Visually Stunning
Several years ago I was seated at my desk chatting with a co-worker about the benefits of color vs. black and white cameras.
I was about to say, "Obviously it's helpful to know the color of a shirt rather than the fact that it is plaid."
But what came out was, "Obviously it's helpful to know the color of a shirt rather than the fact that it is played. Played. Played. Wait. Played."
I knew what I wanted to say and yet couldn't get the word plaid out of my mouth. I then realized that my vision was torn in half by a very large jagged lightning bolt shape going from mid upper left down to mid lower right. It was dark in the middle of the lightning bolt and the edges were happily blinking in what could be considered delightful colors in any other setting. I closed my eyes and could still see the lightning bolt. I opened them again and whimpered, "I think something is really wrong with me."
My co-worker tilted his head a bit in confusion but still talking about cameras. My hands began to tingle and go a bit numb. This is when I knew I was in fact dying right there at my desk. I grabbed the phone and decided that perhaps I should call my doctor (the one with the fucking BMI chart in his office that I'm always threatening to shove up a certain unmentioned orifice of his. I don't mention his bad breath and he shouldn't use a chart made during the Irish Potato Famine to judge a modern day woman - oh and now he now has a treadmill as part of his desk, what a dick.)
I started dialing the number and was greeted with the dooo-daaaa-doooo!!! the number you have dialed cannot be completed. I hung up and tried again. Same thing. I set the phone down, took a deep breath thinking my fear of dying had me a bit ramped up. I picked up and dialed again, same thing. I then called The Donald. He answered and I explained that something was very wrong with me and I wasn't quite sure what.
"I tried to call the doctor but I don't think I have the right number."
"What number are you dialing?"
"563-47777."
"What?"
"563-47777"
"That's too many numbers."
"What?"
"You're dialing too many numbers."
"What?"
"I'll be there in 30 minutes."
"Okay. I might be dead by then, but okay. Wait what?"
I managed to make my way to my boss's office, who was a weasel if ever a weasel there was. I explained what was happening through tears and he explained that I was having a visual migraine. My first thought was - how is it that you can't seem to rid yourself of chicken shit from the bottom of your shoes, you smell like an ashtray, lie like a rug and were previously selling siding but you can diagnose illnesses? Piss off. I didn't say any of this because I was concentrating on trying to unclench my fists. Great I thought, if I live through this and it doesn't appear that I'm going to, I'm going to have permanently clenched fists and people will laugh at me. I would laugh at me.
The Donald showed up, gave the weasel the stink eye and carted me off to the emergency room. In retrospect an exciting ride in an ambulance may have made more sense.
In the ER Doogie Howser looked me over and announced that I more than likely had a visual migraine. I would have been happier if he said, "I think you have a brain tumor that is going to rupture all over this room any second and if you will now pardon me I'd like not to mess up my new scrubbies with your bits of brain." just because I could hear the weasel saying, "I told you so." with his tobacco stained lip. Ugh.
I was instructed to visit my primary physician, Dr. Dildo. I saw him the next day and he instructed me to lose weight (who saw that one coming?!), reduce stress, limit caffeine oh and again, 'I'd really like to see you lose weight.' I lost 20 pounds. I don't even remember how. I do remember that this was the end of my Ring Ding Era during which I enjoyed a birthday cake made entirely of Ring Dings and was heard swearing loudly when I found that Mr. Jingles, the office mouse, had found my Ring Ding stash and helped himself to a big mouse toothed bite. I, in turn, immediately removed the remaining wrapper and ate the rest of the Ring Ding announcing around a mouth full of delicious Ring Ding, "HA! No more for you Mr. Jingles!"
Dr. Dildo did mention that there was a very remote chance that I had a very mild stroke but nothing to get worried about because I had bigger things to worry about, like the size of my ass.
So I'm glad it's New Year's Day. I've been snow shoeing for three days straight now (not non-stop, just three days in a row) and I'm trying to eat a bit better. I knew this was coming especially having to re-snap my snow pants repeatedly as in; Put on socks, put on snow pants put on one boot, re-snap snow pants put on other boot, re-snap snow pants, drop glove, pick up glove, re-snap snow pants, etc. and so on.
