The psychology of of Illness, Part II

Some of my Constant Readers may have guessed that I am afflicted by a chronic disease. Too many cigarettes, too much bourbon. There is a price to be paid. All that marijuana and LSD may have figured into the equation, too. There is little I didn't do in search of "enlightenment".

I don't do that any longer. I don't know a dependable pot dealer who isn't a "criminal'; I don't want to to hang out with crooked-types, i. e. better people than Snoop Dog. I go without, and depend upon a prescription for Marinol™. I'd rather have a pot purveyor. Constant readers who have cancer have some idea of the conflict that ensues. I can't--and won't obtain illegal drugs. I do not think that marijuana should not be an illegal drug. Society gangs up against me. Abusers of the medical marijuana system ruin it for us who need it.

lllegal or not, pot has a valid application as an anti-nauseant and appetite stimulant. Others think that getting "high" is a worse form of behavior than being sick to death with some form of cancerous affliction.

Facing various forms of surgery, I will never be offered the marijuana alternative. Instead, they will first try Demerol, which is a hallucenogenic death sentence to my allergic self. Then, they will dose me with morphine. (That stuff is cool, never had withdrawal symptoms, and it beats hell out of an aspirin.) I have the major and minor forms of cutting coming up; but I'll be fine if they don't croak me outright.

I will not go quietly. Never wanted to, never will. Surgeons wield knives, I perk up and listen.

I have two daughters who have never seen the knife. I get it twice within a week.

I will be back, with more personal political commentary. Blogs are personal commentaries on their best days; my frequency of publication is now dictated by my health. To paraphrase Rock Hudson: "If I'd known I would have lived this long, I would have taken better care of myself."