To hell with it.
I have a headache. I feel like I’ve had a headache for about, say, twenty years. Sure it goes away for a couple of days, even months. But if I ever stop and take a poll of my innards, the result is always the same - my brain hurts. Some (like my sisters), will tell me - oh, it's just your allergies. Or, "the ragweed/pollen/fairy dust is really terrible this time of year." Or, "Are you working too hard?" Only strangers ask me that one. Somebody had the gall to ask me one Saturday morning, "Do you think it could be those twenty beers you had last night?" That was some kind of crazy ignorant heathen who said that.
But these headaches have pained me for as long as I can remember. Once or twice they were so bad, I had to stay at work until 5:10 waiting for it to pass.
All of you, my fabulous readers, are aware of the trials and tribulations this observer has been through this past year - what with our failed world record attempt to ascend K2 wearing only a stetson and a pocket watch, the book tour for my latest self-help guide, “I’m All Right, But You’re A Co-Dependent Creep,” and the near-fatal aneurysm scare. Still, you may be worried about the health of this devilishly handsome wordsmith.
The mantle is heavy, dear friends. We bear it with stoic determination. Your faithful recorder of fate keeps a grim countenance and a determined grip on his resolve. We will complete our tasks.
The headaches. They ache. They ache in the head.
After much reflection, and a considerable amount of research (I spent at least an hour googling “Brainbox pain” and another hour reading Wikipedia entries covering topics such as aneurysms, deadly mushrooms, and, for some reason, Stevie Ray Vaughan), I’ve come to the only supportable conclusion - my neurosurgeon is a quack.
It’s the only logical explanation. How else could you explain his obvious failure to find my aneurysm. We all know I must have one. What else could explain my odd behavior, my bad life-decisions, and my dreams. Yes, my dreams. You know - the crazy ones.
I once had this dream. A strange dream. My readers might even consider it bizarre, the clear product of an unhinged cerebrum. But.
But this dream is typical. I can not stress that enough. I had dreams like this on a regular basis. Read this account of a typical dream of this reporter and then tell us that we are, and I quote, “normal.”
I defy you to do that. To save space, I provide you this handy-dandy hyper-webby link to the full account.
But I digress.
The point here is that there is clearly something not right with my brain.
And since we live in this barbaric state, by which I mean one without a nationalized health care system, I must resort to radical measures. DIY measures.
I've enlisted the help and support of my wonderful and talented friends. RS has graciously offered the use of his mega-organized and sterile garage for an operating theater. R will also be appearing in a cameo role as the anesthesiologist. CC will be assuming the role of surgeon. He was actually pre-med for a while back in his college days, so I have no worry about trusting him with my life. Also aiding in the operation - Mary Alice Kelly. She is an honest to god nurse, and will no doubt be happy to lend a hand. She will also be my designated voice of reason. I love C and R, but I'm a little worried they may be a bit too eager to proclaim me dead - I have a great comic book collection.
We haven't picked a date yet - and I still need to buy the slinky - but I want to hold off until 2014. 2013 has been full of enough excitement already.
Now I just need to convince my sister, SG, to give me access to the very expensive machine that goes, "beep!"
I know this may seem crazy, but that just proves my point, don't it?