RevSpork

I didn't abandon the pro-life movement; the pro-life movement abandoned me

I've been on the moderate side of pro-life for a good twenty years.  My reasons are not religiously motivated.  I hold a high regard for life, and as such have never been fond of abortions.  I've worried that, with unfettered access to abortions, the procedure would become routine to the point where the choice would become as mundane as plucking one's eyebrows.  If choosing to end a life before birth became a cheap decision, perhaps a life after its birth will become equally as cheap. 

I find it horribly ironic - and very distressing - that many of those who most profess to protect the fetus care considerably less for it once it is born.  My pro-life beliefs do not suffer because of this; Some pro-lifers are simply assholes.  There are some who believe that life begins at the moment of conception or fertilization.  My pro-life beliefs do not suffer from this, either; most pro-lifers themselves do not believe that hash. And many pro-lifers with more than an IQ of six are well aware that birth control, much of which would be banned under personhood laws, is one of the most effective ways to lower the number of abortions. These "personhood" amendments have failed miserably in Colorado and Mississippi, and I presume they will continue to do so. 

The latest arrow in the pro-life quiver, however, chills me to the bone.  In Virginia, the House of Delgates and the State Senate have passed a bill that would require women seeking abortion to undergo a transvaginal ultrasound, so they presumably can see the fetus. Transvaginal ultrasounds were specifically chosen because typical ultrasounds, applied outside of the body, can't get a clear image of a fetus early in gestation.  To require a transvaginal ultrasound pretty much guarantees that an image will be there for doctor and woman to see.

Having witnessed a transvaginal ultrasound, allow me to explain something to you folks out there. We're not talking about a miniature flashlight here:

Here's an idea how long it is:

While this is undoubtedly a miracle of technology for those happy couples able to see their offspring for the very first time, its use to others is far more sinister, nothing less than emotional abuse.

While subbing at a high school today, I looked out at the students around me.  The room had about twenty high school girls at one point.  I thought about them - according to the statstics, about one in five would be sexually assaulted in their lifetimes.  Assuming these random four would be of childbearing age when this horror occurred, it was quite possible that one or more of those victims could be impregnated by their attacker.  If the Virginia bill were the law of the land here, and they wanted an abortion, they would be literally forced to take this probe into their bodies, with a doctor or sonogram technician - legally forced under the threat of prosecution - to do this to them, in order to emotionally beat them down even more than they already were. 

I oppose abortion, but every moral nerve in my body screams in anger against this outrage.  This bill in its current form would, if enacted, effectively legalize a form of sexual coercion - that is, rape.  Think I'm exaggerating?  Here's the World Health Organization's definition of rape:

"...physically forced or otherwise coerced penetration – even if slight – of the vulva or anus, using a penis, other body parts or an object."

In case you think the United Nations is trying to control us all with black helicopters or probes, here's our own State Department's definition of rape:

“The penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part or object, or oral penetration by a sex organ of another person, without the consent of the victim.”

Sure, you say, the pregnant woman is consenting to this procedure, in exchange for the abortion she wants.  Perhaps, but if she is doing so under the threat of prosecution, is that not coercion? 

When a member of the Virginia House of Delegates introduced a bill that would require the woman's consent to the transvaginal procedure, it was soundly voted down.  This law will most likely pass before the month is up.

Pro-lifers in support of this have crossed the line of decency.  This is state-sponsored barbarism, plain and simple.   Pro-lifers have lost the moral compass, trading in the protection of life for the blind pursuit of power over women.  (Isn't rape, after all, a crime  of dominance and power?)  Their attacks on contraception (including Rick Santorum's repeated suggestions that states should have the right to ban birth control) betray many pro-lifers' true purpose, and it has little to nothing to do with the unborn.

This is my message, as a pro-lifer, to those who support the Virginia legislation, as well as pending legislation in Texas and other states: you are disgusting.  You lack morals.  And you lack souls.

On being in pain

Pain is a healthy thing, it is said.  It's the best method possible to inform you that something is wrong with your body.  Such an unpleasant sensation is helpful because it's hard to ignore.  Imagine your body informing you of a problem by, say, making everything smell like cabbage, or making your voice sound like Nathan Lane.  You could ignore it for a time.  Or, more soberly, imagine not having the ability to sense pain at all.  You could literally fall apart and not be aware of it until it was too late to get help. 

