My Kabob Has Been Sheeshed
Ouch! My kabob has been sheeshed!
Lemme say, did I mention, OUCH!!! Yup, the doctor took tissue samples (note the plural) and now I get to wait and bleed and heal and see if I have cancer. Joy. (Did I say ouch yet?) Not to mention I got a little too brave and white-knuckled it all the way to the pharmacy before I passed out. Gads, am I a fucking wimp! Disembowel somebody else in front of me and I want spaghetti and meatballs for lunch, but prick my finger and I swoon. Poor pharmacy lady - she was just happy that I didn’t puke on her. We’ve all got to be happy about something, I suppose…
OK, so word up, if anyone ever says they want to do a colposcopy, run or demand drugs first. But it’s better to have chunks snipped out of my hoo-hoo so that I can find out that I don’t have cancer of the cervix than to have my whole small intestine spontaneously invert and drag behind me on the ground. Not that that ever really happens in real life… tee hee. Did I mention I used to work in trauma surgery? Probably why I’m such a wuss - I KNOW what a rongeur and a curette are for. Gotta hurt ya to heal ya - surgery is a societally condoned form of violence, practiced by mutual consent, but violence nonetheless. So let’s all hear it for fluffy pink styrofoam bunnies and sparkly, yummy Peeps. (They come in purple kitty form for Halloween, too. Yay.)