"Home computers are being called upon to perform many new functions, including the consumption of homework formerly eaten by the dog." Doug Larson
Arf! Arf! Arf!
My eyesight improved a small bit yesterday and today, so I'm hopeful about this treatment. The doctor today seemed to think the eye had improved about 10%. To me, that's a lot. He will look at it again in December. If it does well, the other eye will be treated too. I almost don't know how to stop being worried about it, I'm so surprised! But it's not over yet.
We'll see. Or not.
I used to never be sick except for head colds or an occasional scratch or scrape on my skin. They weren’t much fun at the time, but I guess now they were “the good old days”. I remember I tried to pretend that the colds didn’t exist or that I didn’t have to modify my behavior for them. Even if I used up a ton of Kleenex boxes in the process, I’d just keep going. I’d drop the Kleenexes at my feet or throw them willy-nilly in the back seat of the car and just keep going. I was the Energizer Bunny with a snotty nose. I remember once when I had a cold I gave a ride to a young woman who was unaware of my habits. As we progressed on the errand, she became increasingly conscious of the hundreds of tissues in the car. When she realized how full the back seat floorboard was, she visibly shuddered. I’d never thought of it that way, but I guess she was right. I was repellent. I was embarrassed. While she ran her errand, I cleaned every tissue out of the car so that she wouldn’t have to see them on the return ride. I was a good boy that trip, but I didn’t exactly become a Neat Freak from then on. Years went by before I actually stopped being so nasty. I wasn’t that way all the time, but if I had a cold, I was. If I was sick, I didn’t give a damn.
It’s hard to fight against those old habits even now, but I do. I wash my clothes. I pick up behind myself. However, I don’t sort, stack, or fold too well. My laundry may or may not leave the laundry basket. Medicine bottles and other items are strewn across my dresser top as if they were empty beer bottles. I don’t actually collect such bottles or Coke cans any more, though. I guess I’m afraid of breeding roaches or ants. And, fortunately, cigarette butts don’t follow me every step of my way any more. I quit smoking ten years ago, but now is when I’ve begun to be really sick. I don't know if I'm paying for my sins late in life, but it's possible. It doesn’t make sense, but Life doesn’t have to make sense. Shit happens. That’s the popular phrase. I guess it’s fairly accurate.
I tried to sidestep or delay it, but then I talked to the medical practitioner and he has little doubt about sending me for gastrointerology tests and doing so however soon it can be done. I don't know if it's good or bad, but it's worrisome. It's more complication, yet maybe it's the way to find out what's wrong. It's too much illness at once, though. I was already worried about not seeing very well. I felt beat down enough just by that. I'm getting tired of thinking of nothing but feeling ill. Maybe the only way out of it is through it--but Christ, there's another damn saying i could live without.
Went to the eye doctor today and he injected some chemical into my eye that's supposed to slowly help. It may be a couple of weeks or more to see an improvement, if then. So I don't know much. I can't see much either. It's on the verge of being depressing. Life's no fun when you never start to see better as the day wears on. Oh, well. I still see, but not with any clarity, far or near. Shitfire.
There is no more evasive bastard in the universe
Than one’s self, I’m fairly certain of that,
And I expect it to remain so,
More of less, from now until the end,
If time has an end, which maybe it does not,
There is no more sticky business
or sneaky maneuver in the universe
Than one’s own, and if that’s all you can hope for
You’re doomed maybe to beat your own trumpet,
Haba whosit, stroke your own woody,
What’s the difference, you may ask
As long as it’s stiff,
Can’t tell that either
To anyone who may ask
And you’re sick of it..
I used to think The Magus author John Fowles was about the hippest human being on the planet. Looking back on it much later, after I was decades older, I still liked the book,but realized it was because I had been a young man reading a young man's book about a young man's take on the world. Reading along, I thought I was like the magus and was above the fray. I think I've been much more like the victim in the novel. I was and have remained that young man, being manipulated every which way. Watching machinations and illusions. Wish it was better. I am still a fool, I guess, and shouldn't even be much ashamed of it. But there it is. What can I do?
Sorry to hear your're dead, John, hope you had friends and all who will miss you.
A curmudgeon is someone who has removed
So much of what he considers "sappy" from his system
That he loses track of what first irritated him about people
And just "goes bad" himself.
Maybe we should be called "curdlemudgeons".
The dictionaries I've checked don't seem to know
The origin or etymology of the word,
So my “milk gone bad” guess is as good as any.
That’s my guess
And in a bad year
I can’t improve on that at all.
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Have I been eccentric enough lately? Lord knows I try. I'd hate to be accused of being too kind.