As much as we hate it, pain is a good thing.  However, sometimes our body sends us pain messages, and there's not a damned thing we can do to fix or even diagnose the problem.  Ever dealt with a constant "low on fuel" light in your car, but several miles from the nearest gas station, or faced with more immediate problems?  Those feelings of frustration and helplessness in being unable to fix a simple problem are multiplied a thousandfold when coping with unending pain.

My pain problem actually began nearly three years ago, when I couldn't shake a constant abdominal pain.  After explaining my symptoms to a doctor, she had a cab drive me to the emergency room with what seemed to be a mild case of pancreatitis.  Pancreatitis in itself can be pretty scary; some folks have to be hospitalized for weeks, living on liquids and strong painkillers because the inflammation is so painful.  I was tested and scanned and given morphine and the doctors ultimately diagnosed gastritis, which can also be pretty painful but sounds like something easily fixed by adding Beano to everything you eat. I was out the door by the end of the day, laden with pain pills.

Everything was hunky-dory for the next couple of years.  I went about my daily life; I suffered only the mildest of intermittent abdominal aches, nothing that couldn't be solved with a couple of Advils.  By October of last year, however, the pains returned and became constant.  No painkillers seemed to shake it.  Back to the ER I went.  This time I was hospitalized for four days, and for most of that time I was not allowed to eat or drink anything, not even water.  Again, the doctors initially presumed pancreatitis, and this time they were able to confirm it. 

There was a problem, however.  Most folks with pancreatitis are either alcoholics or suffer from gallstones.  I fit in neither category.  In the meantime, my abdominal pain, unlike years before, never really went away.  More gastrointestinal specialists were welcomed into my pancreas and, after a second MRI and an endoscopy, they were able to nail the problem: a congenital defect of the main pancreatic duct. 

While you sit there scratching your collective heads, let me remind you what a pancreas does: a lot of different stuff.  One of its most critical functions, however, is delivering enzymes to your digestive system that convert carbohydrates (say, pasta or beer) into something your body can use as energy.  The pancreatic duct is the delivery system and mine is screwed up.  I was apparently able to get away with this (most with this defect suffer no problems whatsoever) for a few decades, but as my body had been pain-free for a while, it apparently got bored and decided to surprise me with a gut punch.  Literally. 

Next Tuesday I see my GI specialist.  I already know what he will recommend: surgery.  There's no other way of fixing the problem. (Trust me: I checked the Interwebs.) And as I've never needed surgery in my life (I still have my tonsils, wisdom teeth, and appendix), I'm 100 percent freaked out about it.  In the meantime, I still have this pain, and it never really goes away. 

The worst thing about it is I can't even complain about it very much.  On the pain scale, it's about a one, sometimes a two or three.  It's far more aggravating than crippling.  That's not the same pain my mother can describe; her back pain has reached a level where her sister is occasionally woken up at night by my mother's screams.  Had this pain occurred a couple years ago, off she'd go to a specialist, but she was laid off from her job (ironically enough, at a medical clinic) over a year ago and, like most unemployed folks in their fifties, can't get her resume looked at by anybody.  So she's driving through her days, the low-on-fuel light constantly blinking, and she can't ignore it, the light so glaring it even wakes up her sister with its blinding luminescence. She's seeing a doctor about it anyway, and hopefully her pain can be fixed as mine will hopefully be. 

It's useful, pain is.  Given my druthers, I'd like the Nathan Lane option every once in a while.  And I'm sure my mother wouldn't mind it either.

The Unknown

10 August 2011

Dear ???,

Where are you?  What the hell is going on?

It’s strange to be angry at one’s child when said child is the size of a lentil.  But I am.  Tori’s morning sickness suddenly stopped yesterday, and she reports other, more intimate physical problems that you don’t need to know about. 

For crying out loud, we’re only starting to set up a life for you.  We’re down to fewer than a hundred names.  We’re going to Target this weekend to buy some diapers that are on sale.  I haven’t even had the opportunity to love you. 

I know we can’t afford you.  I know the timing isn’t quite right, that I’m still in graduate school.  But we’re willing to give it a try.  So get back to making your mother nauseous, making me a nervous wreck, and just be. 

Rich.

12 August 2011

Dear Potential Blighted Ovum,

Blighted ovum: A blighted ovum (also known as “anembryonic pregnancy”) happens when a fertilized egg attaches itself to the uterine wall, but the embryo does not develop. Cells develop to form the pregnancy sac, but not the embryo itself.

