I Am Officially Dead

I think I'm going to have to go to the doctor again. Things are not improving; in fact, they're sliding. Going to the bathroom should not be painful. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm running out of money, and the clinic doesn't take Medicare. I wish these geniuses would find the damn problem. I'm tired of feeling like crap, tired of being reluctant to poop, pee, or eat. I've spent more than $140, and I'm probably going to pop for $200 more before they figure it out. God help me if I need an appendectomy or a gallbladder removal. Damn fucking doctors.

On a cheerier note, oh, my God, Flack killed me dead tonight. Dead. With a toe tag. The way he looked when he realized that guy was dying. Gah. The compassion. Thank you, Jerry Bruckheimer and Anthony Zuiker, for lending credence to my filthy dirty lust-addled innocent fantasy that Flack wouldn't be above dating a roller. I love you and will build a shrine in your honor and will offer you vestal virgins forevermore.

After Flack killed me dead, Stella revived me and killed me again with her ending scene with poor, hapless Paul. The acting-fu was strong with her tonight.

And thank you to logospilgrim for sending me such a lovely card and for thinking of me when you are enduring such personal heartache. You are a credit to humanity and your ministry, and if I may be so bold, I'm sure that Papa Jonn is so very proud of you.

Welcome, bigdamncrow, to the flist.