We were sitting on the deck listening/watching (we have this wireless speaker thingie that sorta works for hearing a broadcast while we watch through the door because we're smoking cigars and cigarettes and don't do it in the house-smoke that is) some Bio program on comedians.
We have a soft spot for comedians since an old friend of Mr.Froth's is/was an actual comedian and we've been to the Comedy Store (his friend was Mitzi's paramour for several years) and I am the PERFECT audience since I'll laugh my guts out for hours for live comedians.
Anyway, they were profiling Andy Kaufman and Sam Kinison and it just reinforced my impression that they were obnoxious and annoying.
Oh well.
Now, Paul Mooney--he's funny. He wrote for Richard Pryor. Listened to him for about 4 hours one night. It was awesome.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Advantages to growing older
Selective delusion.
Selective disillusionment.
No periods.
Reduced leg hair.
Quite a fair trade all things considered.
Selective disillusionment.
No periods.
Reduced leg hair.
Quite a fair trade all things considered.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Clusterfocky
(With apologies to Lewis Carroll, "Jabberwocky," which poem is printed below this excretion of mine because you may have forgotten some of the words, as did I, not that it matters because he was obviously medicated and they're all made up shit just like mine.)
CLUSTERFOCKY
"Twas bilious and the slimey pols
Did lie and giggle in the halls:
All flimsy were the purchased votes,
And the meme wraiths outgrabbed.
Beware the Clusterfock, my son!
The hacks that write, the clause that patches!
Beware the Harryried bird, and shun
The rheumy Pelosisnatch!
He took his voter's card in hand:
Long time the Marxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in partiesh tea he stood,
The Clusterfock, with ears of plate
Came uhmming through the Rezko wood,
And burgled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And sue and sue
The voter's blade went snicker Stupak!
He left it red, and with its Gibbs
He went Palining back.
And, has thou slain the Clusterfock?
Come to my PACS, my statesrights' ploy!
O taxtime day! Bambooze! Delay!
He chortled in his deficit.
Twas bilious and the slimey pols
Did lie and giggle in the halls:
All flimsy were the purchased votes,
And the meme wraiths outgrabbed."
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite,the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!
He took his vorpal sword inhand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And,as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eys of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One,two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.
Twas brillig in the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Stupak caves
Well, the state lawsuits will make interesting viewing for the next (insert years here).
Saturday, March 20, 2010
This is unacceptable
For those of you who live in places where it's still snowing, sleeting or icily raining I'm sorry about your poor choice or need of residence, but I don't care.
We live in the gulf coast area of Texas. While we're 70 miles inland, it's still the gulf coast of Texas. By this time in a normal year we would be outside planting potential bug-ridden, fungus-ridden and invasive sorts of horticultural specimens.
Instead, we're turning on the flipping heater because the wind chill is in the 30's and tonight's and tomorrow night's temperatures will actually be IN the 30's. That's communist and screwed up.
As much as I appreciate our Creator's cosmic great sense of humor in nose-thumbing the global charming folks, I'm just tired of this shit. Of course, that means that we'll be hit with a hurricane or drought or locusts or something heretofore undefined in the annals of history this summer.
I don't care. I'm tired of wearing two jackets, fuzzy socks and watching my skin and nails dry up. I'm short and wide shouldered enough that I don't need to know that if I had to look in a mirror I'd look like whatsherface on Northern Exposure. You know, the silent, cute Eskimoey woman who put whatshisface in his place all the time. I don't like knowing that I look like that.
One of the benefits of living in a hot and humid area is that the humidity preserves your skin, so you only look 52 when you're 57. I know, it's a perk, that five year span. My hands look like the Gobi. You can only bathe in cocoa butter so often and so long before you want to set yourself on fire and pretend to be Tahitian.
I think I've mentioned several first nations here. Good for me. Use me as a reference for your next Olympic spectacular.
I threatened Mr. Froth with, well, threats there, if he didn't let me turn the heat on. It's bad enough that I have to wear actual pajamas to bed, rather than the miscellaneous t-shirts or weathered used-to-be-cute shorts and crap I used to wear. Even with Dot or Merv sleeping on the bed, it doesn't make it pleasantly warm.
It's too cold to sit outside to do a crossword puzzle.
