Ever since getting diagnosed with hemorrhoids a couple months ago, everything’s been about the poop. I worry constantly I’m not eating enough fibre, vegs, whatever it is that makes poop, good poop. Anything not to feel that I’m trying to poop a cactus through my anus (and here a joke about the planet Uranus pops in my head). I’ve even been spooning some hippy 7-seeds fibre thingy into my 11 o’clock quaker oats drink and having fun a couple hours later by trying to identify them in my poop. Yes, I am gross – by your standards at least. I guess friends will just have to reconcile themselves that I will be one of those crazy old ladies that like to talk about their bodily functions during conversations. Don’t even get me started on my flatulence.
Ok, change of subject.
My dad gave me an FM modulator thingy for Christmas last year. Basically it’s a gadget that you plug into your car’s ciggie lighter and connect to an mp3 player/thumb drive/SD card. Then whatever’s in your media of choice will be played through the car stereo. Very cool unless your car’s ciggie lighter rosak. So I duly got the thing fixed and now I
torture delight Stinky with the songs in my nano. We have a rule that whoever drives gets to pick the music (unless I am a passenger, then the rule becomes whoever is a passenger gets to pick the music). This morning one of the songs that came up was Johnny Mathis’ Chances Are. I was feeling all lovey dovey and shit when Stinky pressed the forward button and started bopping to Paris Hilton’s Stars Are Blind. Ouch.
I felt very sad reading this article about a guy with muscular dystrophy. The things we take for granted.