Wednesday, August 24, 2011

And They Shall Name It BRONCHITIS

I will live another day to persecute old man anti-abortion protesters, and Vincent says the world is a better place for it. I don't think the old man and his two retarded henchmen would agree, neither the motorists who had to stop and let me cross backwards in front of them doing the fingers with both hands and yelling "fuck off" at the old man because I'd been so busy yelling/being yelled at that I had missed the green pedestrian light. That may or may not be a true story. It may or may not be true, also, that two weeks later Vincent broke one of their signs and threw it into the road. I'm not confirming either story, but please don't tell my parents.

The exciting thing about today was that despite my best efforts to breathe good, my very nice doctor could still hear what has been going on in my lungs, deduced that I have been having trouble breathing, and offered me an inhaler. I had to try to hide my excitement, partly because I didn't want her to think I grew up under a rock and partly because Vincent and I had been sitting in the waiting room racking our brains to come up with prescribed goods we could request to make the visit better value and I felt like she might be able to see it in my enthusiasm. But I was enthused. Growing up, my favourite cousin was a constant source of envy for me for things ranging from her hair to her attitude to her school lunches, and in this basket was her asthma. I know now that asthma ain't no picnic, and that going off in an ambulance in the middle of the night wasn't the adventure I imagined it was (especially not when the reason the ambulance was called was an inability to breathe). But at the time, watching her insert that little capsule into the spinner, or pull the lid off her disc that looked like a mini plastic UFO, I was filled with longing. Maybe I didn't want her asthma, but by god I wanted her inhaler; to pull it out of a mini My Little School-Bag case and take it like I did that shit every day. Something inside me still goes teehee when Vincent gives me a puff of his to help me sleep (I would accept it even if I knew for sure it didn't). And today, I got one, an inhaler to call my own, in a box with a sticker that says Inhale the contents of ONE - TWO doses when required for cough/wheeze/shortness of breath and then MY NAME. Now, when I wheeze, I won't feel like an old man anymore. I'll feel like my six-year-old self, living the dream.

Vincent is waiting for me so we can keep watching Sopranos; he got up and went to work early instead of writing, so he could come home and be with me but then I fell asleep and we only got to watch one before it was time to go to the doctor and bankrupt ourselves. This morning I watched The Graduate for the umpteenth time but it deserves its own post; what a film. So I'll leave you with these bad boys (yes, I said it). Every day on my way to and from work (which makes four times a day), I pass a shoe shop, and for the past month, this shoe shop has had a window display of brightly coloured shoes that look like lollies, and as with lollies, I can't keep away. I love them. I even had a rude dream that was mostly based around a pair of them. These aren't those shoes, but they're similar in that they're impossibly high, beautifully bright, and coveted by me. Enjoy.

Shoes from

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