I was going to finish talking about my trip to the ER, but the rest of the story had no insect references, very little nudity, and an embarrassing trip to Taco Bell at 7:30 in the morning, so I’ll stop now. Besides, I’m practically intact, and blogging is hard when you are forced by your emergency room physician to make wee-wee for two days straight through a hand-held kidney-stone strainer. Carpal funnel syndrome, I believe.
Besides, there was just no way I could include the following outtakes in PART TWO without breaking from the consistency and tone and integrity of my tale.
/cue the ducks
Because as far as I know, I'm the only man I know who's held another man's penis gently in my hands as I guided him through onesies because his hands were handcuffed and he registered a .49 BAC. Well, maybe not the ONLY man, but surely the only one who mentions it two times a day.
So I've no problem with other people's illnesses, quirks, open wounds. In fact, I have to admit I am somewhat (A LOT) enamored of wounds. Scars devastate my ability to think rationally. I want to bite them. If I ever run across a vasectomy survivor, look for me to make my first appearance in Yahoo! Odd News headlines.
But when it comes to ME, I'd much prefer to HIDE my own illnesses and upset tummies. In fact, I'm very much of the wild animal approach to injury: find a nice quiet creek in the middle of the forest and lie down until the sleepy weepies take over.
BRANDON: What do YOU remember about the womb?
ALEX: Not ME! The womb remembers YOU!
No context will be provided for any of the above. In all honesty, it would likely only make things worse.
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