No clue what to write.
I guess I’ll write my plan for the day.
The doctor first. There I’ll face my embarrassment in front of the nurses and my PCP. Why I scheduled the visit. Okay, Todd, it says here–looks at clipboard or computer screen–says here you are depressed and have dark thoughts and dangerous tics, especially while driving.
Yes.
A waterfall of shame falls red from my forehead.
This is where I’ll want him to say, well, it’s clear that once we fix your left leg’s IT band you’ll be good in the head. What do you say we find you a physical therapist?
Instead, there will be bloodwork. He and his team will be bloodhounds set loose on me with a corrupted scent. Because, when pressed, I’ll be too ashamed to admit today the depth of my despair, to admit I’ve lost control over my voices again, that I’m afraid I’ll die stuck at the edge of a table, trying to graze its edge exactly the same way on my forefinger’s first knuckle as on my middle finger’s first knuckle, same pressure, same duration, same thoughts in my head per duration of graze, and without grunting if at all possible, but each adjustment requires a grunt, it’s the reset, the enter after a paragraph, the space after a line.
My PCP will not know all this. Instead, he’ll know that I’m depressed sometimes. That I fear my car. That I eat too much ice cream and that I won’t get my blood drawn this weekend.
Bloodhounds with a lost scent. They’ll give up the trail, bark nonsense in the dark wood.
Next, I’ll hit up my optometrist for my new glasses. I dreamt about them last night. They had smart tentacles like an octopus and they swallowed my face.
I can’t really call my optometrist my optometrist. In reality, I’ll probably never see her again, which is a shame.
Speaking of octopuses, I should also hit up a jewelry store to find a necklace chain to match the octopus pendant I ordered for my fiancee’s first year sober. A celebration of the day she didn’t die. I ordered the octopus online and while the pendant is cool, the necklace looks like it belongs on a six-year-old.
Finally, I’ll swing by a hardware store to pick up a sanding block. I’m painting my house this summer and the windows need sanding and priming. The sun did them some real damage. It does me real damage, too.
todd of tacoma 