The bigger the Big Gulp, the harder the fall in Adjunct to 8/9/2013 flash friday; a trinity of flashs

Full disclosure; I’ve had a cold that’s been hard to shake and it’s swollen up every joint that’s ever had an injury. Physiology, not doobies. Though speaking of Doobies added to my list of reasons to want to bew in Oregon is the curiosity of how they are managing the recreational marijuana use law. I had read the bill (though email and such track location, especially on a smart phone, the www is convinced I am in Portland, giving me job resources, amazon local deals and form letters from Oregon Senators and House reps). Like the OLC (Oregon Liqour Commission) recreational marijuana is, allegedly, only available in the state run liquor stores. Like the rest of the country, the Feds don’t give a shit about state law. Makes me wonder if Oregon wants to spar with the Feds, set legal precedent.

Um, so, yeah, I’ve been sniffling and aching which leads to a TMI statement; I have a big gulp cup to pee in late at night; what it represents in gross it more than makes up for in not-falling-down-the-stairs-and-breaking-my-fool-neck. I used to sing songs to Herschel exchanging the real lyrics for Herschel lyrics. I have been doing that with peeing. Why? Despite the cavalier manner in which I’m typing, it’s not entirely comfortable to pee in a cup, social graces, habit, the misconceived notion of dignity. So I sing to my pee maker to encourage a bold and confident stream. Like Herschel, I tend to keep the playlist minimal, a lot of repetition. With dogs it’s important to keep routine; Herschel never conceived of ever making the stupid sort of mistakes my pee maker has made in one of it’s other functions, so it’s even simpler. The song most referenced in late night no-making-broken-necks is this one;

I guess there isn’t a version of Bob doing this, why? I dunno. Though that is a mystery that is less likely to keep me up nights than why on earth I’d disclose the peeing thing.

I don’t get colds very often. I blame it on the flu shot I had earlier in the year. I had avoided those for most of my life. The only two I’ve ever had were this year and last. The flu shot this year fucked with my immune system. I’d rather not whine or disclose my peeing habits, but, I’d rather not let slip the decades long habit of writing daily, and, like it or not, sometimes those have to include the banal or unorthodox or both habits of existence. My attempts at flash fiction this year have listed hard towards the silly, a punch line, forced dialogue with filligree’s, gargoyles and angels in the trim. That’s not flattering.

The whole Obamacare thing finally forced me into getting real insurance; I got lucky last year with being allowed to let a supplemental type of insurance slide. This year I have an attending who seems to distrust me and think I’m drug seeking. To bring this all to a workable head I need all my eyes dotted and tee’s crossed.

The guy on the other end of my hour on the phone was very eager and very Minnesota. You could spend two weeks in the twin cities and never hear the accent used in the Movie Fargo. This guy had that accent in spades and if I hadn’t directed the conversation that hour would have easily slipped into two. You’ve got to be more than street wise, you gotta be street legal.

Ok, I probably hate this entry, but I won’t read it. I’m a terrible prosebox friend, just saying, I’m not going to promise to be a better one, but I think I need to participate in my own little corner of the box. Like a dog or a pee maker routine helps pave the road. A road paved with good intentions (as the road to hell is purported to be, however, most roads lead back from the direction they lead to, the road doesn’t care which way the nose of your car or soul is pointed. Good intentions imply a lot of potholes; it stops being a good intentions when it becomes a good deed.)

So, shit, I’m calling this pee in a big gulp an entry.