Happy New Year! Plaid.
I was about to say, "Obviously it's helpful to know the color of a shirt rather than the fact that it is plaid."
But what came out was, "Obviously it's helpful to know the color of a shirt rather than the fact that it is played. Played. Played. Wait. Played."
I knew what I wanted to say and yet couldn't get the word plaid out of my mouth. I then realized that my vision was torn in half by a very large jagged lightning bolt shape going from mid upper left down to mid lower right. It was dark in the middle of the lightning bolt and the edges were happily blinking in what could be considered delightful colors in any other setting. I closed my eyes and could still see the lightning bolt. I opened them again and whimpered, "I think something is really wrong with me."
My co-worker tilted his head a bit in confusion but still talking about cameras. My hands began to tingle and go a bit numb. This is when I knew I was in fact dying right there at my desk. I grabbed the phone and decided that perhaps I should call my doctor (the one with the fucking BMI chart in his office that I'm always threatening to shove up a certain unmentioned orifice of his. I don't mention his bad breath and he shouldn't use a chart made during the Irish Potato Famine to judge a modern day woman - oh and now he now has a treadmill as part of his desk, what a dick.)
I started dialing the number and was greeted with the dooo-daaaa-doooo!!! the number you have dialed cannot be completed. I hung up and tried again. Same thing. I set the phone down, took a deep breath thinking my fear of dying had me a bit ramped up. I picked up and dialed again, same thing. I then called The Donald. He answered and I explained that something was very wrong with me and I wasn't quite sure what.
"I tried to call the doctor but I don't think I have the right number."
"What number are you dialing?"
"563-47777."
"What?"
"563-47777"
"That's too many numbers."
"What?"
"You're dialing too many numbers."
"What?"
"I'll be there in 30 minutes."
"Okay. I might be dead by then, but okay. Wait what?"
I managed to make my way to my boss's office, who was a weasel if ever a weasel there was. I explained what was happening through tears and he explained that I was having a visual migraine. My first thought was - how is it that you can't seem to rid yourself of chicken shit from the bottom of your shoes, you smell like an ashtray, lie like a rug and were previously selling siding but you can diagnose illnesses? Piss off. I didn't say any of this because I was concentrating on trying to unclench my fists. Great I thought, if I live through this and it doesn't appear that I'm going to, I'm going to have permanently clenched fists and people will laugh at me. I would laugh at me.
The Donald showed up, gave the weasel the stink eye and carted me off to the emergency room. In retrospect an exciting ride in an ambulance may have made more sense.
In the ER Doogie Howser looked me over and announced that I more than likely had a visual migraine. I would have been happier if he said, "I think you have a brain tumor that is going to rupture all over this room any second and if you will now pardon me I'd like not to mess up my new scrubbies with your bits of brain." just because I could hear the weasel saying, "I told you so." with his tobacco stained lip. Ugh.
I was instructed to visit my primary physician, Dr. Dildo. I saw him the next day and he instructed me to lose weight (who saw that one coming?!), reduce stress, limit caffeine oh and again, 'I'd really like to see you lose weight.' I lost 20 pounds. I don't even remember how. I do remember that this was the end of my Ring Ding Era during which I enjoyed a birthday cake made entirely of Ring Dings and was heard swearing loudly when I found that Mr. Jingles, the office mouse, had found my Ring Ding stash and helped himself to a big mouse toothed bite. I, in turn, immediately removed the remaining wrapper and ate the rest of the Ring Ding announcing around a mouth full of delicious Ring Ding, "HA! No more for you Mr. Jingles!"
Dr. Dildo did mention that there was a very remote chance that I had a very mild stroke but nothing to get worried about because I had bigger things to worry about, like the size of my ass.
So I'm glad it's New Year's Day. I've been snow shoeing for three days straight now (not non-stop, just three days in a row) and I'm trying to eat a bit better. I knew this was coming especially having to re-snap my snow pants repeatedly as in; Put on socks, put on snow pants put on one boot, re-snap snow pants put on other boot, re-snap snow pants, drop glove, pick up glove, re-snap snow pants, etc. and so on.
Happy New Year! Plaid.
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