I think that's an issue that needs to be brought up--global chilling vis a vis educational and verbal excellence. I'd be glad to write a white paper on it. Not glad, just willing. Well, not willing, just there on the sidelines in case anyone needs one.
I'm going to go light a fire under my fake Crocs.
We live in the gulf coast area of Texas. While we're 70 miles inland, it's still the gulf coast of Texas. By this time in a normal year we would be outside planting potential bug-ridden, fungus-ridden and invasive sorts of horticultural specimens.
Instead, we're turning on the flipping heater because the wind chill is in the 30's and tonight's and tomorrow night's temperatures will actually be IN the 30's. That's communist and screwed up.
As much as I appreciate our Creator's cosmic great sense of humor in nose-thumbing the global charming folks, I'm just tired of this shit. Of course, that means that we'll be hit with a hurricane or drought or locusts or something heretofore undefined in the annals of history this summer.
I don't care. I'm tired of wearing two jackets, fuzzy socks and watching my skin and nails dry up. I'm short and wide shouldered enough that I don't need to know that if I had to look in a mirror I'd look like whatsherface on Northern Exposure. You know, the silent, cute Eskimoey woman who put whatshisface in his place all the time. I don't like knowing that I look like that.
One of the benefits of living in a hot and humid area is that the humidity preserves your skin, so you only look 52 when you're 57. I know, it's a perk, that five year span. My hands look like the Gobi. You can only bathe in cocoa butter so often and so long before you want to set yourself on fire and pretend to be Tahitian.
I think I've mentioned several first nations here. Good for me. Use me as a reference for your next Olympic spectacular.
I threatened Mr. Froth with, well, threats there, if he didn't let me turn the heat on. It's bad enough that I have to wear actual pajamas to bed, rather than the miscellaneous t-shirts or weathered used-to-be-cute shorts and crap I used to wear. Even with Dot or Merv sleeping on the bed, it doesn't make it pleasantly warm.
It's too cold to sit outside to do a crossword puzzle.
I think that's an issue that needs to be brought up--global chilling vis a vis educational and verbal excellence. I'd be glad to write a white paper on it. Not glad, just willing. Well, not willing, just there on the sidelines in case anyone needs one.
I'm going to go light a fire under my fake Crocs.
Census
I must credit Elisson the Brilliant with prompting me to post about the census. It will be a short post, since as how we only received the short version of the census form, which, apparently Mr. E did as well.
I was so hoping to jack with them and make shit up and put emoticons in the place of answers and whatnot.
But, the form was so boring, and while I realize it would be my duty as a gripey, why-did-you-spend-all-that-money-advertising-the-census-you-retards-of-the-greatest-as-in-slow-meaning-like-ritard-as-in-music citizen...pant, pant, pant I still filled it out.
Except I put Norwegiancherokee for my race and also checked white and Cherokeescot and white for Mr. Froth's race.
I think the checking of the box and the adding of the letters may discombulate them. Plus, I included my phone number.
That'll be fun to answer!
I was so hoping to jack with them and make shit up and put emoticons in the place of answers and whatnot.
But, the form was so boring, and while I realize it would be my duty as a gripey, why-did-you-spend-all-that-money-advertising-the-census-you-retards-of-the-greatest-as-in-slow-meaning-like-ritard-as-in-music citizen...pant, pant, pant I still filled it out.
Except I put Norwegiancherokee for my race and also checked white and Cherokeescot and white for Mr. Froth's race.
I think the checking of the box and the adding of the letters may discombulate them. Plus, I included my phone number.
That'll be fun to answer!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Core Dump, Dot, Grumpy Old Men
Dot the Destroyah. She is still the premier dog of all time, but she is definitely in the test your every flipping nerve ending while looking cute stage.
We've introduced her to the pleasures of chili powder in the holes she tries to dig in the back yard. One hole would be okay. Two holes would be acceptable. But, every hole everywhere must be addressed. So, (I must stop using "so" so much...whatever, I don't give a rat's ass right now) we sprinkle some powder on the holes. Which works. For those holes.
We have a large back yard. Soon we shall have a nacho backyard. All we will need to do is sprinkle fajita meet, some sour cream and salsa and we shall have lunch.