So much for buying diapers.  After a sonogram this afternoon (for which I missed the opportunity to see my congresswoman), found very little, it’s quite possible that you don’t exist.  There’s a sac in Tori’s uterus, but not much else.

Since the results were inconclusive, we have to wait another week before we need to return to the hospital and visit the OB, and Tori’s feet go back into the stirrups for what seems to be the umpteenth time in the last two weeks. 

So that’s what we have: I’m writing to an empty audience.  Given the typical response to my blog, this is not unknown to me, but I was hoping for something more.

Regards,

Rich.

15 August 2011

Dear Probable Blighted Ovum,

Please stop hurting my wife.  It’s bad enough that you’re an empty vessel – it’s even worse you’re putting my wife through so much discomfort.  Please let her go so we can move on.  Please.

Rich.

The Embryo

3 August 2011

Dear Embryo,

Congratulations, you’ve been promoted.  My wife and I were at her doctor’s office, and it’s official: you are.  My wife is your mother, and I’m the dad. 

Words cannot describe how hard it is to wrap the concept of you around my head, and now that you’re a reality, it’s even more difficult.  On the way back from the doctor, your mother and I discussed your needs: diapers, formula, where you’re going to sleep, etc.  We decided to start stockpiling diapers now and put them in our storage unit in the basement.  It sounds crazy, but new parents are crazy.  They don’t have a choice, trust me. 

A few days back, I printed out a list of the top 500 baby names for this year.  Since then, your mother and I have trimmed the list from 1000 names (500 boys, 500 girls) to about 150.  Some of the names on the original list were nice, some weren’t, and some were indications that we live in a semi-literate society.  We won’t have a name ready for you until you’re born, but we’ll have whittled it down to a half-dozen or so by then. 

Yesterday I was on campus for my class.  I’m studying to become a librarian, but I can go more into that later.  Before class started, I walked into the campus chapel and prayed.  It’s not normally my thing – I’m an agnostic, while your mother is an atheist – but I felt a need.  When one prays, they usually pray to God (God is *huge* around here), but I was really talking to my dad and my grandfathers.  I had but one request: if I failed in everything else in life, I want to be a good father.  It’s not something bred in my genetics – fatherhood in my family is a mixed bag at best – but if they can offer anything from where they are, that’s what I want from them.  And that’s what I want to give to you.

A storm is coming in.  I should close the windows. 

Regards,

Rich.

5 August 2011

Dear Embryo,

I’m playing a little ukulele this evening.  I can’t play instruments to save my life, but it’s fun just to noodle around tunelessly until a tune finds you and sticks to your head.  If that sounds confusing, I’ll understand.  Even adults don’t get me on occasion. 

I hope, really hope, you don’t have ADHD.  In case you don’t know (and the odds are good you don’t), it’s a disorder that retards your mental focus.  It’s very difficult to concentrate, and your brain basically shoots out random thoughts that are only vaguely connected at best.  I don’t want you to have to go through that crap.  I mean, there are worse things in the world than suffering from hyperactivity, but it makes life tough nonetheless.

If all goes well, next week you’ll officially be a fetus.  Promotions come easily and quickly in this stage of life.  Enjoy it while you can.

Regards,

Rich.

7 August 2011

Dear Embryo,

Your mother informed me this morning that you will not officially be a fetus until your eleventh week.  My apologies if you are disappointed.  Get used to disappointment; it happens to all of us now and again, and you cannot let it get to you. 

My first real bit of advice to you is the following: never succumb to bitterness.  I’ve seen friends, relatives, strangers afflicted with bitterness.  Their faces age rapidly, they seem to wear a permanent scowl, and they look dead inside, as if they shat out their souls.  (Pardon my use of a swear word; I will do my best to avoid swearing in front of you, and I will ask of you the same thing.

Your mother and I are getting more and more used to the reality of you, and although we’re still more bewildered than excited about your pending arrival, that will change.  In a few weeks we will see a special doctor, known as an obstetrician.  They’re basically doctors who help out pregnant women like your mother.  During our visit, we may have an opportunity to see you for the first time.  (Given, you won’t see us – it’s dark where you are, and your eyes will not have fully developed yet anyway.)  We might even have a pretty good idea if you’re a boy or a girl.  What’s the difference, you ask?  You don’t want to know right now.  I’m sure you’re already busy with growing and stuff.  Trust me: I’ll tell you all about it once you’re born.

Warm regards,

Rich.

