(Prior posting from my old webspace)

Blood laden with confectioners sugar is certainly a living treat! I do so enjoy waking up every single morning, looking down at my Goodyear dirigibles and wondering what fun I will have today. Will it be “death by footwear” or will it be “death by stairs”. Either way, my life is anything but mundane as of late.

My first act after rising, as my head swoons and lolls about from whatever cerebral remnants that are sloshing around inside my noggin is to attempt to walk to the throne and hold audience with my invisible subjects. That in itself is fun beyond description as it appears I’ve become more court jester than king. The evidence: my gait. As I stumble towards my porcelain settee it’s all I can do to keep my face from becoming an integral part of the bathroom mirror or bathtub.

Such joyous fun. It certainly works better than coffee most mornings.

Then, as I proceed to slide or lurch down the stairs, banister screaming as it’s wrenched from the wall, I arrive, miraculously, in the kitchen. I see coffee…and just swallow the grounds whole. I don’t wanna risk walking with boiling water at this point. Chase the Maxwell House down with tap water and do a little belly dance to mix ‘er up… that’s the stuff…”aah”!

Then it’s time to choke down breakky! Now, for those that know me, breakfast is the least appreciated meal of the day. I’d rather chew cat litter than eat, to be honest, but my new life dictates that I must imbibe, so toast and banana it is. “Burp”. “UGH”!

Then, my massive snausages slap across my filthy linoleum floors back towards the stairs, me holding up the walls every step I take. My, achilles tendonitis certainly does feel great, don’t it? Wow, and the snapping of my arthritic knees.. damn, it just don’t get ANY better than this. Wait, yes it does, cos my water balloons, I mean feet are adding so many interesting moments to my life. Without them, life would be just painfully mundane, n’est pas?

Cos I’m now so alert from the acid brewed coffee grounds in my stomach, I realize I forgot my insulin. Oh goody! “Please sir, can I have some more”??

So I fumble with my test strips, impale my finger and hope that I don’t end up with a bloodbath. Levels are normal for a dead person says the glucose meter. Then, once I wipe the plasma from my wrists and chin I then reach for the pen. The insulin pen. The pen of life and salvation. The pen that will give me the ability to run and frolic without those pesky comas. I look towards the dial with my honey glazed eyes and TRY to see the display. I’m dialing.. and hoping that I hit the right number. Then I realize I forgot the needle. Gawd.. isn’t life just a joyous mirth filled moment for me? Aren’t you wanting some of this for your very own? But I digress. Then, once the needle is in, I dial to one, and push the little black button. NOTHING is coming out. Damn. So I try again. And again.

After a few more “AGAINS” I realize something is wrong. So I go to remove the needle, not being prudent, and of course stab myself underneath my fingernail. Boy, does that feel GOOD. So, here I stand on rubber feet and crumbling concrete knees doing a rain dance as I pull the sharp out from underneath my once unblemished chewed up fingernail and then note to myself that maybe replacing the cap on the needle before removal might be a good thing. Martha Stewart would surely approve.

I can feel the ghost of Erma Bombeck. She’s pointing and laughing at me…hysterically. Beside her in the afterlife stands George Carlin. He’s now found something funnier than “The seven things you can’t say on TV. He is now writing me into a monologue.

After a few minutes of blood sweat and tears I remove the insulin vial, reset it into it’s chamber, CAREFULLY put the needle back on, reset my dosage and press play. NOTHING.

Instead of maybe checking other things, I spend the better part of an hour playing with the springs, the vial and the chamber. It’s still not giving me Nirvana. In fact, I feel blood vessels exploding in my brain as the sugar from breakfast just keeps climbing. That old familiar free drunk feeling is upon me. I’m drenched in sweat, slurring my words, wondering if I’m going to do a pirouette across the broadloom shortly. Then, my feverish brain looks at the needle. A momentary thought occurs to me that maybe it’s the problem. I change the needle, and instantly everything works.

I’m so gonna have a few words with the fine folks at Novopen. This episode of “I Love Davy” is gonna be fed to some poor hapless phone jockey. Count on it!

So, I finally get my insulin spoon out, cook up the rock and inject. I know in a little while I’ll be back into my own brain again, but for the moment, I just lay upon the soaked bed awaiting the nectar to reach my pancreas. Being a junkie is such a rush!

So.. it’s apparent that I need to shower now. Stay tuned!

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