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[ Just so you all now, this post discusses the various awful things that can drip from faceholes. If you're squeamish, stop reading. In fact, I may henceforth only discuss dripping faceholes on this blog, so go ahead and delete the bookmark, drop my URL from your Blogroll and forget I ever existed. Furthermore, I may use the adjectival form of "pus" to describe my former condition. In print, that looks like this: "pussy." I realize that assembly of letters more often forms a different — and one would hope unrelated — word, but please understand my intentions. When I refer to my "pussy face," I'm trying to relate that my eye is oozing and not that my face resembles a vagina. Because it doesn't. ]For the past month, my left lower eyelid has been sporting a fashionable red bump. I call it my pussy problem. (Read it right, kids.) I like it. It's such a conversation starter. Co-workers don't hesitate from asking after it. "Is it a pimple?" "It looks like a stye." "Maybe something bit you." Or, as I understood them: "Why don't you wash your goddamn face?" and "What's wrong with your body that your glands don't work?" and "You associate with vermin and I therefore won't associate with you." Not content to just be a bump, however, the entity — a small demon or elf, I'm guessing — continued to morph into all manner of embarrassments. First, it scabbed over. Then it flaked. Then it leaked small globs that dried onto the ends of my eyelids. Then it made my eyes bloodshot. The last of these was particularly hurtful — not physically, but psychologically, as everybody who saw Knocked Up now thinks that one only gets pink eye from having slept on a farted-on pillow and therefore having ingested fecal matter.
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[ At this point in the story, you might wonder why I didn't seek medical help early into my ordeal. Ha. That's the kick in the shitter, let me tell you. While I happily signed onto the Independent's healthcare plan the moment I racked up enough months in order to qualify for it, I've found navigating the medical bureaucracy to be exactly as difficult as the stereotype implies. Damn it, Michael Moore, you were right. The doctor I requested as my primary physician refuses to return my calls. I won't say my healthcare plan's name, but let's say it rhymes with SchmealthNet, and I'm now not sure that the "net" mentioned in the name refers to any kind of protective network of doctors. Instead, I'd guess it's the kind of net that one uses to capture rabid dogs or crazy people and lock them in a cage so they can die in isolation. ]The morning of Independence Day — which this year was marked by a wonderful reunion of college friends, some of whom haven't set foot on State Street since graduation — I walked in to the bathroom and noticed that my upper eyelid now appeared puffy and red. "Gracious! The horrible face disease has overtaken another section of the battleground that is my face," I said to myself. Perhaps foolishly, I pressed the upper lid to see if it felt tender and inflamed. It did. However, the cause of the puffiness was not just the inflammation, but also that a reservoir of orange puss has accumulated there overnight. (At this point, the situation took on the name "the puffy pussy problem." Again, please read it correctly.) Upon the pressure from my finger, it gooshed out, besmearing my eye and horrifying me in ways I haven't known since my nosehair incident.
Panicked, I called the nearest urgent care center, explained that my eye was going to fall out and left, so pleased to have been able to see a doctor that I didn't realize my shirt was inside-out. I've been to this particular facility before — for yet another emergency that involved my head's contact with cement in a sudden and surprising fashion — and had high hopes. The pretty Russian doctor lady, however, only explained that I should probably see an ophthalmologist as soon as possible and that her help would be limited to a prescription of a simple antibiotic. On top of the fact that scoring an appointment with an eye doctor through my healthcare plan seemed about as likely as getting one with a alchemist, the antibiotic I received came with the following stipulations: "You should stay out of the sun as much as possible and avoid alcohol." Since I received this information on the morning of the Fourth of July, she might as well have told me that the medicine would cause me to instantly die if I saw fireworks.
I made the feeblest attempts at meeting my college friends — who, of course, were drinking on the beach — and as a result ended up throwing up at a restaurant. Because, you know, I didn't have enough fluid escaping my body already. The friends left town, I stayed in and sulked.
In the end, Spencer helped me get a referral for someone who could actually help me. Ironically, he prescribed an antiseptic balm. Essentially, I'm fighting goop with goop now. My eye will stay in my face, presumably seeing things and hopefully aiding me in future blogging efforts, which I'm resuming as of today.
A third and final brackets break:
[ Yes, the blog is back on. Sorry for the delay, but I needed to escape from work stress and I think I've done that now. I'm back, and I brought Brenis with me. And yes, I see in irony in restarting this thing on July 8, 2007 instead of the previous day. Rather than striking on the most numerologically auspicious in recent pop culture memory — seven-seven-seven — I chose the day after, which should be the numerological equivalent of a slot machine result of diamond-diamond-lemon. I have some semblance of a game plan and a renewed zest for polluting the web with my meandering, typo-ridden sentences. Suck it, Lady Luck. ]Oh. Um, hi. Well. That's the end. I hadn't thought of writing any more.