Tuesday, December 8, 2009

My Hour of Surgery

I'm sitting on a surgery table, discussing with my doctor what should be done about my arms and legs. He tells me they're perfectly fine. “This is nothing but hypochondria, Ms. Brundige.” But I insist on some kind of surgery. I tell him, “I will pay you out-of-pocket to cut my arms and legs off. Please...”

With a hefty wad of money in his pocket, my douche-bag of a doctor prepares the anesthetic and lays all necessary utensils on his tray. I lay there on the table, waiting. I feel nauseous just thinking about it, but I know I have to be practical. “I've depended too much on these limbs,” I mutter to myself, over and over. “I must find a way to live without them.”

The procedure begins all too slowly, and I catch my doctor, in my peripheral vision, puking into a trashcan. “What a wimp,” I think to myself.

“I can't...” he groans.
“Then I will,” I say.

Taking a deep breath, I press a razor-like tool into my right leg until it is bleeding unstoppably. I continue onto my left leg, embracing the pure pain of it all. My doctor runs to my side (not so disloyal after all) and yelps, “I'll do your arms...” He slices and dices my little arms, and now I am bleeding all over.

My doctor blinks in horror, “Emily...What have you done?

Flinching at my throbbing, self-inflicted wounds, I wonder the same thing.

First came the shock, then the horror. Last came the sadness, the astounding grief that weighs deep in my heart, in my empty stomach that wishes to be left alone. The individual person inside me begs for my attention. I had abandoned her so long ago...

Sealing some ghetto bandages over my wounds, my doctor offers, “Would you like to go home with a lollipop today?” He's back to his old routines.

I tell him, “No, not today, and not for a very long time.”

Sprouting creature-like crutches from within, I limp down the hall, climb into the elevator, and go home...

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Punchy under the Pancake Sun

The sun beat down on Punchy, her heavy breasts slippin' and slidin' around in her slightly undersized sports bra. She wondered if truly fit people felt nothing wiggling or bouncing around on their body as they jogged, and whether the pace at which she jogged was "normal" or humiliatingly slow.

The extreme heat of the sun was causing Punchy to sweat terribly. Sweat beads slithered down her shoulders, chest, and nose. Punchy looked straight into the sun and told it, "You're too much today."

Curious, Punchy tasted the sweat bead sliding right below her nose, above her mouth. It wasn't salty, as she had expected, but sweet.

Sweet perspiration!

Punchy looked up at the sun again, this time with one eye closed. The perfect bright circle had transformed into a short stack of buttermilk pancakes, dripping in old-fashioned maple syrup.

"Nope, can't be," thought Punchy.

She kept on jogging despite a burning desire to collapse onto any of the grassy yards she passed. If only Punchy could carry Katie around with her, in her shorts pocket, or perhaps in a fanny pack--that would be more comfortable for Katie. Katie could continue to provide Punchy with pep and discipline, both of which Punchy needed but had troubling providing herself.

Ten more minutes and Punchy's workout would be complete. She treated herself to another face-lick. This time her sweat tasted exactly like maple syrup. Her food-inspired daydreaming beckoned her to gaze up at the sun again.

Punchy was sure of it this time. The sun had indeed been replaced by a plate of giant pancakes.

Punchy extended her tongue almost automatically. The pancakes seemed so close, yet they were so completely out-of-reach.

At that moment, there was nothing Punchy wanted more than to reach out and grab those glistening, golden flapjacks, and of course...eat them.

So she did.