Tag Archives: hypochondria

Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma cha… arse off

Posted on by
Reply

On a number of occasions over recent days the notion of “karma” has been brought to my attention.

It’s OK that somebody can be hideous, or do something hideous, because the laws of karma dictate that they will get their arse bitten for their misdeeds in due course.

I have constructed a very well thought-out and philosophical argument with respect to this discussion and my viewpoint is thus: what a load of absolute bollocks.

The only way to ensure that somebody pays for their wrong doings is sweet revenge at the hands of those who have been wronged. The cleansing of the soul, that feeling of “YES, you bastard, you deserved that” can’t be put on hold while waiting for ripples of consequence to do their cosmic rounds and eventually, maybe, turn back into a tidal wave of shit that smacks the fucker in the face engulfs their entire being with all the crap they’ve poured onto others.

Revenge allows this. Standing over somebody as they cry and plea for forgiveness, as they surrender when they can’t take any more of the unholy smiting you unleash on them, as their world falls apart around them and they are left, as you were, a wreck of a person cast against the rocks in an stormy unrelenting ocean of despair from which there is no rescue. They shall pay, and the currency is SCREAMING!

Acts of vengeance are controlled, enacted and witnessed by those who have been wronged. They are certain. In one way or another, they allow closure, and maybe a stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure, but oh that sweet feeling of finally letting go of your demons would make the harshest environment seem like paradise compared to the life of hell and emotional turmoil that would otherwise be your certain destiny.

Karma? For a start, there’s no evidence for it, in fact, all evidence is contrary. Horrible things keep happening to people who’ve never done any harm, yet nothing bad happens to complete shitbags. Even if karma did exist, there’s no control over it, it might just happen… one day, when you’re probably dead anyway. And you’ll probably never get to know that the bastard has had their comeuppance. It’s a rubbish notion and I’m firmly with the Old Testament on this one: go out and get revenge.

And this is where I stop because my thoughts of revenge range from a few scratches on a car to The Life and Loves of a She Devil. Poor Bobbo.

Poor Bobbo indeed.

Rickety
After much speculation as a result of allowing my imagination to run away with a few selected Google facts, I saw my GP for my test results this morning.

He’s been reading up on my current history, he told me, as I sat down and awaited the bad news.

The bad news is that I almost died of shame at having to be prescribed vitamin D because of a severe deficiency. In 2013, in the UK. I was actually hoping that he was going to prescribe me a month in Mauritius, precisely because I live in the UK in 2013 and we haven’t had a summer for six years. I might just go to the electric beach and pretend.

In other news, I probably don’t have lung cancer, which I kind of knew anyway. I do have to go back for a second chest x-ray from a different angle… OMG! He didn’t want to break the bad news to me, did he? Maybe I DO have lung cancer and he didn’t want to be the one to tell me, certainly not at 7.30 am on a dreary Monday morning. I could tell the way he avoided eye contact with me. I’ll stop now, I need a second x-ray because the original image wasn’t good enough to prove conclusive and they have to be sure.

So my hypochondria lives to see another day, and I live on to see many many more. Enough to plot and scheme and imagine dastardly deeds. Or just a few drunk texts.

Sheila’s wheelchairs

Posted on by
1

So, here’s how things have been.

Christmas was wonderful. I ate lots of nice things, tried to dodge the permacloud for glimpses of heavenly bodies using my telescope. The moon wooed me. Jupiter evaded me.

It was lovely. Irrespective of my conscious or subconscious motivation for making the most from the festive period, I found the whole thing… super. I was quite drunk on port and sherry for a lot of it though, so I’m sure that helped somewhat.

And then came the letter.

Having been called into the GP after a second blood test showing high calcium and parathyroid hormone levels, I’d been booked in for a chest x-ray (naughty smoker, possible lung cancer) and another blood test to confirm previous findings. I’d phoned up the surgery after the blood test and was told that my results were “compatible with my condition” – whatever that was. The chest x-ray was performed the week before Christmas and I’d presumed all was ok… until the letter… the letter that said that I should book an appointment with a doctor to discuss recent tests.

I have my appointment on Monday morning and I’ve now convinced myself that I have lung cancer and that I’m going to die. Soon.

I know that I’m way off the mark, but the more I read about lung cancer symptoms in women, the more I convince myself that I’m now amongst those annual statistics of people whom everybody thinks, so what, they deserve it. And I agree.

But how have I been spending my dying days, have I been wallowing in self pity and self loathing? NO! I have come up with a splendid business idea.

I have no idea about statistics and stuff, and about how many people who are living with terminal illness who are alone, without a significant other, but I’m sure there are some poor souls who would love to spend their final months sharing that time with somebody who’s close to them. And then it came to me: what about a dating website for people who are terminally ill? It’d be great: find a close companion for those horrible months, maybe get a sympathy shag!

I shall call it Sheila’s Wheelchairs, or LoveU2Death.com. I’m not sure how well gay men would fair, but I can bet there are plenty of Chorlton-dwelling lesbians who have been turned down for cat adoption who would jump at the chance of having a trophy cancer sufferer.

All I’d want is some lovely homemaker type who’d make me nice sausage-based food, push me around in my wheelchair, offer me support, embraces, and the odd bit of sexy fun. I’d probably get a left wing vegan who just wanted to drape me in crystals and read me poetry. There’d be monthly, non-religious memorial services to mark the start of my menstrual cycle. With chanting. Lots of chanting. And no doubt “Thatcher” would get blamed for my sad, premature demise: “You know she was a student when Thatcher was in power? That’s when she started smoking!”

All of this is enough to make me want to be well.

Please let me be well.