GRAAAAAAPE!!!!!
So, I’m on this pain medication to help deal with my broken rib. I take them sparingly because, as I spelled out in the last entry, I was given a truly paltry number of pills compared to the huge amount of pain I’m in. I realize that this is ER protocol. You go there, get the x ray and they give you enough pills to get you to the point where you go to your regular doctor and they can better figure out a pain management plan based on their knowledge of your medical history and blah blah blah. The thing is, I’m a healthy, monogamous male without any particularly crippling hypochondria and as a result, like almost all other humans in this category, I haven’t been to the doctor in approaching a decade.
Women go to doctors and men don’t. I realize this is a generalization, but among my friends, family, acquaintances and peers, I find this to be pretty iron clad. I have a couple of male friends who go to the doctor and the reasons either stem from hypochondria/other mental health issues or the desire to get drugs prescribed to them for recreational use. I fit neither of these categories. My wife yells at me to go to the doctor, just like the moms of my kids’ friends yell at their husbands to go to the doctor, just like the doc at the minute clinic in the CVS told me that she yells at her brothers and husband to go to the doctor. You. You there, you’re either the kind of person that yells at a man to go to the doctor, or you’re the kind of person who gets yelled at by someone to go to the doctor. Or you’re incredibly lonely, or self absorbed, or a lesbian.
Women go to the doctor for pussy maintenance first and foremost, which is a laudable and important form of self preservation, but if they didn’t have those things, I doubt women would be going for checkups any more than men. Dick maintenance involves some soap and a washrag. There’s no mystery, no peeking inside, and if something’s wrong, it’s not gonna languish unnoticed. Dicks show pain by having green shit hanging off the end or a bunch of cigarette burn looking sores all over them. None of this is really very important, but it’s relevant to the fact that once I run out of these ten (now six!) pills, I’m pretty much done with pain management for the duration of this broken rib (unless I’ve got a faithful Doc of War out there reading this right now…holla atcher overlord if so).
So anyway, last night I’m laying in bed. I’ve taken a pill and, since I don’t usually fuck with that kind of medicine, it’s making me feel pretty goofy. As I start to drift off to sleep, I conceptualize what I think, at the time is gonna be the greatest blog entry for today:
I’m gonna start off by talking about how much I love grapes. I’ll mention that I love grapes and eat them all the time. I’ll suggest that I’m what we could call a ‘grapist.’ I’d then go on to mention how I put grapes on my cereal and that I’m a bit of a cereal grapist, and I also like to mix my grapes with dates and I’m a date/grapist as well. It would just go on and on like this. You get the idea. It’s exceedingly stupid, but last night as I was drifting to bed it was all my dumb, painkiller addled brain could do not to get up and take notes on this devastatingly cutting edge bit of wordplay. Somehow, I truly imagined that I’d be able to stretch this bit into a full-length entry and that, somehow, it would be funny. The delusion boggles the mind.
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