Not in a vague paycheck-doesn’t-cover-all-the-fun-I-want-to-have way, not in a Bad Hair Day way, not in a my-boyfriend-dumped me way, not in a bad-sniffly-cold way, not in a I-hate-my-evil-boss kind of way…
Oh, no. My suckage is concrete and inevitable, and cannot be solved by calling my best friend, getting a payday loan, buying a new conditioner, listening to sad songs, or eating a whole pint of Ben N Jerry’s all by myself.
I found out this week that I have to have surgery. For a condition that affects only 26 out of every 100,000 people. I’m not a girl who deals with those kinds of odds very well. I keep sitting here with that whiny part of my brain screaming, “WHYYYYYYYYYY?” I’d like to be a better person, and not wish those kinds of odds on anyone in the whole world but me, but unfortunately I am not a better person.
Why can’t I be the 27th person amidst the hundred thousand? Why don’t my lotto numbers have the same luck? Why didn’t the irritating schmuck next to me in this sea of people get struck down with this, instead of me? I bet he takes twelve items to the Ten Items Or Less line at the grocery store…I bet he lies on his tax returns, and watches PBS but refuses to donate…I bet he always asks for the manager…I bet he turns his porchlight off on Halloween…I bet he doesn’t rewind…I bet he litters biodegradable items and comforts himself with the fact that they’ll decompose “someday”…I bet he requires a bag for a single item…I bet he’s a cheap tipper…I bet he tailgates…
And yet he’s fine right now, whoever he is. Mr. 27. And I’m still Miss 26.
Miss 26 has a Pilonidal Cyst.
Which has flared up twice this year, and has flared up again this week. Miss 26 has to have an operation next week which will prevent her from working, sitting, walking, or driving for, oh…anywhere from two to eight weeks. This is a surgery where they split you open right below your tailbone, excavate a lot of infected tissue, and leave it open. You have to rinse it out with saline 3 times a day, stuff gauze into it, cover it with more gauze, and somehow manage to live for a month or so without sitting. Drugged up on pain meds, in a fog, making no money, going slowly mad.
With a hole on your ass that could be inches deep and inches wide.
Yeah, I’m sucking.
Fuck, this is bullshit.