A couple of days ago I alluded subtly to the fact that my body was going berserk. To that, I add that my body wants me never to be able to show my face in public again. It has decided that the part of it that is to go wrong is the part that no one ever talks about, at least not in polite company.
It couldn't be something wonderful and interesting so that when I go to describe my supposed to condition to people, they exclaim, "Upon my word! Why, that's simply the most whimsical health condition I have ever heard of!" Instead, they try desperately to pretend that the grimace that trampled across their faces was, in fact, due to something extremely repulsive going on behind my back and not due to what I had just told them. And then they change the subject.
There is a procedure I must undergo that I hope they put me sleep for. There is a vile potion I must take in preparation for this procedure that travels all through my body, especially to that unmentionable place, and … well, cleans it all up nice and spic'n'span. My doctor described exactly what the brew would do and what the ghoulish torture the procedure would visit upon me while she scribbled nonchalantly on her little prescription pad of doom. She didn't seem to notice that I was blushing.
But then she wouldn't, would she, considering what she herself had just done to me. Let us simply say that, since I am a gay man, she went where no woman had previously gone. And that's probably enough of that.
I clasped the little white note in my hands as I trudged down the busy downtown street, head low. I felt as if I had been bad and teacher was sending me to the principal with a note cataloguing all my various atrocities. Beside me walked my friend AlefAlef, whom I'd brought along under the impression that he would provide me moral support. We entered the pharmacy, I plodded up to the counter, plunked down the prescription, and looked up into the most dazzling pair of soulful brown eyes I had ever seen.
Of course one of those gorgeous men I had seen around and admired, waiting for the right moment to approach was a pharmacist. Without a doubt he was a pharmacist at the very pharmacy I happened to go to that time. And because that is the way life is, he smiled at me with recognition as I handed over my mortifying slip of paper while. This was definitely not that right moment I had been awaiting.
Wordlessly he poured goo into a bottle and gave it to me. He then launched into a very long speech on effects, side effects, and contraindications. As I stood there, half listening to the beautiful pharmacist, the counter began to rise up higher and higher until I was face-to-face with the decongestants. Luckily, AlefAlef scooped me up, because I was by that point, the size of a weeble, put me in his jacket pocket and paid for the glop himself, saving me that final humiliation. I knew I'd brought him for a reason.
Weebles Wobble but They Don't Fall Down
April 16, 2005
posted by GreyGuy on 16.4.05 | Permalink |
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