hurling invective dot com

…and I will dwell in the house of fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck forever.

Been having trouble sleeping lately. Being a fan of better living through chemistry, I consulted my doctor. She’s fun to consult, also, because she’s pretty.

I wasn’t particularly hopeful, though. She’s not as big a fan of better living through chemistry as I. In medical school, they must have loaded her head with all this ‘preventative medicine’ rubbish. “Get more exercise,” she’ll suggest. “Eat more fiber,” she’ll waste her breath saying to me. Show me the world’s first high-fiber steak and we’ll talk about it more. Maybe wrap it in some cloth? “Cut back on alcohol” is where I start to laugh. Why don’t you cut back on giving me shit, lady? Less talky, more pilly.

So since she prescribes advice instead of the yummy pills to cure what ails me, I have to drop hints. I have to do like they say in the drug commercials.

Talk to your doctor about trying Vramicil.

Ask your doctor if Curmaradet is right for you.

Please, please give me the fucking pills. I have cash. And a gun.

This makes me want to stab myself in the head with a tongue depressor, because it means I’m doing what the advertisement told me to do. I’m just as bad as all those fucking kids, swathed in their Old Navy sacks of sweatshop crap, smoking Camel #9′s and voting for their favorite Amerikaner Idol. Whatever. Me likey drugs. I can live with another reason to hate myself if you give me what I want.

So, it’s off to see the shaman. Could you sign in please, Mr. Moriarty? Can I have your insurance card, Mr. Moriarty? Sally will be your server tonight, Mr. Moriarty. Our special is humiliation. And your co-pay is $20.

They weigh me. That’s always fun. I always – always, mind you – find it necessary to point out that I am hunkered down by a suit, dress shoes, a cell phone, a 60-gig iPod, a wallet full of hundies from my be pimpin’, or possibly fundraisin’, and a keyring the likes of which a jailer would carry. They are unmoved. For as chunky as I think I am sometimes, I know that these people see nauseating behemoth bovine mastodon pig-people all the fucking time. I must look like a ballerina.

Then they sit me in the clean, bright little room on the crackly paper-covered bed and ask me what’s wrong. By “they,” I mean a medical assistant. She asks me lots of questions, then goes and tells my pretty doctor all the things I said. Then my pretty doctor comes in. So, Janice tells me your cock has tied itself in a knot and you’re vomiting metal filings? Yes, that’s what I told her. Why couldn’t I just tell you that myself?

But between asking me what’s wrong and leaving to tell the pretty doctor, they take my blood pressure. Whenever I go to the doctor, I know I can blow them all away with the sheer, blinding healthliciousness of my blood pressure. My diastolic pressure dances with my systolic pressure in such harmony that the cuff emits a gentle hum whilst recording them. So perfect is my blood pressure that they form Fibonacci numbers.

And off we go. Squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze squeez. Sssssssssss. Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Ssssssssssssssss. Riiiiiiiiip. 138 over 93.

What in the living fuck is that? I have consumed enough salt that my buoyancy noticeably increases and gotten in screaming, near-death collisions follow by frenzied exchanges of oaths on the roadway before arriving at the doctor’s office, and each time my blood pressure was a cool 115 over 73. So today, this 138 over 93 shit is alarming.

Pretty doctor comes in. She stares aghast at the two numbers. You should keep an eye on this, she tells me. Go down the hall once a week and have one of the nurses take your blood pressure. I should mention I work in a hospital, where there are lots of halls with nurses down them.

I’ll get right on that. Yeah, so anyway doc, I’m having trouble sleeping. A lot. Yes, I’ve been getting exercise. No, it hasn’t been right before bed. No, I’m not watching TV in bed. Yes, I only use the bed for sleeping and fucking. No, I don’t have caffeine after noon. No, I don’t drink alcohol before bed. No, these are not all lies. Yes, these are all lies. You know what I’m here for. The commercial-man on the tele-vision said to ask my pretty doctor if Ambien is right for me. Really, it is right for me? Really, you’re doing to give me some? Fuckin’ sweeeeet. Wait, and you’re throwing in fistful of Lorazepam to help me with anxiety? It’s like a Merck Christmas Special starring Corey Feldman.

I think my doctor and I have a psychic connection. I didn’t even tell her I was a tightly-compressed, ready-to-burst wad of clenched fury, apprehension, depression and self-loathing, just one more failure in my life away from bursting into flames. But still she knew that Lorazepam is right for me. That’s one good fucking doctor. One good, pretty doctor.

And now? The Lorazepam is gone. I just took an Ambien and am so wide fucking awake I might as well be tweaking. And I am so tightly wound that I could pummel the living shit out of the ground so hard that it would break the planet into tiny chunks, and we’d all float away into space. As long as I’ve got a pharmacy and a drive-thru on my chunk, I’m good.

Oh, and today it’s 148 over 103. I can’t help it, I’m a child of the 80′s. I have that Atari mentality. I just have to beat my high score.

There are tears I cannot cry. They’re all backed up. Maybe that’s what’s raising my systolic.

For as fucked up as I am, I am surprisingly checked out. Not checked out enough, though. I’m holding out for some good old-fashioned catatonia. I think I’ll ask my doctor. Pretty please.