Hey, who wants to hear about my medical problems? Wait a minute, where are you going? Come back! I promise I’ll say something funny afterwards.
I’ve always been healthy as an ox, but lately it feels a bit like my service warranty has run out and I’m experiencing numerous minor mechanical failures. Most recently, SiC and I both developed toothaches. SiC managed to book us both into the dentist at the same time, and after performing a root canal on SiC (no shit. Guess who won’t be eating chocolate in the middle of the night anymore?), the dentist X-rayed my teeth and came back looking perplexed. “I can’t seem to find anything wrong,” he said. When I insisted that I was actually in pain and not just making a desperate pitch for attention, he asked me if I was under any stress. Apparently I’ve been clenching my jaw in my sleep, and as a result have developed a chronic throbbing ache on one side of my face, going all the way up to my temple and on bad days down the side of my neck as well. The solution? “Take a two-week holiday in the Caribbean,” my dentist joked. Unfortunately this did not fall under my dental plan. Could I just have a root canal instead?
Also malfunctioning: my digestive system. After several months of recurring stomach cramps and other even less pleasant symptoms of digestive upset, I went to my doctor, who diagnosed me with an irritable bowel. (I could have told him that. I’m irritable all over.) Not only is it incredibly sexy, but it’s another one of those things you can’t really do anything about. “Try not to eat so much spicy food,” said my doctor. And when I went back a month later for some anti-cramping drugs after a particularly bad bout, “Try to avoid dairy.” So, let’s see: no spicy food and no cheese. I officially have no reason to live. I need to explain to you that spicy food is like crack cocaine to me: it makes me sell my body on the streets for a man with gold teeth. OK, perhaps not quite, but to say I prefer my food hot enough to make my eyeballs melt would be an understatement. But now? Now I have to eat like an ENGLISH PERSON because my BOWEL IS CRANKY. Gay.
Also my wrists. The jobs I’ve had over the past few years have involved insane amounts of typing (my only marketable skill), and I’ve managed to bugger my wrists. I went to the doctor about it and he basically said, “Yup, you’ve buggered your wrists.” Anything I can…you know…do about it? Apparently not, besides avoiding lifting and manipulating objects.
And my knees…actually, that’s enough for one day. As you can imagine, SiC is ready to divorce me for all the moaning. And who could blame him? He married a 28-year-old and woke up one day next to an 80-year-old. Soon I’ll start complaining about my lumbago and break my hip.
I know I promised I would say something funny, so here you go: my antidepressants are preventing me from having orgasms (yup, really). Actually I guess that’s more ironic than funny.