She has done an admirable job of denuding the camelia bush, a bush which has survived 20 years, through scale and hurricane, freeze and more scale, scale and neglect. I think it's blooming out of spite. It just keeps blooming, expressing its inner lifeforce to us and Dot "Chomp on me, you bastards. Pull me down. Rip my beauty off. I refuse to be bested." Good luck with that.
For some reason we have a Thompson's Waterseal can sitting out by the smoker. It has been there for threeish years, in hopes that we'll, once again, waterseal the deck. It's a grand water collector on top, which is a grand attractor for Dot. Of course, we need to keep her from that. And the grill utensils, which are fairly frightening in their coats of whatever it is that they get coated with.
There are the voles and moles that Merv kills that lie there in repose, asking nothing more than to rot. But, the Dot must poke at them. Lunchtime involved placing one such poor rodent into the garbage can so it could remain intact as it made its way to whatever place that rodents go.
And the laundry hamper. Dot likes the bras. And the underwears. If you praise her and thank her for bringing them to you, she'll give them up. That's nice.
She has discovered counters. Labs are good reachers. She's a Lab, thus, a good reacher. And a good sideways licker. Pizza debris and, well, pizza slicers are very attractive to Labs.
We hope to be able to let her roam about when the two-day-both-of-us-work-days come around again. I figure we'll need to unplug the cable tv in the kitchen, totally clean off all surfaces, make sure Merv, the enduring neck-nuzzled cat is elsewhere, and hope that the upholstered furniture, which is crappy anyway, survives for the four hours before we stagger our lunch hours. It could get really ominous on those days when I can't come home at all for lunch.
But, it's Labville.Who cares.
What is the deal with formerly employed marketing people who are seemingly in the throes of pre-dementia, gross stupidity and general assholiness who feel it's necessary to email everybody? At least my f-i-l doesn't do shit like that. It's all I can do to not respond with "Don't your kids and grandkids talk to you? Have you no Prozac? Is revenge that sweet?"
People are stupid. I feel qualified to evaluate that particular condition.
And then there's the whole political crap. Fuck it. I'm going to go look at Facebook and see how pathetic I've become.
My nails still look good.
We've introduced her to the pleasures of chili powder in the holes she tries to dig in the back yard. One hole would be okay. Two holes would be acceptable. But, every hole everywhere must be addressed. So, (I must stop using "so" so much...whatever, I don't give a rat's ass right now) we sprinkle some powder on the holes. Which works. For those holes.
We have a large back yard. Soon we shall have a nacho backyard. All we will need to do is sprinkle fajita meet, some sour cream and salsa and we shall have lunch.
She has done an admirable job of denuding the camelia bush, a bush which has survived 20 years, through scale and hurricane, freeze and more scale, scale and neglect. I think it's blooming out of spite. It just keeps blooming, expressing its inner lifeforce to us and Dot "Chomp on me, you bastards. Pull me down. Rip my beauty off. I refuse to be bested." Good luck with that.
For some reason we have a Thompson's Waterseal can sitting out by the smoker. It has been there for threeish years, in hopes that we'll, once again, waterseal the deck. It's a grand water collector on top, which is a grand attractor for Dot. Of course, we need to keep her from that. And the grill utensils, which are fairly frightening in their coats of whatever it is that they get coated with.
There are the voles and moles that Merv kills that lie there in repose, asking nothing more than to rot. But, the Dot must poke at them. Lunchtime involved placing one such poor rodent into the garbage can so it could remain intact as it made its way to whatever place that rodents go.
And the laundry hamper. Dot likes the bras. And the underwears. If you praise her and thank her for bringing them to you, she'll give them up. That's nice.
She has discovered counters. Labs are good reachers. She's a Lab, thus, a good reacher. And a good sideways licker. Pizza debris and, well, pizza slicers are very attractive to Labs.
We hope to be able to let her roam about when the two-day-both-of-us-work-days come around again. I figure we'll need to unplug the cable tv in the kitchen, totally clean off all surfaces, make sure Merv, the enduring neck-nuzzled cat is elsewhere, and hope that the upholstered furniture, which is crappy anyway, survives for the four hours before we stagger our lunch hours. It could get really ominous on those days when I can't come home at all for lunch.
But, it's Labville.Who cares.
