June 01, 2007
Originally published April 4, 2006
I didn't sleep worth a shit last night. I don't know what caused it, but I suffered some of the worst belly pain that I've had since my surgery and the painkillers I took didn't touch it. The night is long when you spend most of it in misery, curled in a fetal position on your sofa.
I did manage to watch Florida crush UCLA in the National Championship basketball game, which was a weird experience for me because I rooted for the University of Florida. As a bleed-red-and-black Jawja Bulldawg, I hate Florida with a white-hot passion, but there's just NO WAY that I could pull for UCLA. Florida Gators may suck, but they don't suck as powerfully as a team from California does.
And I don't care if Joe-Kim Noah is one of the ugliest semi-white boys ever to walk the face of the planet. He played a damn good game last night. UCLA had their asses handed to them.
I've already started receiving medical bills from my hospital visit. The operation cost more than $18,000. That's just the beginning, because I haven't seen the tab for the hospital stay, the anesthesiologist, the ambulance ride or any of the other numerous entities I owe for saving my life. My half-assed Blue Cross medical insurance will pay as little as they can get away with, so I look forward to a lot of hassle with them over the next couple of months.
The bastards DID raise my insurance premiums by ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH, even though they haven't paid a dime of my bills yet. They didn't pay squat to Willingway, either. I ate that entire 38-day stay right out of my wallet, and let's just say that it wasn't cheap. Fuck me dead. If I were an illegal immigrant, I'd get all that shit for free.
I give up on my son. I've called him a dozen times lately, left messages on the answering machine and never received a word in reply. I haven't seen or talked to him since February. He's 12 years old. I've got to accept an unpleasant reality: If he wanted to talk to me, he would. Obviously, he doesn't. I guess he has decided to divorce me, too.
Even though I feel like warmed-over crap this morning, I'm going to do some more work in my yard. I finished with the garden yesterday, but when I bought the last of my plants, I also purchased six hummingbird feeders and I'm going to hang them today. I like watching those aggressive little bastards eat, fuck and fight. They are beautiful birds and very entertaining to boot.
I finally found some lantanas for my flower beds, too. I bought nine large pots of them and I plan on having the flowers in the ground before the week is out. Lantanas require very little maintenance, they stay in bloom for a long time and they are butterfly magnets. Plus, they spread like wildfire, all by themselves. They'll add some nice color to the front of the Crackerbox.
Gawd, but I hate to see myself in the mirror anymore. I could pass for anorexic. I believe that I've answered the Paul Simon question about "How many times you think you can run that body down?" because mine appears ready for the scrap pile after 54 years. Hell--- I've averaged one near-death experience per year since 2001 and I damn sure look like it, too.
That's fucking depressing. I used to be a hunk. Now, I resemble a matchstick man. I don't think the hunk is ever coming back, either. Every time I think I've made one step forward, I take two steps back. I ain't been right since the prostate cancer. I don't think I'll EVER be right again.
Sorry about the pissing and moaning, but I'm in a foul mood. It's just another day of the same old shit, and I'm getting mighty tired of it.
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