This morning I received notification that Mrs. Bitch had posted a comment in response to yesterday's post, the latest in a half century of writings in various forms that criticize life in general for its lack of substance and my particular experience its blessed inconvenience.
But for some reason, the Mrs. Bitch's comment does not appear on the post and when I checked Echo (JS-Kit), I don't find it there either, so here's what this post would be responding to if it and I really existed, which we all suspect in our fearful heart of hearts is all a lie. Not really a bad lie, just a little white one, an imagining, a fudge.
First, allow me to get the pleasantries out of the way. Jumpin Jesus Christ, man! Have you seen your surgeon yet? Please tell me you at least have an appointment with some kind of doctor aside from yourself. The timestamp says this post was made yesterday - let us know how you're doing.
Now, on to the maudlin, good stuff. Yesterday I was just thinking along the same lines as your post. Although mine was more along the lines of realizing how puny we all are.
I was invincible until about 4 years ago, now I'm not so sure. What's so fucking amazing to me is the absolutely mind boggling odds of any of us being here in the first place. Going back to the first upright human beings, all of our ancestors had to be in exactly the right place at the right time and meet each other and screw each other's brains out at precisely the right moment to create the next generation of our ancestors who had to meet and do the whole process over again, right up to all of our parents, who we all know didn't screw, we were all brought by the stork.
I mean, when it comes right down to it, your existence, my existence, every person's existence is a fluke happenstance of one particular sperm, out of a horde of sperms, being faster than any of the others. If a different one had been the winner, a different person entirely would have emerged.
Then add in the fact that this planet is in a galaxy that is one of bazillions in the universe. I don't know how that ties in, but it does.
I've known all of this shit since I was 14 years old, but it must mean something that I'm not getting. Because, you know, when people fucking beat odds like that to even exist, it just seems the ultimate insanity that anyone should spend their whole life as a starving street begger in some third-world country and die by the time they're 23 of some treatable disease, or live short lives, or spend their whole life suffering.
You're the doctor with the answers -- spill.
Man, I've gotta get out more.
Of course I didn't check with my surgeon. Do you think I have universal health care? I'm a fucking American. I don't deserve decent health care. I deserve to fall on my ass in the parking lot and wait their for the police to pick me up and take me to a holding cell for questioning.
But I did go to physical therapy today because that's only a $20 co-pay through a goddamn health insurance program that I shouldn't be forced to pay for just to let some no account liberal say that everyone should be insured.
I am prepared to go the distance, Mrs. Bitch, and you can tell everyone you see that I am not going to let age, infirmity, or the slings and fortunes of outrageous arrows bring me down.
As to thinking, I wish you wouldn't accuse me of that. I am a committed Dionysian. The last time I thank (is that really the past tense of think or should it be thunk?) about anything I think I was too sober to appreciate the nuances of importance and impotence.
I will eventually formulate an incoherent response that actually has an end game, mid-term, and origin, but for now I am working on trying to think through the future so that I can perfect the past.
In the meantime, take solace in the imaginary fact the physical therapist used tools on me that looked like those things the twins played by Jeremy Irons in the Cronenberg film about the weird twins that got it on with Adrienne Barbeau and I only whimpered on occasion when she assured me that somebody I would get better.
Fucking liar, liar poopyhead.