Seriously?

Pre-op check-in went fine. I guess. My EKG was good, and they took more blood, nose swabs, and a chest x-ray. They have a nifty red binder all about me, so hopefully I won't wake up missing a kidney instead a large, creepy mass. I will say that every healthcare professional I have dealt with since I first went to a GP to treat my depression about five weeks ago (and this whole merry-go-round started) has been really good.

Various people spent various length of time telling me various things, like I can't take a bath after Friday -- showers only. Chicken noodle soup is NOT the same thing as clear broth. They were going to try to make me drink apple juice, but relented when I insisted on cranberry.  Blah, blah, blah. Paperwork.

Finally after about 3 hours of being shuffled from one cube to another, I was released, and got on the highway to come back to town.

Anybody who wants to guess what happened next may form a polite line and raise their hand.

The clutch on the Vibe started to slip. Not on every gear, just third and fifth. And not all the time. It only did it every time I decided it wasn't going to do it again and was just an aberration. (If you would care to read more of my adventures with the Vibe, see this post  --

http://spectralobelisk.blogspot.com/2011/01/bad-vibrations.html#links
Some have said it's one of my finest rants.)

I was near a panic attack when I pulled into the Sonic to get a drink. I might have freaked the girl who bought the tray out just a little, because by the time the order was up, I was really crying.

Because, seriously, that's exactly what I need at this exact moment. I really, really need the car to break down, necessitating a costly repair that I REALLY can't afford since A) I just had to find a small fortune to pay my medical bills, and B)  I'm supposed to be taking a week or two off work after surgery.  (And the bad thing about being your own boss is that there is no one to pay you when you don't work....)

So, seriously, whoever is in charge of handing out catastrophes, FUCK YOU.  I'm going to find where you live, and when I do, I will not be playing anymore.  I. WILL. NOT. BE. PLAYING.

I'm calmer now, and I suppose I will deal with this when I have to, just like I've dealt with all the other bullshit that has been shoveled my way this summer.  Because I'm not stopping now. Nope. Although I don't promise I won't come out of surgery, put on a serape and start roaming the countryside seeking vengeance like The Man With No Name. Or put on a track suit and some Tiger tennies, and grab a samurai sword.  No, I don't promise that at all.

And with those pleasant thoughts, I will leave you with a one of my favorite movie clips of all time. (Coincidentally from the director who brought you the awesome Guardians of the Galaxy). As it usually does, this pretty much sums up my innermost thoughts and feelings. Enjoy.