Tuesday, August 08, 2006

And then the Alien popped outta my stomach...

...early this a.m., just like Lance Henrikson in the movie Alien. Okay, no. It just felt like that.

Instead, I lay on a lovely ER bed, blood drained from me by a nurse named Michael, calming nature scenes playing across the television, my intestines being beaten about like blind kids were trying to tweezer them up in a game of Operation .

Wow, way to cope with stuff, Anne. You're handling everything so magnificently, here at 2 a.m. in the local hospital. Admitting you've been under stress lately. That phrase sounds so (as the girls would say) "the gay." So soap opera. So insipid. Who's not under stress lately?

So, after x-rays, bloodletting and the gathering of various other bodily fluids, it was determined that...we don't know what's wrong. Probably spastics living in my colon. But it's been 24 years since the last time I slapped 'em with a forcible detainer notice. Not coincidentally, it's also been about 24 years until this one that I lived intensely with my adoptive parents, under the ever-present menacing gaze of dear brother. Does anyone see a connection here? Just me? Okay, then.

In short, I'm not dying. Monkeys are not springing from my nether regions. No Sigourney Weaver impressions from me. Instead, I'm apparently internalizing everything to the nth degree and decided that some sort of physical manifestation of mental and emotional stress would play better on tv. And between not eating, not sleeping much and trying to exercise away everything...I've screwed up my system.

That's gonna be about $5,000. But if I think about that part, I'll end up back in the ER.
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