I’m pretty sure I remember, vaguely, longing to be an adult. And now that I am technically here, I keep realizing “Wow, this sucks.”
Which brings us to taxes. I’ve been putting them off for more than a month, but finally knocked them out last week, yay, which is considerably better than I usually do. My tax guy is very sweet and patient and sends me a letter in December with a checklist of things to complete and include and a number of deadlines in boldface, most of which I ignore until panic finally motivates me. So actually grinding them out only a few days after his deadline was a great accomplishment,
And handy, too, since on Friday I realized I was no longer able to pee and by Saturday afternoon wound up in in the emergency room confronting a breezy young nurse who assured me they would have to catheterize me. Breezily. There are more details, but I will spare all of us them, especially since most of them involve a couple of feet of aquarium tubing being shoved up my dick.
I’ve spent the time since then mostly in bed or at least avoiding the stairs if possible. The good news is I’m going to the doctor on Thursday morning and, hopefully, will have said aquarium tubing pulled out. The bad news is both cats refuse to accept as nonnegotiable my points of “NO” and “Stay off my lap.” Tyrants.
So I tried to find a picture from some cock and ball torture filth to illustrate this (as a kind of Artist’s Rendering,) but I got distracted by this, the meaning of which I have no idea. Let’s just pretend it represents my bladder vs. me.