Doctor, sometimes I just want to go ahead and kick the bucket. I have no purpose. I don’t even feel like making whoopee anymore, not with my girlfriend anyway.
Stephen, you are too much. You are eating too much. And not exercising too much. Your purpose in life for at least the next two years is to get in shape for your kidney transplant. Sure, the last two years have been tough, and you have to be tougher. Get in shape. Take your meds. Fight for your life.
Thank you, Doctor, how much do I owe you? Somebody call 911– I’m having a heart attack.
Life can be challenging. My doctor told me I have something called GERD. I must stop drinking alcohol. Fried foods and chocolate are a no-no. These were my favorite things in the world next to marijuana. I told this to my girlfriend. I think she blocks out most of what I say–she suggested we go get a drink. I tell myself one bourbon won’t hurt. The fried cheese balls she orders are only inches from my reach. I eat a few. On the way home she breaks off a corner of a Hershey bar and says, “go ahead it’s only a little piece.” Later the burping brings acid from my stomach into my esophagus. The heartburn pain is unbearable. Tums don’t work at all. I have learned my lesson. No more alcohol, chocolate or Fried foods. Most important avoid my girlfriend whenever possible or suffer in pain and agony…
Since I am always in the doghouse with my girlfriend, I would like to find a plastic surgeon to marry. A nip here, a tuck there, I could look twenty years younger. Then a kidney transplant, and replace other organs that have taken a beating. I’ll be good as new and ready for sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
Excruciating pain in my buttocks for three days. The large Jamaican nurse says she is going to mix a pint of molasses and a pint of warm milk. Insert a plastic tube into my tush and fill it with this mixture. Life is really getting tough. Why did that little tube feel so big? Why did she leave the room? I had been in serious pain for eight hours, so she could’ve said she was going to stick a vacuum cleaner in my butt and I would have agreed. Shortly after she left, I was ready to explode all over that hospital bed. I hit the call button 25 times then screamed, “Nurse, help!”
It took all the strength in my butt cheeks to hold back the explosion. She popped back in the room. Took a long time to put gloves on. Pulled the tube out. I ran down the hallway half-naked and barefoot. It was one of the top five bowel movements of my life time. The noise alone was scary. The pain was finally gone. I thanked my nurse as if she had saved my life. I am going to now eat more fruits and vegetables.
In the last six months I have suffered some serious health issues and my life has changed dramatically. Now my favorite cocktail is a vodka and Miralax. Two of these concoctions and I’m right where I want to be–in the bathroom.
My diet has changed too. I am now low carb, low protein, and low flavor. For dinner last night I had roast celery. I splurged for dessert and had a teaspoon of probiotic yogurt with a hint of agave necter on top.
Dr. B. M. Smoothy turned my life around when I was backed up for ten days. The end result was explosive. It let me know that when life gets stinky, you need a good doctor. God bless this doctor, his nurses and a receptionist.
Tired black men and senior citizens in wheelchairs all looking very drained. These are my Dialysis clinic buddies.
“Mr. Lebherz, I’m going to stick you today.” The technician is ready to go. She pushes two needles into my arm. They are the size of small nails with tubes attached. The cleaning process has started. I sit for the next four hours. Four hours of reading, television, and looking around the room at my buddies who look like they are ready to pass out or kick the bucket.
My niece/web editor asks me almost everyday, how’s the writing going, got anything good to post?
But, I haven’t felt like writing lately–I sit and stare at my pens and tablets, and then I go see what my new roommate is up to.
From going vegetarian, I’ve lost so much weight that my scale doesn’t know what to say. When I step on, it used to tell me “One at a time, please,” but now it asks, “Stephen? Is that you?” I never thought I would miss its fat jokes.
What do you do to keep writing when you don’t feel like you have anything good to say? How do you get back into writing when you’ve gotten out of your routine?