Do we bring it on ourselves? Whatever gory mess is happening, have we wished for it in some way, created the gore?
Hellz no. DONE WITH THAT. I’ve heard those theories, and I am TURNING MY BACK ON YOU, THEORIES.
I have also heard stupid-ass theories that we are the other character in our dreams, or that our dreams have profound significance. HA! HA! I just had a dream that my next door neighbor was Steve Martin, and he had cancer. So I had to leave a screening of ‘American Idol’ (full of scary teenage BOYS), a screening that I never wanted to GO TO IN THE FIRST PLACE. I had to leave the show to go care for Steve Martin. But when I tried to LEAVE, the scary TEENAGE BOYS surrounded me and so I had to yell at them, “I HAVE TO GO TAKE CARE OF A MAN WITH CANCER!” Which worked, because even a teen boy with evil in his soul is no match for a woman begging to care for a MAN WITH CANCER!
And when I got there, to Steve Martin’s house, he had all this great FOOD that I wished I had in my refrigerator, and he was mocking the FOOD! So I ATE some. Stuffed some in my mouth when he wasn’t looking. Felt bad that I was STEALING FROM THE TERMINALLY ILL. But, dude, a tormented girl has got to EAT.
And when I went to straighten up his BEDSHEETS, Steve Martin pressed up behind me with a BIG OL’ STIFFIE, and I was all like, “Um, Steve Martin? You have cancer and a chubby, and if I gave into your lusty last wishes, I wouldn’t feel good about myself, because I see that you have a COLLECTION OF EARRINGS FROM YOUR PAST CONQUESTS.”
And then Steve Martin was all like, “Oh, you got me there,” and then beautiful women started STREAMING THROUGH THE DOOR WITH FABULOUS CAKES for him and rendered me virtually INVISIBLE. Until I told them they had to LEAVE, because Steve Martin was about to DROP DEAD and it was my job to usher the dirty deathbomb into his nicely made BED. At which point, he tried to have SEX with a few of them, but they DECLINED because I had called him a DIRTY DEATHBOMB, and even star-f*ckers know better than to drop down that manhole.
So I put Steve Martin to deathbed. And he sighed patiently, WAITING. I crawled into bed with him and told him I wouldn’t have sex with him while we WAITED FOR HIM TO DIE. Because he would only DUMP MY SORRY ASS before he made it to St. Peter’s Gate, where he’d hook up with a flight attendant. I told him I wanted to be SPECIAL. Steve Martin understood this. So we just waited. And waited. And waited.
When I woke up, he still hadn’t died yet.
As you can clearly see, there is NO SIGNIFICANCE WHATSOEVER in a dream like THAT.
That was my digression.
I meant to say: There is something wrong with my digestion, a word that looks a lot like ‘digression.’
I had to go to the ER, but not because I was CUCKOO! But because I doubled over with stomach pain last week, out of nowhere, and I was pretty sure Steve Martin was in the other room smoothing my sheets.
ER. Big ol’ nightmare! They pulled out the IVs, people. You KNOW how I feel about IVs. I tried to be a sport, but then they told me I had little girl veins, so I became a little girl and started bawling my eyes out, because they couldn’t get one started. Then they made me drink lidocain and sparkly unicorn pee so they could see my insides during a CT scan. They injected IODINE into my IV to see if I would explode!
It is almost better to be cuckoo.
I have an ultrasound on Friday. An early birthday present. I wish it were for a baby, and not to see if I have Steve Martin’s tumor living in the base of my esophagus.
They say not-quite stomach ulcer, not-quite gallstone, not-quite good, and oh, by the way, is there a history of stomach cancer in the family?
They don’t know what I have. It’s not presenting clearly. Rather like myself.
Had another attack yesterday. Felt like Steve Martin’s cake knife was slicing through my stomach and back. Damn you, Steve Martin! Go into the light! Go into the light!
Anyway. This is the last straw. No, that WAS the last straw. I no longer believe I am bringing this CRAP on myself. It is a run of terrible luck that is now reaching comic proportions (I would have said, thus, Steve Martin, a comedian! Or: I obviously can’t STOMACH something. But now I am an anarchist and I don’t believe in anything).
But I AM NOT TO BLAME FOR ANYTHING ANYMORE.
THAT IS ALL. I’ll keep you posted.
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