Nineteen years, motherfuckers. This blog will be moving out and getting married before I know it. Happy Birthday to us and this ridiculous endeavour. Six thousand, nine hundred and thirty three consecutive entries. Pepys didn’t even make ten years and he had some really juicy shit to report on. Where’s my Great Fire of London? Where’s my execution of a monarch and then execution of all the people who executed him? I didn’t even get 9/11. I was a year late for that, like a bloody idiot. If only I was living at an historically interesting time, I’d be shitting all over that parmesan cheese burying, unfaithful idiot. I’ve only been able to write about buying more yoghurts than a check out lady thought was acceptable and clearing stones off a field. Oh for some proper history to write about.
But there can be no history when there is no future.
All right, cheer up. It was a pretty good day. I had an appointment with my oncologist at 9am and the news was all pretty excellent. The scan showed me clear of cancer and my blood work was nearly perfect too. The doctor showed me my insides. My lipoma is quite impressive and I also have a cyst on one of my kidneys, which looks big to me. He says neither of these things are anything to worry about though, though I find it annoying that my body seems to keep wanting to grow unnecessary and occasionally deadly things inside it. It must be boring just doing the stuff you’re supposed to do, but I don’t need any extra lumps and bumps.
He also said that I wasn’t drinking enough water and that that might lead to problems in the future. So I have to drink about three pints of water every day. I’d rather die. I did it today and the problem is, the water must more or less comes straight out again. Almost like my body doesn’t want it at all. Even though I did most of the water drinking in the morning and afternoon, I had to get up to go to the loo about ten times in the night (rather than my usual two or three). Because the body doesn’t need that much water.
Anyway, I intend to carry on drinking that much water as a sarcastic protest.
But the upshot of all this is so far, so good. I am a cancer survivor. Which is OK, but I think it means I can’t get out of stuff any more by pulling a sad face and saying, “I’ve had cancer.” Maybe running a half marathon was the proof of that.
If it’s any consolation to those readers of this blog who hate me and want me to die, I am feeling more poorly than I have at practically any point in this bizarre year. I’ve picked up a cold and my back is still complaining a little bit. So for a man who is now (presumably) immortal, having conquered death, I am a bit of a wreck. But I suppose that’t the Twilight Zone twist. I get everlasting life, but I can’t shake off the annoying niggles of middle-aged existence.
In even better news, when I got home, my brand new MacBook Pro arrived (a little earlier than predicted). I am writing on it now. It’s lovely. And though for some reason none of my back ups since April were on my hard drive (I am sure I did one in late September) I managed to pretty easily get everything uploaded and up and running and all my documents were on the cloud, so it wasn’t even too stressful.
Even though I was under the weather I attempted a Twitch of Fun nonetheless. It’s pared down to its basics. But I think its basics are pretty good. And what I think is all that matters. Up in the usual places on Friday.