In case it was unclear to anyone, my colonoscopy went fine. Clean. No problems. In hindsight, it was worth the terrible pre-exam prep, during which I was forced to elevate my personal terror alert level to a “code brown.” I started a full schedule of school today (15 hours), and first day agoraphobia and alienation set in HARD. In age (not aesthetics), I’m midway between traditional college student and 40-year-old extreme dad/out-of-work loan officer or “big momma’s goin’ back to college!!” Funny, as today gave me the best examples of both: An adventure-hippie-hemp-necklace-beach-asshole stops in the doorway of my 8:00 AM class. He is wearing a t-shirt that shows a minimal outline of an innocuous muscle car. Above this image is the phrase: “My Other Ride Is Your Mother.” After comparing his school schedule with the room number, he gives himself a congratulatory, Spicoli-style smirk, and sits right next to me in a classroom of at least 20 empty seats. Then, walking across campus in broad day light, was a 40+ man in giant cargo shorts, comparable beach-asshole necklace, and a t-shirt that said: “I Can Already Envision The Duct Tape Across Your Mouth.” Don’t worry fella, you didn’t need the t-shirt to help in avoiding random, friendly introductions.
Back in the world that I know, there sits an unfinished needs-to-be-at-least-3,000-words story on the downfall of Cris Kirkwood. This was done, to great acclaim and accomplishment, in 1999. I’m trying to pick it up, dust it off, update it, and I have no idea how to do this. Good thing that the magazine editor needing this piece a week from today…well, good thing he reads this site. No worries.
The good news and the good news: I’m clean. No problems; barring the roids. The miniature coma was a bit irritating. I didn’t gather my bearings until this morning. I don’t remember the lunch with mom that followed the procedure, though I remember having salmon, cottage cheese, and applesauce.
Mom: “I’m not ready yet, I haven’t finished my salad and I want to smoke a cigarette.”
Me: “I’ve gotta get home to bed…now.”
When you are administered a Demerol/sedative cocktail, you do not get to enjoy the Demerol. You do, however, get the painkiller hangover. I got fucked on that deal.
Prior to the colonoscopy, I was asking every prep nurse/tech in sight if I was “going to be away” during the bizness. They all said “yes”, and one went so far as to ask if I smoked weed. Huh?
Any former whiff of this being a “good idea” has long been squelched. An exchange from earlier today:
“The soup wasn’t good?”
“No, it’s just that I can only eat the broth, which was great.”
“We could have served you just the broth.”
“That’s ok, you don’t know how relaxing it is to sit here staring at a huge bowl of shrimp, crab, scallops, noodles, and green onions that I can’t eat.”
An hour ago, I couldn’t have told you the last time I vomited. I made it count with this one…through the nose and loud. Most of it was “the formula” (64 ounces of Gatorade Ice and 255 GM of Miralax), making me worry that not enough of “the formula” traveled in the right direction. I’m in no way to post right now. Stay tuned for ground zero reports.
Ok, I had a BBQ sandwich. Quality: Serviceable. I was pining for good Southern cooking, somewhere that would put the “ass” back in “casserole”, but was short on time. That’s entirely untrue; really, I was just looking for an excuse to make that casserole joke – one that’s had me giggling for the past hour. Just ate my last meal for almost two days. I’d prefer to keep it a secret.