The Concept

28 July 2011

Dear Concept,

You don’t know me.  Yet.  You might, but then again, you probably don’t.  You are, after all, currently a concept.  You, as a concept, were born when Tori, my wife, peed on a stick and was told our future.  This is the second stick she’s peed on in the last three days, and it looks like you may be more than a concept.  Since we need to confirm you first, however, you are still a concept.  Give us a few days and we’ll give you an update as to your status.

You’re not alone – there are gazillions of concepts out there.  There are more concepts than stars in the universe.  You just happen to be a concept that scares the shit out of me.  And I don’t exaggerate; I don’t mean “Eek! A concept!”  I mean more like “Oh, shit!  There’s shit all over the place!”  That’s how scared you make me. 

I have very little else to say at this point, except I honestly don’t know what to think.  You’re in a weird little world in my brain right now – there, but not quite there.  I know I don’t love you, but only because I don’t know what to love.  Maybe that will change.  We shall see. 

I do wish you good luck in your travels.  You may yet get to meet me, and I you.  And that might be a nice thing.

Regards,

Rich.

30 July 2011

Dear Concept,

My wife peed on another stick yesterday.  Positive again.  You are still a concept, but you are beginning to solidify as something a bit more.   In three more days I think we’ll know for sure, and by then you’ll no longer be a concept; you’ll be a living fetus. 

Given, it’s only been five weeks; you’re about the size of a sesame seed.  But I get this nagging feeling that, even if the tests on Tuesday turn out to be negative, you’ll still exist as a concept.  I’m not sure how to think about that.

I went out tonight to watch roller derby.  It’s one of my favorite sports.  It was a fun time; the local teams both won their games.  If you evolve from a concept to a person, I definitely want you to fall in love with roller derby like I have.  Especially if you’re a girl.  If you’re a girl, I want a kick-ass daughter.  And roller derby is kick-ass.

As you will probably figure out, I’m not much of a grown-up.  I’m a 40-year old teenager.  I’ve never been good at being a grown-up, and I hoped I would not have to be tested on that category.  I am capable of making grown-up decisions, but it’s not a skill that comes naturally to me.  If you can, wish me luck.

Regards,

Rich.

Burning Questions: Pro-choice utopia edition

The year is 2035.  Roe v. Wade is the unquestioned law of the land.  Pregnant women can abort their fetus in any state, for any (or no) reason, paid for by their health care provider.  Abortion opponents have been reduced to a quiet, rapidly-shrinking group of ranters as the practice is socially accepted all over the nation.  However, within this pro-choice utopia, five news items pop up on Americans' personal information modules:

Making a spectacle of my eyes

I was cleaning out my spam folder in Gmail sometime last week when I saw a very odd spam header.  I blinked a couple times, and realized one of three possibilities:

1. my eyesight was declining.
2. I needed better spam filters.
3. my penis had just won a million euros.

This is bad news.  I've always had great eyesight.  My visual acuity when I was a kid was somewhere in the neighborhood of 20/10.  Even in my twenties, I had at worst 20/15 vision.  My vision was so good, I could read a closed book.   

No more.  I find myself squinting more and more at my iPod, the television, and other objects I could previous read from five miles away.  If I want to read what's on a woman's T-shirt, I have to stop and focus on her chest until she maces me.  (Yes, I've asked them to come closer, or suggested a larger, sans serif font for their T-shirt blurbs.  This only leads to additional macings.)  To prevent tragedies such as this, I need to see an eye doctor.

I'm not ready for this yet.  It's not that I think glasses are nerdy; my wife wears them, and she's pretty hot in her specs.  For me, glasses don't make me feel nerdy: they make me feel old.  And dammit, I'm not ready to be old.  (My body seems ready and willing to be old, but it shouldn't get a vote.)

I have six more weeks before I start grad school.  I should schedule an eye appointment ASAP.  My wife has been demanding this for a couple of years, but I beg off, explaining I'm busy, or my eyesight is just fine, or I can't read the numbers on the phone.  I can't hold off forever.  Pretty soon she'll put her foot down and demand I call the eye doctor.  That's okay; my hearing is going, so I won't know what's she's telling me anyway.

The good ol' days vs. today #1 - dentists

[Note: Sorry about the lack of new material lately.  I had the week off last week, but the office is not air-conditioned, and I tried to avoid working in there when I could.  Moreover, Tori and I have been busy cleaning the apartment in preparation for our cousin's visit this weekend.  I have not abandoned you, I promise.]

