353: threshold of revelation

This is an excerpt of a post on my other blog. You can find the other post here.

*something to accompany an evening of furtive groping on your futon*

Imagination, ‘Body Talk’
Massive Attack & Madonna, ‘I Want You’
big Sir, ‘Everybody Here Wants You’
Sophie B. Hawkins, ‘Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover’ (a early 90s classic)
Har Mar Superstar, ‘Love Jam No. 1’
Earth Wind & Fire, ‘Would You Mind’
Sondre Lerche, ‘Love You’
R. Kelly, ‘Step In The Name Of Love’
The Rolling Stones, ‘Wild Horses’
The Beatles, ‘Savoy Truffle’
George Michael, ‘Father Figure’
The Faces, ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’
side 2 of ‘Led Zeppelin IV’
Joy Division, ‘New Dawn Fades’
Buzzcocks, ‘Love You More’
Prince, ‘Adore’

I know you probably won’t believe me. “Joy Division?” you ask. “But didn’t the lead singer dude kill himself? That’s not hot at all.” Fine. Whatever. But listen to the beat, man. Put it on shuffle. If you’re still not convinced, take the ‘Jasmine booty mix’ challenge. Send me your address and I will send you a CD so you can experience its power in the comfort of your very own home with someone you like or possibly even love. I would try it out myself, but I’ve not been feeling very, well, *very* lately. Maybe it’s the anti-depressant, but I’m not feeling especially spicy. If I were KFC, I’d be Original Recipe. I’m a dish of plain buttered noodles. A rice cake. All items I should be eating regularly, with the exception of the KFC, of course.

How do I know this? Well, I met with a dietician last week. A referral thanks to Dr. P. Another day, another visit to the hospital, though this time I am in an office suite near the Allerton (‘Tip-Top-Tap’). I am weighed — ooh, 5 pounds less than three weeks before. My height is measured and I am disappointed to learn that I am just a touch taller than 5’5″. And I thought all this time that I was 5’6″. I slink into Michelle the dietician’s office and we go over pieces of the questionnaire I filled out.

It didn’t take as long as I thought it would, but we spent a lot of time talking about the psych bit of the questionnaire. In all the visits I’ve been paying to doctors and clinics, to labs and exam rooms, I had never been asked about things like whether or not I’d been molested, abused, or been the victim of a sexual assault. At least, not until I had to fill out this questionnaire for somebody who I expected would just tell me to eat more vegetables and less sugar. All she had to give me was a plan to follow, something to do, show me the new FDA-approved food triangles. I hadn’t expected to disclose more than my blood pressure, my family history of cancer and diabetes and hypertension, and my father’s heart attack two summers ago.

It was a lot of shit to talk about. A lot of memories to invoke and reexamine, to question and qualify. And I even wondered why I wasn’t more fucked up than I deserved to be. But it was all good. Don’t be sad. Don’t worry too much. I kept my chin up the next day, when I met with Dr. P and we talked about scheduling my MRI. The liver ultrasound didn’t get anything conclusive, so at some point in the near future I will have to lie in a big white magnetic cube for 30 minutes and do absolutely nothing. Can’t read, can’t eat, can’t move. I wonder if I can sleep?

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~ by Jasmine on May 16, 2005.

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