Irradiated Eggs Taste Like Ass, A Nasal Assault, Stupid Vocal Flaps, And Other Crap


So, irradiated eggs are atrociously nasty-tasting, in case you were wondering.  Like, seriously, HORRENDOUS.  And the stomach emptying test thingy was booooooring as hell, especially since I was trying to read a book on my Kindle app on my phone and had the awesome luck to grab a charger that didn’t work, so after a couple hours, my stupid phone started to be all “low battery! connect charger!” and I was all “I’m trying to connect the stupid charger but the damn thing isn’t working so give me a freakin’ break damn it!” and I couldn’t finish my book so I got a tad crabby about that.  But I had to sit in a waiting room for 4 hours, which is kind of a huge challenge for me (shocking, I know).  Luckily, when I kind of jokingly, but kind of not so jokingly, told the adorable little x-ray tech fella that they definitely needed comfier chairs, that little cutie-pie promptly led me to a new waiting room with way comfier chairs, so that was rather swell.  But I was super tired, since I got myself so worried about oversleeping that I ended up getting only about 30-45 minutes of sleep the night before, and I was rather displeased over the whole not being able to have anything to drink from midnight til noon except for a dixie cup of water with my nasty radiation eggs.

After my delightfully exciting morning, I had an appointment to go meet my new lung doc.  Well, he thought I might have this weird vocal flap issue and decided he wanted me to have a test thingy done to see for sure, and, lucky me, they had a cancellation so I could have the test done that very day.  Yippee!  So I was once again informed I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink until the test thingy, and they sent me down to the test place to wait, like, an hour and a half for them to do the test.  Just so you know, the test to check for dysfunctional vocal flaps SUCKS!  They squirt this nasty, slimy, snotty-looking goop up your nose, one nostril at a time, then shove giant q-tip thingies covered in the same icky snot stuff up your nose really far, which is just so comfortable and awesome and all.  Then the doctor guy comes in and shoves yet another ginormous q-tip up your nose so far that you begin to wonder if he is trying to find gold, or perhaps dig his way to Chine, via your poor nostril.  Then, they take a camera hosey thing up your nose and down your throat, while telling you to breath normally and swallow normally and all manner of other completely impossible things like that.  Then, as you are gagging and trying desperately to avoid vomiting all over yourself and everyone in your vicinity, the doc offers to let you check out your vocal flaps on the monitor–joy of joys!  Since most folks have no idea what their vocal flaps are supposed to do, seeing them do whatever they are doing means exactly jack shit to them, especially when they are distracted by the whole nasal assault thing.  So yeah, I got to see my stupid vocal flaps, which I had always heard referred to as vocal chords up until that point, when I was informed that they are actually vocal flaps, not chords.  Whatever he thought I was seeing, I totally was not seeing, since, at that point in time, I did not give a fuck what my stupid vocal flaps were doing.  Not one single fuck.  At the end of all this fun, I am informed that my whole perfume/coughing/dying thing is actually caused by my vocal flaps, not my asthma, though my asthma is still an asshole that pitches a hissy-fit over illness and allergens.  Guess I’ll find out when I do the whole speech therapist thing that’s supposed to fix this whole vocal flap crap.  My nose is still rather snarked off about the whole experience though.

Randomosity:  I really hope the meeting thing we’re having at work tomorrow (today…whatever)goes okay.  My new counselor dude officially diagnosed me with PTSD today.  On the scale thing they use, you have to get, like, 37 points to be considered afflicted with PTSD–I got 60 points.  So, if you want to look at it from a positive point of view, at least I’m not doing some pathetic half-assed attempt at having issues–go big or go home I always say.  Actually, I don’t really say that much at all, but whatever.  Am I the only one who feels sorry for the big foot dude in the Jack Links commercials?  And why are people always such dicks to him?  I totally root for him to kick their asses or eat them or something, every time.  I have a new baby cousin named Owen, and he is a very cute little baby.  And I am definitely not one of those people who thinks all babies are automatically cute.  In fact, as a general rule, babies freak me out and I actually think a lot of them are kind of weird looking.  They are cooking with cricket flour.  CRICKET FLOUR y’all!  Which apparently tastes like dirty crickets.  What the entire fucking fuck?!?  Who the hell came up with that crap?  I found some sites where I can apply for a chance to review or edit books and such for money, which would be ah-may-zing, especially if I could manage to do it enough to be able to just work from home!  Which would rule ’cause then I wouldn’t have to deal with people all face to face and such, which, as you all might have noticed, I prefer to avoid as much as humanly possible.

Toodle-loos kangaroos!


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