Unhappiness

Biggest Deal:

Found out on Friday that my stepdad’s biopsy came back positive for a moderate stage of prostage cancer and he’ll be entering treatment some time in the next few weeks undergoing hormonal and proton therapy. Somehow the thought that he’ll get laser beams shot up his ass isn’t nearly as cheering to him or me as it would be in different circumstances. Irony is, he’s a retired physicist whose specialty was nuclear medicine. The man invented about 30% of the delivery systems now used in hospitals around the world to administer radiation therapy to cancer patients. He’s 74 and both his overall health and prognosis are excellent, but goddamn it sucks. I’ve seen too many people die of cancer and that’s the last thing I’d wish on anybody but Osama. The thought that’s giving me the greatest strength right now is that he’s too ornery to die miserably like that.

Big Deal But Not So Big In The Greater Scheme Of Things (see above):

My adorable MINI Horus has been in the shoppe at Bob Smith MINI since 6-22-04. Lights were flashing, whirligigs were beeping, and engine tummies were rumbling roughly in quite the disgruntling fashion. To add insult to injury, the first time the car started to act possessed and almost stalled out on PCH, I got a ticket for zig-zagging around a big ‘ol truck that was cutting off my escape route to pull over. And the fucktard cop didn’t even believe that I was having car problems because Horus is so young (last odometer reading before dropping him off for service was at 2,785 miles). I’m currently waiting to hear from Barry, the Service Manager at Bob Smith, or Todd, the Customer Service Rep at MINI Corporate, about when I’ll be getting a new car per California’s Lemon Law. And a lifelong supply of MINI swag. And ghost flames. That’s what I get for naming the little dude after a dead Egyptian god instead of a metasociopsychosexual metaphor. Next one will be called Spanky. (Chucked the whole Hermaphrodite thing as nobody seems to want to pronounce it with a long “e” at the end.)

Just Fucking Annoying:

Finally, on the way home last night someone apparently blew up a cat on PCH, which I correspondingly drove through. At least that’s what the out-of-nowhere severe allergy attack felt like – coughing up a lung, eyes in mondo post-doobie state, and a chest full of phlegm that even my Super-Duper Asthma Inhaler couldn’t clear up, exactly as if someone had stuck a cat in my face. Hate that. I mean, normally I’d be all about blowing up cats on a public thoroughfare, but not if I have to drive through the mushroom cloud. I didn’t get my admissions essay for Antioch written, nor my resume updated, nor Chapter 1 of Goodnight Gracie on paper. Blech.


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