I’ll begin with a few headlines, fresh from the Howdygram’s HOT NOOZ department!
I practically committed suicide at bedtime Wednesday night by taking the first burning hot sip from a mug of Maruchan Hot & Spicy Ramen Noodles with Shrimp and accidentally inhaled. I seared my windpipe all the way down to my left kidney and didn’t think I’d ever be able to breathe again, but I did, of course. Eventually.
I’M A HEALTH FOOD JUNKIE.
For dinner on Thursday I had a large slab of Pepperidge Farm Coconut Layer Cake with a side order of insulin. This was perfect, and I highly recommend layer cake. (It tastes best with a premium plastic fork from Wal-Mart.)
SAM BOUGHT ME A NEW CANNULA.
There’s a nice medical supply store near the main post office in downtown Mesquite, and they sell the most comfortable cannulas I’ve ever had the pleasure to stuff up my nose! Their doo-dads made are of very, soft very flexible plastic, and the cord that stretches around your ears is highly excellent. I’m wearing oxygen as I write this post because every now and then I need help breathing. I can’t tell if this is a physical problem or just your garden variety panic attack. This happens a lot lately.
WHY I’M HAVING PANIC ATTACKS: A TWO-PART ANSWER.
PART ONE. Remember those horrible burning spasms, the ones I get three or four times every hour from the world’s longest-running urinary tract infection? The pains are back with a vengeance, even after taking a week of Pyridium and a two-day treatment with maximum-strength Azo! For the last couple of months we’ve been begging the hospice administrator for a urine culture so the doctor will know what kind of bacterial infection I’m fighting and finally prescribe the right antibiotic, but it’s been an torturous ordeal trying to make it happen … so today we’re taking our battle to the hospice social worker and the chaplain. (Stay tuned.)
PART TWO. I’m still battling for my pain medication. After a heated telephone call on the morning of New Year’s Eve, the hospice administrator apologized profusely for neglecting me and promised a full refill of my Hydrocodone tablets with the correct dose (six tablets a day) and quantity (90) by January 2, but so far I’ve received NOTHING. Personally, I think these two issues — the relentless burning spasms and the ongoing fight for my pain meds — are more than adequate to send me spiraling into panic attacks. Sometimes I even get downright hysterical.
Incidentally, money saved by the United States via the USMCA can’t be funneled automatically into a random project specified by you, Donald Dimwit, the narcissistic “genius” who says he graduated at the top of his class from the Wharton School of Business! Funds from the trade deal, if there are any, would be returned America’s businesses. And here’s something to remember, Donald: Congress is in charge of the budget, not our dumb-as-fuck illegitimate president!
I love getting this shit off my chest, but I know I won’t really be happy until I can watch Trump on C-SPAN, on trial in the House of Representatives. The FBI needs to drag him kicking and screaming out of the White House, in handcuffs, and he needs to spend the rest of his rotten life in prison with all of his rotten relatives.
Come on already. I’M NOT GOING TO LIVE FOREVER.
FRIDAY, 1/4/2019, 7:26 P.M. Sam is asleep on the sofa and I’m binge-watching my new favorite reality show … “Bar Rescue” on the Paramount Network. I don’t remember how I got hooked on this show, but I’m recording about 24 episodes on our DVR. This is even better than “The Real Housewives of New Jersey,” but not “Top Chef.”
Thank you for reading this, and please let me know if you’re making any plans to remember the Alamo this year.
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