What is the deal with formerly employed marketing people who are seemingly in the throes of pre-dementia, gross stupidity and general assholiness who feel it's necessary to email everybody? At least my f-i-l doesn't do shit like that. It's all I can do to not respond with "Don't your kids and grandkids talk to you? Have you no Prozac? Is revenge that sweet?"
People are stupid. I feel qualified to evaluate that particular condition.
And then there's the whole political crap. Fuck it. I'm going to go look at Facebook and see how pathetic I've become.
My nails still look good.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
I'm very rude
I realize that I don't respond to comments all of the time. It's nothing personal. I keep forgetting to check gmail and then I figure the post has lost whatever panache it might have had and then I get busy at work and then I capriciously (that's for you Keith!) hop and skip between posts to see if anyone commented and then I can't remember how many comments there were the last time I checked and then I just...
Go do my nails or clean the litterbox or have some wine. In between brain muffin conversations (which, unsurprisingly are fewer and farrer between since it, the muffin, was so harshly quashed by the doc) and the blast site that is our yard, which has also taken up time, I'm just an all around bad blogger, comment reader and checker outer of others.
My nails look good, though.
Go do my nails or clean the litterbox or have some wine. In between brain muffin conversations (which, unsurprisingly are fewer and farrer between since it, the muffin, was so harshly quashed by the doc) and the blast site that is our yard, which has also taken up time, I'm just an all around bad blogger, comment reader and checker outer of others.
My nails look good, though.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Froth 1 Brain Muffin 0
Yay! The brain muffin is good to go for another year. The neurosurgeon said, eh, no symptoms, no reason to mess with it. Just let him know if I ever have problems with dizziness (shut up) or left arm disfunction and whatnot.
He asked me if I'd had any cognitive difficulties and I replied that many people think I'm off, but...
"No. I mean, like..."
"Oh no. I work and have a blog and stuff."
I used my blog as evidence that I have no cognitive disturbances.
That's a bit of a stretch.
He asked me if I'd had any cognitive difficulties and I replied that many people think I'm off, but...
"No. I mean, like..."
"Oh no. I work and have a blog and stuff."
I used my blog as evidence that I have no cognitive disturbances.
That's a bit of a stretch.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Toys
Let us discuss toys. Let us first define "toy."
You go first.
Uh huh. It's harder than it looks, right?
No. It's not. I mean toys that are toys. How hard can it be?
Be quiet.
I hate when my brain muffin talks back.
Toys are age/species appropriate. Sometimes the species' toy selections overlap. Like your basic baby/toddler sort enjoys playing with scraps of ribbon, boxes, carkeys, prescription medicines, sandals and toilet water. Real toilet water. Actual toy toys don't enter their realm of interest until later when they're capable of tv indoctrination and peer head bopping.
Very much like young Labradors. Your young Lab likes to play with boxes and shoes and underwear and toilet water. And medicines and cats. Just like a human youngster. With the same regard for care and bodily disposal of ingested fun. Only human youngsters occasionally wear diapers that catch the detritus.
And don't force the cat's head into their mouths. Usually. Normally they don't eat entire leather or upholstered chair arms, either. Not without a bit of constipation.
Then they grow up and buy electronic toys and clothes and Ipods and Wii's and break them intermittently, which a certain dog will most certainly do when she reaches the dog equivalent of adolescence.
That will be some crunchy poop to pick up.
The end.
You go first.
Uh huh. It's harder than it looks, right?
No. It's not. I mean toys that are toys. How hard can it be?
Be quiet.
I hate when my brain muffin talks back.
Toys are age/species appropriate. Sometimes the species' toy selections overlap. Like your basic baby/toddler sort enjoys playing with scraps of ribbon, boxes, carkeys, prescription medicines, sandals and toilet water. Real toilet water. Actual toy toys don't enter their realm of interest until later when they're capable of tv indoctrination and peer head bopping.
Very much like young Labradors. Your young Lab likes to play with boxes and shoes and underwear and toilet water. And medicines and cats. Just like a human youngster. With the same regard for care and bodily disposal of ingested fun. Only human youngsters occasionally wear diapers that catch the detritus.
And don't force the cat's head into their mouths. Usually. Normally they don't eat entire leather or upholstered chair arms, either. Not without a bit of constipation.
