Okay, see, that was beyond hideously painful and terrible and everything, but retrospectively, it did not help my state of mind that the only position in the world that I could manage that didn't make me start screaming was slumped over a large pile of pillows with my ass in the air. And my relatives saw this!
It's bad enough that it hurts like Christ are you kidding me, what the fuck is wrong with you, Horace; bad enough that I chewed vicodin and it did very much not much; salt on the wound is that personal dignity was sacrificed so dramatically and sadly, like one expects a proctological exam in bed outside of obscure and very specialized role-play, and I do not judge kinks but hey, that's not my kink so I got very little out of it on a psychological level.
I wish my sense of humor didn't seem to short out during times like that; that shit is hilarious and if Child had any kind of sense he'd have taken pictures for blackmail purposes. However, my doctor was kind and called in a script for me of vicodin--not that it does much as far as I can tell, but the placebo is nice--and with any kind of luck, the appointment with a surgeon will be made while the memories of this are still really fresh.
Seriously, what did people do before surgery and painkillers? I have never in my life so much appreciated I was born in the age of electricity, chemicals, the internet, and pharmacies. A lot of really bizarre historical facts makes a lot more sense to me if I translate it through the filter of gall bladder went insane. I mean, I used to say that labor with Child was bad, but labor a.) had an actual purpose and b.) hello, epidural. This just appears at random (no idea what set it off this time) and just hurts for the fuck of it.
I am beginning to fear food. I am staring suspiciously at the pantry. This can't be healthy.
This message was brought to you by Seperis's incredibly unhappy body, who is currently voting organ by organ to turn on Horace and go medieval on his ass like now.
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