The good ol' days.  Aren't things crappy nowadays compared to when we were younguns?  The older we get, the more we kvetch about today and rhapsodize about the past.  However, famous Long Island bald guy Billy Joel once opined that the good 'ol days weren't always good.  So who's right?  Answer: it depends.  Our first topic is: Dentists

NOW RATING: 9 (much better today than long ago)
REASON: Much less painful

I've searched in vain for medical evidence to back this up.  After all, most of the technology that made trips to the dental clinic less excruciating was developed long before I came along: novacaine, crowns, fluoridation, fully-reclining dental chairs.  When you get down to it, however, the biggest improvement dentistry has made over the last thirty-odd years is attitude and technology designed to make an uncomfortable experience less so.

I was a typical kid, dental-wise.  I had my share of cavities, but I didn't require major-league dental work.  Trips to the dentist were likewise fairly typical.  Most of the time I'd walk out of the office with a clean bill of health and a cheap plastic prize from the treasure chest, but occasionally I'd have a cavity.

Kids have an interesting relationship with their teeth.  Losing a baby tooth back then was - let's face it - pretty damned cool.  If one of my teeth started coming loose today, I'd freak out and make a dental appointment pronto.  But when I was six years old, a loose tooth was an amazing feeling.  I lost my first baby tooth in a typical Italian-American manner: I bit down on a stick of pepperoni, and although I didn't part ways with that tooth immediately, it was obvious we would not be together for long. 

I'd first test a loose tooth with a finger, and after that I could not leave it alone.  My tongue worked overtime with my loose tooth, stroking it, pushing it, loosening it some more, until one of the roots gave up the ghost, leaving me with a dangling tooth.  That was even cooler, because I could move that sucker almost anywhere in my mouth, hearing that tiny sound of it hitting a more solid tooth.  Then it was time to either gently twist the tooth out myself or find my mom, who would grab a Kleenex or a few squares of toilet paper, give my tooth a couple tugs, and present me with my prize: a baby tooth with a dab of blood on it. 

There was, of course, a second, even better gift: a gap in my mouth.  That was the only time in my childhood I could lose body parts with both minimal pain and enthusiastic parental support.  For weeks and months afterward, I'd constantly inspect my mouth gap with my index finger or tongue until, one day, I'd feel that hard, tiny bump that was to be my latest grownup tooth. 

Unlike the baby teeth, you really had to take care of your new grownup teeth, but candy and soda tasted a hell of a lot better than toothpaste.  Getting a cavity filled when I was a kid was a lot less unpleasant than what my parents experienced, but it was still no fun.  I suspect dentists back then wanted to punish us kids for having a cavity, so they'd scrimp on the painkillers so we would have more incentive to brush our teeth three times a day.  Sure, we were exposed to educational material in first grade, featuring various cartoon characters thwarting the forces of Evil Plaque with a giant toothbrush, but pain was a far more effective deterent to poor dental hygiene than any cartoon. 

Nowadays, dentists seem to care a lot more about their patients' comfort.  The dentists I've had in the last few years ask about my comfort more often, and they're more patient with me if I need to halt a cleaning for a second.  Their tools are smaller as well, and the dental assistant suctions out my saliva instead of my having to spit every minute or so. 

I had a cavity filled yesterday, and the only pain I suffered in the dental clinic was the first prick of the novacaine.  Did I suffer discomfort?  Hell, yeah.  Who's comfortable lying in a chair, their feet higher up than their head, their mouths wide open, head cocked in unnatural directions, with a dentist and an assistant probing, poking, sticking, shoving tools that make horrible noises into your mouth?  The discomfort I suffered was despite my dentist's best efforts, not because of them. 

Sure, you say: I only had a cavity filled.  I'm sure a root canal, for example, would be a completely different story.  Although I never needed a root canal, and I'm sure they can get pretty painful, I'd bet getting one in 2010 is a picnic compared to getting one forty years ago.  And maybe I have had the good fortune to find an excellent dental clinic, and that there are plenty of terrible dentists out there, yanking teeth with pliers.  I believe, however, that overall dentists are much better now than they were when I was a kid, even if my clinic doesn't have a treasure chest.   WHERE THE HELL IS MY CHEAP PLASTIC PRIZE FOR A CAVITY-FREE MOUTH, HUH? 

