I'm not good with pain.
Well, not good with pain that I didn't justly visit upon myself. For instance; my tattoos. I've got 12 of 'em. They hurt a wee bit, but since I paid for them it didn't bother me in the slightest. Same thing with my piercings. Or when I trip on something and slam chest-first into the doorjamb, which I have done on numerous occasions in our three doorjamb apartment.
But surgery pain, I have no say in. I mean, I could have said NO GET THE SCRAPER AWAY FROM ME, but then the hub-unit would have lost his everluvvin mind on a daily basis worrying that I would just up and DIE on him in a week, or worse yet get cancer and die slowly and horribly in a few years. Seriously, he was THAT nervous. How many times a DAY did I tell him, and yall for that matter, that it was a MINOR thing?
However, it doesn't FEEL minor. And better yet? It hurts worse with the monthly hoodang happening before I'm totally okay. OWOWOWOWOWOWOW. God bless Motrin. And not the skinny little crapomotrin that you buy at the store, I'm talking about the blessed ginormous 800 mg fuckers that the navy hands out like mini Snickers at every turn.
So I'm sitting here at the computer, trying to enjoy my onion bagel with salmon cream cheese (kiss me QUICK, right?) and my cup of coffee, and I am cramping so bad and my cervix is on super-retaliation mode because muscle squeezings are BAD for healing stuff, and I'm just a-waitin for the shit to kick in. And because I will have blessed non-pain, I will probably go back to bed because I have the sniffles and I woke up at 3 freaking AM all bubbles and brightness, which is slowly fading.
But first, I have some posts to post, know what I mean?
Rattled Out By Queenie
at 4:54 AM
