Midnight Enemas Really Suck. Seriously.

And if that is the name of some chord-chomping band from Topeka, Kansas, or some shit... well, they probably suck too.

I haven’t really been in the mood to write recently. And that is rather disappointing to me, since I really enjoy penning my thoughts. The process fascinates me. And the fact that anyone would bother to read it is even beyond that.

Hold up. That was obnoxiously masturbatory writing right there. What do you expect? It’s been a while since I have posted here, so my finger might be of the trigger persuasion. Bygones.

I've been gone, so let me throw out a couple of updates for those who like to pretend to know me (or for those who actually DO know me):

My shadow moved me to sweats on Monday when I thought someone at my work had discovered my blog. Lucky for me, the last entry was the one where I listed all the things I do to entertain myself while at work. All my unacceptable clandestine interests. Oh, and me taking laxatives on the job, just to ‘spice shit up’ in cube-land (hence the removal of that specific post, as it would have hit too close to home for some around these here office parts). But, alas, and to my better fortune, it was me. I saw my own self on my visit log, and it just so happened that I had come through my own blog to click my favorite links (to your right, toward the bottom) during my morning water. What a twat I am. My digital shadow made me piss myself, and delete one of my most ridiculous posts. Ah, such is life.

You may have noticed that I typed that I drank my “morning water” in the previous paragraph. You read correct. Craig has had no Coffee (save for one cup on Sunday, but it was Oaxacan coffee, and it had to be downed) since last Friday. Almost one whole goddamn week. Killing me over here. Killing me.

Craig has also not been drinking booze all week. For those who know Craig, they know that this is an impressive and rare feat. I enjoy a good drink. This is elementary to me. I know how others view this kind of activity: contempt, irritation, sadness, desperation, desire, an overwhelming feeling that only the gods could possibly drink that much-that often, etc… And I don’t dispute anyone’s right to their own opinion. But I really don’t think I drink all that much. So when I am denied it entirely, I tend to lose my shit. So I’ve been losing my shit for the past (almost) week. Losing. My. Shit.

Speaking of losing my shit. My ass is broken, apparently. The Doctors have no clue what the hell is going on down there, but it is safe to say that the equipment is just all kinds of busted at the moment. Kinda like the engine light came on. There’s just no clear indication of what the actual problem is. All there is, currently, is an indicator that some kind of problem exists.

So there’s that.

Which ties everything all up together real nice. The laxatives experiment? Not so much an experiment as it was ‘man, what the hell is wrong with my goddamn ass? Maybe these’ll help me drop a bomb at work!” kind of thing. Baboom! Yeah!.... no. Nothin’. Which almost lead to the emergency room. Avoiding the ER meant enduring some rather horrific situations which, believe it or not, I will not go into detail here. If you see me, ask, and I’ll probably give you a minute-by-minute. But for me to avoid posting it here, you have to know that it MUST be beyond unpleasant. I am crass. My sensibilities are not measured in terms of delicacy but rather in terms of public nuisance. Suffice to say, it was all pretty fucked up, but interesting in terms of life-experience.

And that is what lead me to the good doctor, who recommended some simple non-solutions. Which pushed me to my favorite source of all things medical: my Mammasita. She recommended all kinds of crazy-ass chemical elixirs, and we finally settled on Magnesium Citrate. If you have never done Mag-citrate (as it is called in the health industry, they’re all into ghetto-fying product names), then you are one lucky fucker. But your days are numbered, so you better enjoy them while you can. Most will tell you that it is the taste that really makes this stuff so nasty. I don’t know about all that. It tastes like red bull and vomit. So if you’ve ever been there before, and you know have, then it will be more disturbingly familiar than disgusting. So the flavor is not pleasing, but it is not as putrid as most health professionals play it out to be. But the results… sweet jesus. No fucking around with that stuff. BAM! It beat my stomach like a truck-stop call-girl. SMACK! It slapped my bladder around like a thirteen year-old’s pud. I mean, it actually burns. Like a goddamn chemical burn. What. The. Fuck?

Moving on. So magnesium has the property of pulling water. So it literally leeches your body of all water. From your eyes. From your elbow joints. From your toes. From your fucking knee caps. My lips feel chapped as a result. All powdery feeling.

That means that I am not allowed to drink dehydrates of any sort. And since I only drink liquor, beer, coffee, and a-lot of water… my options have sadly become limited to: a shit-load (bucket-load?) of water (approximately twice as much as I usually drink. Fuck.). Every day. I have to pee every 45 seconds. And it still smells like Magnesium Citrate. This is awesome on such a tremendously large scale that I believe I am failing, quite miserably, at properly projecting how kick-ass it really is.

Best part? Oh, the BEST part?

The doctor has no idea what my problem is. It might be psychosomatic. It might be overwhelming gas. It might be IBS (which would rock like goddamn granite!). Or it could be that a very immature hippo wandered into my bedroom one night and crawled up my ass to live. A hippo who apparently can thrive on copious amounts of magnesium citrate and Raisin Bran. Fucking hippo.

So that’s why there has not been much on here recently. Been at the doctor, or out of commission, destroyed by complete lack of sleep. I hope the week has treated you well, and that you never have to give yourself something truly disturbing. Like the execution of a home enema kit, bought from a 24 hour Randall’s at 3am, to help quell the army of alien mutants, violently rebelling in your colon, taking mad punches at nearby vital organs. I mean, for random instance. A totally random scenario right there.

Not that I would even know what the hell that is. Goddamn it feels good to be alive… WHOO-HOO!