Went to the hospital. Doctor gave me a scrip for antibiotics and took a sample of the discharge from my Demon Nipple.
I’m not happy about that because he never told me what it was I had and dealt with me in such a friendly but peremptory fashion that I still don’t know WTF.
And all of that is very clear to me…. now.
But at the time, it all happens so fast that I don’t have time to even figure out what is going wrong before it’s all over and I am left there bewildered and lost.
So obviously, I need more than just a feisty attitude. No matter how determined I am to advocate for myself as strongly as possible, I just don’t have the mental speed to process what it going on in realtime.
So that’s it. I need a medical advocate. There is no other solution.
I don’t like admitting this. I mean, here I am, brain the size of a planet, with extraordinary verbal and intellectual skills, admitting that I need someone to hold my hand when I go to the doctor because I think too slow.
I’m telling you, being a genius is demoralizing and confusing because for every area in which you excel, there’s a dozen in which you are far below average.
I can see why in the comics, people like me end up megalomaniac supervillains. Having to inflate one’s ego to compensate for ones crippling inadequacies and invest that ego in one’s small reserve of mega-competencies would make anyone unstable.
At least the outfits are cool.
Oh, but my having a workable but unsatisfying experience at the hospital was just the beginning. I took a cab home, and as I got out of the cab, I glanced down to the place on my chest where my keys should have been, and yes, they were not there.
And as often happens in these circumstances, I have a moment of total clarity, like a high def snapshot of myself taking my keys off so I could put my shirt back on and not putting them back on.
And not having a cell phone, I couldn’t just call Joe or Julian.
So I tried using the buzzer. No answer. Tried like twelve times. No answer.
So I waited outside the front entrance to my building and quite cleverly slipped in while someone was holding the door open for a UPS guy.
It’s amazing what brown can do for you.
Then I banged on the apartment door. No answer, I banged harder. No answer.
So I sat down on the floor outside the apartment and just kind of mellowed out there for a while until the stress chemicals wore off enough for me to be able to think rationally.
It wasn’t what you’d call a plan, but it’s how it worked out.
Then I borrowed a cell phone from some nice guy who was helping people move int the apartment next door, 602.
Called Joe. He said he’d rouse Julian. Faboo.
But nothing happened. And the problem with borrowing some rando’s phone is that Joe couldn’t call me back.
And now I really needed to pee.
So after dithering about it for a while, and with my bladder screaming at me, I pressed the down button then got on the elevator when it arrived.
I live on the sixth floor.
It immediately went up to the 13th.
Then the person who had called the elevator to the 13th floor decided she didn’t want to get in the elevator with me.
Then we went down to ninth. A probable nanny joined me.
Then down to the fifth, where another joined us.
Then down to 2, because one of the probable nannies needed something from her car,
Then finally down to one, aka the ground floor, aka “the one with the outside on it”. I made a beeline for a spot in visitor parking I had previously noted as being well suited for illicit outdoor urinating.
Walls on three sides and a parking spot on the fourth.
Operation Micturation complete, I then saw the nice fellow who had let me use his phone before and borrowed it again.
Told Joe I was still not in. Then said the words I dreaded so much : if you can’t get hold of Julian, it’s going to have to be you.
He was not happy.
I was not surprised.
I mean, I hate surprises and disruption too. So I get it.
Still, he left work to come rescue me, and so I finally made it home. Now I am finally home, getting my blogging done, and getting ready for one hell of a nap.
Wish me luck.
More after the break,
Where was I? Oh right…. problems.
As always when I am the victim of my own dumbfuckery, I seriously consider the possibility that I might be mentally handicapped.
Not in the low IQ sense, obviously. But you have to ask yourself : at what point does absentmindedness stop being a character a flaw and start being an “issue”?
I got brain problems, man. I get confused, I get mentally lost, I lose executive function entirely, and in general, I go through life gripped by a cold grey fog.
It just struck me that this might not be normal. You know. Health wise.
i suppose a better term than “mentally handicapped” would be “cognitively impaired”. Despite my intellectual skills, i have serious thinking issues. And they have a severe impact on my mental and physical health because they make it so hard to make the right decisions. and take the right actions for my long term wellbeing.
It all gets swallowed up in that devouring void at the very heart of me. That grey fog of mine is positively carnivorous.
And part of me likes it that way. It likes that it doesn’t have to deal with life because the fog keeps life from ever even reaching it.
And it can hunker down in its bunker and ignore the world while I die.
It’s fine with me dying too.
At least then it would be over.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.