All this plus a sunburn.
This week sure was a blast. And by blast, I mean a warp speed blast in the face. No wait, no I don't. I haven't and plan not to see Star Trek.
Call it hatred.
Call it whatever you want.
I call it ankle pain.
Ankle pain you say?
What do you mean by that?
Well, let's paint a picture shall we.
Months ago, or, a long time ago in an apartment somewhere in Overland Park, this writer had a pop happen in his ankle.
Nothing major as he pops his ankle similar to popping one's knuckles.
Daily.
Frequent.
And boy does it feel oh so good.
Well, this time it didn't.
It felt like bone rubbing against bone.
It felt like hot irons scalding the bottom of my brain.
It felt like something stabbed out of my leg and into the ground, got caught, and then toppled me face down into the mud.
In reality, what was it?
See, therein lies the problem.
And the beginning of this new chapter of Fear and Loathing.
The fun-loving narrator takes a trip to the doctor, not once, not twice, but thrice.
First trip: standard doctor. Not a bone/joint specialist. But standard medical practicioner.
Take my trip with a smile and a laugh.
X-Rays taken.
Nothing to show for it except a bill and some anti-inflammatory pills.
Bing, month after month pass. Pill jar empty.
Anti-inflammatory does nothing. We're back and worse than ever.
Get a call from the doc's office telling me x-rays show nothing tangible. Nothing of value. No arthritis that they can see.
No breaks. No cracks.
No bruising.
No nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
I chuckle. I wait for the punchline.
Nothing of value or substance can be found, so maybe you're just faking it.
That's what people think.
That's the response I always gather.
Move forward.
A little while passes (a couple of months actually as my wife lost her job and it just was a stupid time in the world to try and waste time going to the doctor, more on that later), and call the doctor's office again.
Same scenario, except instead of not finding anything, I called and basically told them it's worse. Do something.
No more jokes. No more hassle.
Fix this.
So I went to a bone and joint specialist (almost went to KCBJ just because the name is so funny) and spent money on two visits and an MRI.
More X-Rays.
More tests.
More bull.
Nothing.
The doctor kind of chuckled as he told me they have no idea what's wrong with me but they think they have some ideas.
I laughed.
Heartily.
Because this is what I expected. Every trip to the doctor is the same.
Exactly the same.
No clue what's wrong.
Sorry.
Tough break.
Deal with it.
More x-rays.
More shots.
Cortisone shot in my ankle.
That hurt like hell. I'm now in an ankle brace so my soccer days are behind me for the time being.
That and dancing.
And kung fu.
And anything where your ankle needs to be used, like walking and driving.
We'll see how that goes. All the x-rays and shots and test make me feel like I may turn into a super-human.
Or my skin might explode and I might turn into a giant green monster who smashes things.
That, or just die of radiation poisoning.
But what's next?
What's next the loyal reader asks with baited breath?
What's next is who the hell knows.
I deal with it. Went to my brother's graduation and got baked by the sun.
That was enjoyable.
And by enjoyable, I got the same sense of enjoyment as putting a giant hole in the side of my head and licking the insides of my lips if they were covered with nitroglycerin.
To say that these last few weeks have been anything but a joy would be an understatement.
But to each their own.
At least we've got the end of the world to look forward to. Or Angels and Demons.
Here's a thought, a brief non sequitor. While building a bookshelf, I had to alphabetize the books before I put them back on the shelf.
What would a Vs. movie between Angels in America and Angels and Demons be called?
Angels and Demons in America?
Angels vs Angels in Demons?
Does anyone still care?
Did anyone see Angels and Demons and think it needed more sub-plots about AIDs?
Or actual Angels?
Or just more Hooch?
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