Dichotomous Hippopotamus

it's good to know...

that if I ever I forget how to be depressed, there’s always Cat Power to listen to.

slippery slope

It’s scary to think that the only thing that stands between me and morbid obesity is about a month of daily french fry consumption.

Summer Storms.......ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Is it possible to OD on watermelon?

Something tells me it is. I mean, it seems innocent enough. A melon made of water, during a time of 105 degree days, seems like the the perfect food. And yet…the sugar. It’s filled with delicious, pinky-red, juicy sugar. Sugar that is poised to attack me in some way, that when ingested commences a vicious chain of insulin highs and lows and hormone imbalances and water retention and energy nosedives and weight gain. When is a piece of watermelon not just a piece of watermelon? When I eat it.

MRI stands for motherfucking really intense

Leg problems. Need MRI. Go for MRI today. This is what happens.

Led into room. Room with giant MRI tube thing. I ask tech if my whole body needs to go in there. Yes, she says. I lie down on the sliding thing and they slide me into the tube, my head about an inch away from the top of the tube, and freak out. The thing they have given me to squeeze in case I need to contact them in case I am freaking out gets squeezed. I need to stop and take a xanax. I take xanax once every seven years, more or less. This was that day. The mean tech (there’s a nice tech, too) says, “There’s not going to be enough time for it to kick in, we’re on a schedule.” It a 25 minute ride, and it xanax kicks in in about 10. So I went and got it anyway, knowing at least by the time I was done I wouldn’t be hyperventilating. Go back in the tube. The noises are really, really loud. I try to imagine it’s the backbeat for a techno song, but I hate techno songs. I endure, thinking of my friend telling me she’s newly pregnant, thinking about swimming, thinking that this 25 minutes in the scheme of things really is nothing. It goes on for 10 minutes, I endure, I endure. Then I feel electrical shocks in my body, my legs twitch, there’s a current in my arms. This is not soothing. I squeeze the panic button. The nice tech asks if I’m okay. “Am I supposed to be feeling an electrical current in my arms?,” I ask. “”Uncross your arms,” she says. It would have been nice for them to tell me that at the beginning. The mean tech get on and barks, “And stop moving your hips! You’re going to ruin the image if you keep moving!” I was moving my fucking hips, bitch, because there was a palpable electric current running through my body. Nice tech asks if I’m okay to keep going, which I am not, and I decide to call it a day and to come back, or maybe never come back, but to get the hell out of there either way. Mean tech says, “We’ll tell your doctor you need to reschedule because you need meds.” I might have done better if she wasn’t such an asshole and if they had told me, before going in-not after-that crossing one’s arms can make them act like an electrical current. It seems like something useful to share.

Anyway, maybe I’ll just go all Jehovah’s Witness (or is it Seventh Day Adventist?) on this shit and refuse conventional medical care.