My Ass Is Not Me, Dammit!

I’ve realized a problem: The only thing I seem to be talking to people about lately is my ass. Granted, the nature of my condition produces many funny stories, so it’s not all bad.

Like when I had to go in for a checkup and the nurse came in and said “Ooh, can I see?”, in reference to my wound. I was like, um, NO. I’m just waiting for someone to come in with one of those head lamps cavers wear asking if they can look for gold or something.

The most disturbing part of the story is that the nurse a woman who seemed nice, who I’ve had several conversations with because I keep coming in, and who I now will no longer be able to look in the eye.

So silly stories like this end up working their way into my repetoire. Also, words like “end,” “but,” “rear,” and any of a thousand other euphemisms or homonyms for euphemisms for ass take on double meanings, and make people snicker when they talk to me.

They make me snicker too, but I have the sense of humor of a sixth-grader, so never mind.

However, the problem arises in that I really don’t have much else going on right now, so that when people ask me what’s up, I have two options as to what I can say.

1. Say, “Oh, not much,” and pretty much leave it at that.

2. Explain what’s actually going on.

Both options have their problems, especially if #1 is followed and I’m asked to elaborate. However, when I follow #2, I tend to drive people away screaming, which is what I would do if I were not actually participating in this joyousness.

So I’ve determined I need to a) pick a career path or at least b) find gainful employment so I can at least bitch about my job, and not about my ass.

Well, one of these days, maybe.

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