I’ll totally admit, my life is sad enough such that random blog posts from Balk or Choire literally make my day. So a chat conversation between the two of them certainly is a rare treat. However, my dilemma in re-blogging their shit is this: everyone I know is following them. Anytime I decide something that something written by a prominent blogger is entertaining or thought-provoking (rarely both, rarely the latter!), and I don’t have anything particularly good to add to it, a re-blog amounts to a “Yeah, me too” or a “ha ha!” and I’m definitely not that guy.
Since everyone else already told Balk to go to the hospital, I’ll skip the reblog, and add this: it would be a fantastic prank if Balk went to the hospital in times of better health, walked up to the front desk and said, “I want to donate my liver.” He’d insist, though he’s completely alive and not going anywhere soon, that he wants someone to have it and that it’s his final, selfless act. Then, upon repeated insistence, they actually examine his liver through a CT or MRI and gasp in horror at the results. Fin.
(what, you wanted a plot or a resolution?)
In other news, I’ve been having chest pains too lately. I can talk about this on my Tumblr because my mom only stalks me by telephone, as if it were still 1989. (she’s slowly starting to rely on e-mail, which gets us all the way to 1992. Baby steps.) My employers have deigned me as “not important enough to provide affordable health coverage”, so I’m even out of luck on the Modafinil craze that’s sweeping the nation. (I’m holding my last few Adderall, prescribed years ago, very closely; you can pry them out of my cold dead hands; Charlton Heston died, I know) The great part is, since I’m resigned to being sick or in pain until the very moment it’s critical for me to seek treatment, a heart attack would likely be completely effective and would save me a lot of rent. I do have much unfinished business, but I figure that wouldn’t be different in 60 years anyway (same stress, different unfinished business). My one regret is not finding a life-long love, but let it be stated for the record that all of my dream girls are Hawaiian and yet I consistently refused to locate myself anywhere but below 96th Street in Manhattan, so I deserve what I got.
Last note: I just realized my affinity to parenthetical asides makes my writing resemble a “Family Guy” episode. Wow. Maybe I should die already!
