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Post-Modern Drunk: O, I Am Fortune's Fool
Roughly about the time the guy set up the loudspeaker outside my apartment and started shouting about Jesus--I think that's the moment I started to feel specifically targeted. By what, I'm not 100% sure. The hate of fate, probably. This isn't rational, and I don't actually believe that I'm cursed, but after having the worst month of my life it's hard not to feel like you're carrying a target on your back for whatever deity passing by chooses to take a shot at you.
One of those gods shot me full of Lupus. Or maybe that was me. There is something appropriate about me suffering from an illness that essentially amounts to my immune system being so filled with rage that it's turned even on itself and is inflicting pain on those closest to it. And I suppose it's just as appropriate that my strain would be more virulent and angry that my doctor expected, leading him to continually underprescribe medication, whether it be insufficient steroids or Tylenol-3--a completely inadequate painkiller for the level of pain that I'm actually suffering from.
I guess when my doctor asked if I was generally a happy person I should have answered with "No, I'm usually pretty rage-filled," rather than, "Reasonably happy, I guess." Reasonably happy seemed accurate at the time, which is probably as clear a sign that I don't know myself as anything else.
What I wasn't expecting--after a four hour doctor's appointment, involving needles and jugs of pee and talkative racists in the waiting room--is that I'd return home to discover that my beloved iMac, less than a year old, had been struck down, perhaps by Zeus or a power surge or technical malfunction. Regardless, it doesn't work. The surge protector still works, though. And the back-up drive. And the warranty that says that pretty much every form of damage to the computer except power surges are covered.
It's been a rough month.
