine's missionimpossible to stay with you forever.
[Spot to Fluffy: never let them see you sweat.
except when they sweat, they pant. and look cute. like they are smiling!]
please. they will puke up a hearty breakfast, sniff it, maybe lick it, then seconds later, look up with a wink and a smile.
my beagle was over 17 years old, had glaucoma, ass cancer, cushing's disease, arthritis, [treated with onlyinl.a. acupuncture sessions,] and a body riddled with tumors. cuddling this senior hound was like stroking a sack of potatoes. in the end, a canine form of alzheimers' boxed him into a bedroom corner, barking and bewildered,
"GET. OVER. HERE. AND. TURN. ME. AROUND!", he bossed.
[i learned everything i know from my dog.]
yeah, he didn't go until he was good and ready.
like the old penguin that gets left behind. old, ailing, woefully waddling out of step with his brethren's march, but in time with morgan freeman's elegantly fluid narration. no cymbal-clashing drama, just ready to drift away, adagio, into the snow.
me? when i'm sick i get on the goddamn bullhorn. 86 that. i get on the fucking world wide web.
after 31 years of the gift that keeps on giving, i am officially over it.
like a lady of the night who's been gang-banged by a bunch of tweakers,
i. am. done.
both my diseases like to occasionally wake me up with the early morning call to prayer,
in the world according to me, i've met my quota, my cup runneth over, blah, blah, blah.
"i am sick and tired of being sick and tired."
i'm so efficient! a catch phrase for both diseases!
so, no, i do not feel grateful when i wake up with a throbbing welt on the back of my neck. the unknown pinch hitter, in the stelth of the night, having louisville-sluggered me soaring past home plate, sliding into a grand slam of pain.
no. i do not feel grateful when i peel my eyes open, welded shut from mr. sandman's heavy-handed pour, and solder off last night's crusties. my leafy green walls, painted the perfect shade of zen, suddenly turn puke green. my head begins to roar like the rushing sound of the Demon's vomit, and my head spins round and round and round. sound loud as her spew of hatred, while doing the nasty with a piece of wood in the shape of redemption.
[and i am as delightful a conversationalist. just ask my husband.]
and no. i do not feel grateful there's a safe full of pills in my house. with someone else's name on the bottle.
righteous relief, now permanently denied.
"i want what i want and i want it now!", you stomp. "mummy! k. doesn't know how to share!"
you need comfort. comfort food. a bottle. a big bottle of booze. big bottles of booze and painkillers.
"Let There Be Drugs!"
it feels like a cosmic joke, but the truth is, there's no-one to blame. not "God". not "Fate". not "the Universe".
it's just Life. and Life happens.
i know the devil is inside.
It strokes my rage. at You. when Your germs make me sick.
It whispers sweet somethings, carroting me into a cave lined soft with self-pity. a velvet retreat, coaxing me fetal with rationalized resentments and images of a midway-bright future i can't sustain.
It leads me so deep into myself, i am blinded by dark, and can't see anymore.
where is my gratitude? it's not on any oprah-esque gratitude list. list 5 things a day you are grateful for!
1. i am grateful for my kidney transplant.
2. i am grateful i am not on dialysis.
3. i am grateful for aa.
4. i am grateful i can see, smell, hear, touch and taste.
5. i am grateful i can walk.
it never fucking changes.
[not only do i get a little punchy when i am sick, i also turn into a exemplary potty mouth. stick with me, kid, and you'll never be without a swear.]
actually, i'm surprised harpo hasn't pandered to Her masses and trademarked a 365 days-a-year calender.
oprah's favorite gratitude quotes! daily! now you can share in oprah's gratitude!
"i am grateful for gayle! for curly fries! for my $25 million montecito mansion!"
she calls it an "A-HA!" moment. i call it relief.
sometimes i run towards it with the panic of a bank run, other times i surrender like summer lovers, wet and willing, and still other times, i sink like a stone with the weight of my world.
getting on my knees is a bumpy decent. i fall, turbulent tummy, dropping down through pockets of unknown airspace. there's no guarantee of a smooth landing, but the voice from the intercom guides me all the way down.
i try to picture something i can understand. not the figurehead image of a Man, God, with shockwave dreads, and a stringy, white beard, righteously pointing his staff at me in judgement and indignation.
i picture pink.
the flash of fuschia from a blouse, a poly/satin blend. the blouse Bedstemor was wearing, dressed up and glowing, the last time i saw her alive.
Bedstemor. danish for grandmother. literally, best. mother.
the one who watches over me now.
to the person i do not pray, but on her spirituality, i soar.
and find relief.
in the gloaming, i find her. when the sky's fuschia fury blends into evening's quilt, her silver-tipped teeth wink divine, like the stars poking through the fabric of the night.
and i find not only relief,