The nasal waterfall

Who likes being sick?  Nobody.  Not even you, you sick puppy, like being sick for long periods of time.  It's not fun. 

I'm recovering somewhat from my blitzkrieg cold virus.  It was insane: as recently as 3pm Wednesday, I was perfectly fine.  I took a short nap between jobs, and I woke up with a little congestion in my throat. 24 hours later, I managed to call out sick despite my inability to 1) talk and 2) whisper, my throat was so sore.  My sinuses quickly followed, and by Friday I was so ill, I actually asked my wife (who originally had the day off because she wanted to clean up the apartment for that night's cocktail party, which I cancelled) to buy me a neti pot. 

Neti pots are the latest ancient Asian medical fad that Americans have embraced.  It's basically a nasal enema: you pour salty lukewarm water into one nostril and allow it to pour out the other.  It's said to clear out congestion in your nose and ease sinus-related headaches.  Many people, including friends of mine, praise it to the skies.  I personally recommend it if you would like to drown in the ancient Asian manner.  No matter how cleanly you pour the salt water into your nose (and doesn't that sound fantastic?), it's hard to fend off the drowning feeling.  And oh!  By the way, if your sinus cavities are raw and red from repeated nose-blowing, the salt water/baking soda mixture that comes with the CVS neti pot kit hurts like a motherfucker.   And finally, even if the whole process goes off without a hitch, the process itself makes you look...well...

 

Sure, yogis have employed the practice for centuries.  Sure, it may be a healthy alternative to sinus sprays.  But there's a very good reason why there are very few hits when you type "neti pot fetish" on google.  Neti pot irrigation may be the ugliest damned thing you can do with your body.  The only thing less sexy than shoving the end of a plastic magic lamp up your nose and pouring water through it is the moment after you've finished, when you exhale the remaining water and other nasal contents.  I warn you, do not look in the mirror.

As noted above, many people with sinus problems and allergies swear by the neti pot.  And it does clear things out, if only temporarily.  Even when you figure out how to use the neti pot without choking to death, however, it is an uncomfortable experience.  And whatever you do, please don't post it to YouTube.

What is it...amnesia, apathy, that thing where you're wide awake...

Another Saturday night, and I'm so tired but wide awake.  Ever get that, when your body is exhausted, but your brain isn't?  Problem is, now that I'm pushing forty, my brain is just as active, but it forgets things at twice the speed.  I can't figure out why I can't sleep anymore.

Aphasia?  Nah.  Armageddon?  Nope.  Damn.

The older I get, the more wisdom I collect.  However, brains are not infinite storage units, so that gathering of wisdom comes at a cost.  Something's gotta go, and it's sure not going to be commercials from the 1970s, or ancient football scores, or the chorus to Samantha Fox's "Touch Me."  No, my brain needs that crap.  So I have to lose vocabulary words I've known for decades, words that come in handy when I'm lying awake in bed... is that... asthma?  Antihistamine?  Dammit! 

I could google the condition and find the word, but that's admitting defeat.  And that scares me: will I have to google simple words in order to function in everyday life?  Looking for words like that word for when you can't achieve unconsciousness (armadillo?) is just another sign that old age is beckoning, joining such horrific symptoms as finding gray hairs in your nose, looking into toupees, and listening to "smooth jazz" radio stations.  

It's 2:15am now.  I'm so damned tired.  I wish I could shake off this alimony, or Arizona, or whatever the hell I have, and get some frigging shut-eye.. 

Part of the problem is diet, I know that.  I ate a 1/2 pound mushroom cheeseburger at Hamburger Mary's early this afternoon (although I did have a side salad instead of fries), and I passed out for the afternoon as soon as I got home.  So should I be surprised when I suffer from anti-snoozia?  Of course not.  Heavy lunches do me no favors.  Nor does eating a Skinny Cow Strawberry Shortcake Ice Cream Sandwich.  Hey, it's low-fat!  No problem, right?  Feh.  It's low in fat, but it's not low-sugar.  Why on earth do we eat desserts at night?  We should pack on the sugar before dinner, then eat heavy foods.

Screw this, I'm taking a sleeping pill.  That should knock me out in a half-hour or so, curing me of my insanity, or anthrax, or...THAT'S IT!  Insomnia!  Ha ha!  Always there, on the tip of my tongue! 

Now that that's out of the way, maybe I can go to bed and get some...some...simile?  No, um...Samantha?  Touch me, touch me, I wanna feel your body...ah, fuck!