Then they grow up and buy electronic toys and clothes and Ipods and Wii's and break them intermittently, which a certain dog will most certainly do when she reaches the dog equivalent of adolescence.
That will be some crunchy poop to pick up.
The end.
High School - 40 Year Reunion Seriously That's just crazy
This is epic. I’m going to attend my 40th high school reunion.
I know. I know. I’m way too immature to be eligible for that. Notice I did not bogusly fish for compliments about my obvious youthfulness, grace and youth and more youth plus more youth; rather, I have said what’s really the case. I am too immature. That statement carries with it the existential…
Oh please.
This is going to be epic. Forty years of experience between the age of 18 and now, with knowledge of how close we all are to slipping through the folds to other rooms makes me not only immature but DANGEROUS! WooT.
Semi-woot, I’m tired.
What I’m a little leery of is what I may find out when I stroll into the mixer on the first night of the event, specifically 1) stuff that I never knew happened/was said but that everyone else did 2) happenings/statements/embarrassing geekness that I was present for and that I don’t remember one jot about it or 3) I never actually went to that school; I attended Wheezer Collegiate Preparatory Asylum for the Mental, and that’s why I don’t recognize anyone. And they’re all looking at me like, “Out of 525 people you are number 612.”
Since re-discovering some incredible peeps that I haven’t seen in, yes, 40 years (I think. Am I missing any brief interludes in the early ‘70’s?) I’ve found Facebook websites, my old yearbook, spoken on the phone, e-mailed and have come to the conclusion, at least superficially here, that I would have chosen them as friends back in the day. Obviously, I haven’t seen them in person and those pictures on the website could be masking lizard people or junior flying spaghetti monsters or people from the Collegiate Preparatory Asylum for the Mental. With appropriate weaponry. I don’t know. Life can be strange.
How presumptuous of me. I look at my yearbook picture and realize—it’s astounding that that thing morphed into a semi-normal looking item.
The one thing I’ve never done is wish I were back in another decade or part of my life; I’ve always been happy/intrigued/on the verge of giving myself a lobotomy about where I’m at. Never bored used to be a mantra, but those calm, vegetative, stare off into space moments are lovely, too. With that said, I think it shall be absolutely fabulous to re-meet people and talk to them and laugh with them about where they are NOW.
Often I felt like an observer in high school, internally, that is. I was active enough and participated in a lot of stuff, but I didn’t crash out of myself until I graduated from college. I just sucked it all in and then started making pathways through the trek of life when I got my first job.
So, now that I am a partial geezer—if I’m middle-aged that would mean I would live to 114—probably not one of my career goals—I can go to this shindig and just be.
Who I am now.
You may want to just be aware of that y’all.
I know. I know. I’m way too immature to be eligible for that. Notice I did not bogusly fish for compliments about my obvious youthfulness, grace and youth and more youth plus more youth; rather, I have said what’s really the case. I am too immature. That statement carries with it the existential…
Oh please.
This is going to be epic. Forty years of experience between the age of 18 and now, with knowledge of how close we all are to slipping through the folds to other rooms makes me not only immature but DANGEROUS! WooT.
Semi-woot, I’m tired.
What I’m a little leery of is what I may find out when I stroll into the mixer on the first night of the event, specifically 1) stuff that I never knew happened/was said but that everyone else did 2) happenings/statements/embarrassing geekness that I was present for and that I don’t remember one jot about it or 3) I never actually went to that school; I attended Wheezer Collegiate Preparatory Asylum for the Mental, and that’s why I don’t recognize anyone. And they’re all looking at me like, “Out of 525 people you are number 612.”
Since re-discovering some incredible peeps that I haven’t seen in, yes, 40 years (I think. Am I missing any brief interludes in the early ‘70’s?) I’ve found Facebook websites, my old yearbook, spoken on the phone, e-mailed and have come to the conclusion, at least superficially here, that I would have chosen them as friends back in the day. Obviously, I haven’t seen them in person and those pictures on the website could be masking lizard people or junior flying spaghetti monsters or people from the Collegiate Preparatory Asylum for the Mental. With appropriate weaponry. I don’t know. Life can be strange.
How presumptuous of me. I look at my yearbook picture and realize—it’s astounding that that thing morphed into a semi-normal looking item.
