Somebody must’ve really pissed him off. It takes a lot of bullshit for him to actually smite somebody.
2023 is shaping up to be a dick year. For me, anyway. Tuesday is the annual lung scan, because I smoked for 15 years and even though I gave the habit up 10 years ago this October, it produced a small spot on my lungs that hasn’t grown beyond a small dot.
Eh. You know this shit already.
If I bend over, you know, to replace the recycling bag or pick up a piece of broken glass coaster, when I right myself. The world spins.
Every fucking time.
I have to close my eyes, focus on my breathing, and hold on for fucking life to the nearest fixed surface so I don’t fall over. So I have to stop doing these things. Because it could make me sick or I could hurt myself, which I will not, cannot do to my family.
Soi I tell myself.
But I did it anyway tonight. And same fucking thing.
I’m reliant on insulin, blood pressure and cholesterol medications, and an anti-depressant with a mood-enhancing chaser. My red cell count has decreased in the last six months, hence the endoscopy/colonoscopy and next a CT scan of my upper bowel, and now I can add, I’ll say vertigo, to the list. (Undiagnosed, but I’m looking for Occam’s Razor here.)
And you know what? I’m tired of writing about this shit.
I’m just tired.
Toronto Hydro is shutting off the power to our building twice (for an hour each) later tonight. Because, who give a fuck about people who use CPAP machines, right? Oh yeah, I use a CPAP. Should’ve added that to the above list.
Fuck, I’m forcing this post.
I can’t write tonight.
G’nite.
The Bloody Doors Off 
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