Cookie has diverticulitis. I have had it for about ten years and average about two attacks per year, even after following every diet guideline known to God and mankind. And it is amazingly painful, as it is every time we have an attack. And as we do every time we have an attack we started ourselves on the stockpile of Cipro that Cookie's doctor makes possible. I'm scheduled to see him on Monday, so unless something really awful happens (peritonitis, etc., which I doubt) I'll just sit here wincing in pain.
It's a horrible disease. It kills your appetite, stops the peristaltic function (ask your doctor) and makes you feel icky. It even ruins your sleep cycle and gives you terribly odd dreams.
Like this one:
Last night I dreamed that the Kenwood Courier tried to bring me blankets. Who is the Kenwood Courier? It was an advertising device dreamt up by Madison Avenue. Kenwood blankets were so luxurious that they were fit for Royalty, hence the fey young man in the velvet slippers and breeches. I mean look at him. I just want to smack him.
Anyhow my Aunt Nan used to think that the Kenwood Courier was just tits. She'd see these ads and she would just think that she had died and gone to heaven that this little prince would deliver a blanket to anyone. And she'd threaten me by saying that she'd get a costume like this and outfit me in it, and it was be so adorable.
Anyway, the Courier came to me in my dreams last night and kept trying to give me a blanket. It was so disturbing that I awoke at 3am and couldn't go back to sleep.
So think of me, a MILLION things need done, and here I am in pain, haunted by the Kenwood Courier, the pussy.