The one thing I’ve never done is wish I were back in another decade or part of my life; I’ve always been happy/intrigued/on the verge of giving myself a lobotomy about where I’m at. Never bored used to be a mantra, but those calm, vegetative, stare off into space moments are lovely, too. With that said, I think it shall be absolutely fabulous to re-meet people and talk to them and laugh with them about where they are NOW.
Often I felt like an observer in high school, internally, that is. I was active enough and participated in a lot of stuff, but I didn’t crash out of myself until I graduated from college. I just sucked it all in and then started making pathways through the trek of life when I got my first job.
So, now that I am a partial geezer—if I’m middle-aged that would mean I would live to 114—probably not one of my career goals—I can go to this shindig and just be.
Who I am now.
You may want to just be aware of that y’all.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Brainiac-long post
Irony, true irony, is quite amusing. You know all those things you have done that have put you at risk for diseases and conditions all these years, and that you might have not done had you known...
But, nah, you probably would have done the same thing you did regardless only because, hey, you could be run over by a truck tomorrow crossing the street. If you actually cross streets anymore. Or, an anvil could drop out of the sky and knock you out and then you'd be in a cartoon.
That would be cool.
But, no, we're all responsible and try to curb our voracious appetites and worser tendencies at some point because we have people that look up to us as examples.
SHUH. Now that's a hoot. We, as examples.
Anyway, then you have situations that present themselves that originated while you were rather not involved. You weren't agitating or fomenting or urging people on to "Let's have one more and play some more pool!" or "That guy looks promising, even though it's the 70's and he's probably the BTK killer."
You have things start while you were in the womb. Is that cool or what?
Back in the day when I was going through diagnosis for breast cancer a CT scan discovered a thing in my brain that someone along the way said, "Eh. You might want to have that looked at at some point." And my surgeon said, "Well, YEAH, duh. Get your ass over to a neurosurgeon so we can confirm it's not metastasis and don't do surgery and shit and waste all of our time." So, I did. Had the MRI and it was probably an epidermoid cyst thing in the posterior fossa of my brain. Not cancer. Just something that happens in utero before the neural tube closes and involves skin cells taking up residence in.... your brain.
And, after 50 years it grows to 4ish centimeters by whatever and they can see it and whatever. So, you get ticked off at the wait time in the neurosurgeon's office and blow off the follow up except for actually following up with a neurologist the next year.
And then you forget about it for 7 years. After which you ask your regular doc, during an annual physical, "Should I have this looked at? I mean, is it necessary?" And he says, "Probably, since it's in a not good place. I mean..."
And so you do and you visit the neurologist who is a hoot and a half and a proponent of don't fix it if it ain't broke. But, if the MRI comes back with a slight enlargement he recommends visiting the neurosurgeon for an opinion because, shit, in 10 years, if it's necessary to do something other issues may present themselves and whatever. It's entirely probable that the neurosurgeon will do a watch and wait. Because, even though brain biopsies or removal of these masses aren't the Shutter Island sort of things from the past, you don't do it if you don't have to.
The net net is that I get to go back to the neurosurgeon with whom I got pissed off about concerning the wait times in his office. Fortunately, he is a stellar surgeon. Unfortunately, this whole thing is a pain in the ass.
It's not that I have shit in my brain, something I've known forever, well, read me. Hello. It's just the aggravation factor. With that being said...
I have no symptoms and am just fascinated by the possibility that my twin has been living in my head all these years.
I could have been conversing with Froth2 while engaging in all the suspect behaviors and unreasonable conclusions from the last 57 years. I could have been asking:
Me: "So. Braintwin pearly tumor that looks like Ivory Snow flakes when you're removed when I'm older (and no coupons, thank you very much) what do you think I should major in in college?"
Braintwin: "You should major in surfactants and bubbles. We would connect like you wouldn't believe."
Me: "Not French or Russian? Nothing mental?"
Braintwin: "You should relax and not exacerbate my condition. You should nourish me and increase our bond and we will take over the surrounding 10 block area and make people frightened of us."
Me: "You're not, like, a brain tumor tumor, you're just a glob of shit in my head. You think too highly of yourself. Now, give me my course schedule."
