Went to the local doc-in-the-box about the weird spot on my leg. Bought a $17 bottle of some kind of disinfectant or cleaner for wounds, going to basically drain it myself. I told the doctor that I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but was this going to cost me an arm and a leg? He seemed nice. I was worried that he was going to look at my leg and go “Oh-oh.” which he didn’t do.

The nurse didn’t like my blood pressure, which worried me. I need to lose a lot of weight. Maybe leaving this fucking house once in a while would be good…

Anyway. That was good news. Do some self-surgery later on. I feel relieved that it wasn’t some dread disease, you know, meaning that my number was up. Getting old means that I’m getting closer to the same ending that everyone else’s story has. I’m not done quite yet. Need to get the kids functioning.


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