Thus continues the tale of loss. I am in a shit ton of pain dear reader. it only hurts when  I breathe too deeply or try and move. And do not get me started on needing to take a dump. 

For both of our sakes.

But I am speaking from the future. this is about the past.

Alone. No one going to be there when I awaken from surgery. Felt like a dozen people kept asking me. Every new person. So many lovely ladies. So depressing.

I knew it was bad when they took me to the staging area and I was removing my piercings with leaden fingers. 

To paint this picture imagine me, scared and in agony in the room before the room I may die in. With a really nice nurse telling me she is going to be there for me. As she removes my underwear. Then asks if there are any surprises that need removed. I blush and begin trying to take them out. I fail. She has take them out for me. 

All alone and left with a cup of piercings. This will be the title of my moody and goth phase based ukulele and accordion album of Bukowski covers.

Fuck me.

Another bout of explaining that yes I am alone. Then they start telling me about the procedure and something or other and funny and it smells like cookies. I like cookies. Wpuld someone get me a cookie and if possible a warm glass of…

…agony. I am in my room. in pain. and shaven from an arbitrary line down to my crotch. and bright orange in the same area. my piercings are back in, which is nice and perhaps creepy. My underwear is folded neatly on a chair and the nurse is looking at me like I am a maniac. 

It is confusing. Apparently I popped up out of anesthesia and was a all over the place. Naked and standing even though no one wanted that. I find my phone under my pillow and a barrage of I Live texts with no memory of sending. And an email. and thank god I deleted any of the ex girlfriends numbers so I just had a couple messages that went no where.

Pathetic. I sat sadly, staring at my shaven, orange stomach and realized besides the kids, I am so very much alone. In pain after the operation with a dying phone and no one to talk to anyway.

So I have been a bit depressed. The cat started it. But I could maintain. The agony did not help. But the knowledge that my only real connections take place online. My family is forever away. My friends as well. My coworkers are great but they kind of have to put up with me for 50 some odd hours a week. 

It would have been awesome to have someone happy I woke up. To laugh at the ridiculous orange hairless belly with. To hold my hand as I cried from how bad it fucking hurt. Instead I played tough to all the lovely nurses and just wanted to be home alone. 

So I slept. I woke up miserable but did laps of the hallway. Probably looked sexy as hell pulling my IV pole and hobbling about. I remembered hearing no perforation and walking meant I could leave. So I hounded everyone about how I was mobile. I refused more of that delicious morphine. Nothing but a smile. They did not but it but must have admired my tenacity. I was out by noon. 

Like a fucking idiot. The drive was miserable. I could barely walk. Breathing hurt. But I was free. To come home and suffer all alone for no reason. I should have stayed. at least then someone was paid to give a fuck about me. Instead I keep forgetting things, or dropping them and can barely pick it back up. I am using a cane to get up and down. 

A fucking cane. And I need it. 

I will get through this. All of this. Somehow. But I am at the bottom. So I will drink more fucking Nyquil and sleep until Tuesday. Then I can go to work and pretend it is all okay. 

And fuck you for feeling sorry for me. I feel sorry enough for a whole god damn platoon. This isn’t a plea for help, because I do not deserve nor want your fucking help. I want to not hurt. Mentally and physically.

But we don’t get what we want. We get whatever the fuck we get and we make do. So I am gonna smoke a bowl and drink some green juice. 

I gave my appendix for Houston. What the fuck did you do?