Braintwin: "Don't piss me off. I will not forget your rudeness."
And, so, my twin, who has been silent all these years, continues to sit there, hiding my left internal jugular vein, diverting blood vessels and such in a very pretty manner, and just irritating the hell out of me.
She could have recommended shoe buys. Or jewelry purchases. But, no. She's much too intellectual for that.
Bitch. I shall call her Brain Muffin, courtesy of Mr. Froth.
Little does she know that all she has influence over is balance. The cerebellum. I gotchur balance rightchere.
But, nah, you probably would have done the same thing you did regardless only because, hey, you could be run over by a truck tomorrow crossing the street. If you actually cross streets anymore. Or, an anvil could drop out of the sky and knock you out and then you'd be in a cartoon.
That would be cool.
But, no, we're all responsible and try to curb our voracious appetites and worser tendencies at some point because we have people that look up to us as examples.
SHUH. Now that's a hoot. We, as examples.
Anyway, then you have situations that present themselves that originated while you were rather not involved. You weren't agitating or fomenting or urging people on to "Let's have one more and play some more pool!" or "That guy looks promising, even though it's the 70's and he's probably the BTK killer."
You have things start while you were in the womb. Is that cool or what?
Back in the day when I was going through diagnosis for breast cancer a CT scan discovered a thing in my brain that someone along the way said, "Eh. You might want to have that looked at at some point." And my surgeon said, "Well, YEAH, duh. Get your ass over to a neurosurgeon so we can confirm it's not metastasis and don't do surgery and shit and waste all of our time." So, I did. Had the MRI and it was probably an epidermoid cyst thing in the posterior fossa of my brain. Not cancer. Just something that happens in utero before the neural tube closes and involves skin cells taking up residence in.... your brain.
And, after 50 years it grows to 4ish centimeters by whatever and they can see it and whatever. So, you get ticked off at the wait time in the neurosurgeon's office and blow off the follow up except for actually following up with a neurologist the next year.
And then you forget about it for 7 years. After which you ask your regular doc, during an annual physical, "Should I have this looked at? I mean, is it necessary?" And he says, "Probably, since it's in a not good place. I mean..."
And so you do and you visit the neurologist who is a hoot and a half and a proponent of don't fix it if it ain't broke. But, if the MRI comes back with a slight enlargement he recommends visiting the neurosurgeon for an opinion because, shit, in 10 years, if it's necessary to do something other issues may present themselves and whatever. It's entirely probable that the neurosurgeon will do a watch and wait. Because, even though brain biopsies or removal of these masses aren't the Shutter Island sort of things from the past, you don't do it if you don't have to.
The net net is that I get to go back to the neurosurgeon with whom I got pissed off about concerning the wait times in his office. Fortunately, he is a stellar surgeon. Unfortunately, this whole thing is a pain in the ass.
It's not that I have shit in my brain, something I've known forever, well, read me. Hello. It's just the aggravation factor. With that being said...
I have no symptoms and am just fascinated by the possibility that my twin has been living in my head all these years.
I could have been conversing with Froth2 while engaging in all the suspect behaviors and unreasonable conclusions from the last 57 years. I could have been asking:
Me: "So. Braintwin pearly tumor that looks like Ivory Snow flakes when you're removed when I'm older (and no coupons, thank you very much) what do you think I should major in in college?"
Braintwin: "You should major in surfactants and bubbles. We would connect like you wouldn't believe."
Me: "Not French or Russian? Nothing mental?"
Braintwin: "You should relax and not exacerbate my condition. You should nourish me and increase our bond and we will take over the surrounding 10 block area and make people frightened of us."
Me: "You're not, like, a brain tumor tumor, you're just a glob of shit in my head. You think too highly of yourself. Now, give me my course schedule."
Braintwin: "Don't piss me off. I will not forget your rudeness."
And, so, my twin, who has been silent all these years, continues to sit there, hiding my left internal jugular vein, diverting blood vessels and such in a very pretty manner, and just irritating the hell out of me.
She could have recommended shoe buys. Or jewelry purchases. But, no. She's much too intellectual for that.
Bitch. I shall call her Brain Muffin, courtesy of Mr. Froth.
Little does she know that all she has influence over is balance. The cerebellum. I gotchur balance rightchere.
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