I went to the doctor because my penis (that’s right I said penis. Penis, penis, penis. Grow up!) hurt. The good news is I don’t have syphilis.
Upon returning I walked into the house and was met by my mother. And she got all nosy like mother’s do. Get this: she asked me, ‘How are you?’ Geez, what’s with the 9th degree, Ma? What’s next?Are you going to ask me if my penis hurts?
Anyway, this is how it went:
Mom: How are you?
And I wasn’t joking. The Doctor found ketones in my pee. This is how it went:
Me: Ketones!? So Tom Cruise isn’t full of crap!
Doctor: You’re thinking of ‘thetans,’ and yes Tom Cruise is full of crap. Have you seen ‘Top Gun,’ that movie’s lame by any standard. Even hipsters watching for a smug sake of irony cringe.
Me: So I won’t have to go to Venus for re-implantation?
Doctor: Ehh… no.
After the ketone discovery the doctor took my blood and found a lot of sugar in it. (Here I was thinking about making a ‘because I’m so sweet’ joke, but I’m going to need a couple more weeks to craft it.)
That’s right dear reader (I’m hoping to make that ‘readers’ plural any day now, so please tell your friends about my blog, Garrett), I am diabetic. And not fat, old guy diabetic; but nerdy kid at the slumber party diabetic. I feel like I’m too old to be diagnosed with Type I Diabetes, but then I’m also too old to be living with my parents, which leads me to another parallel: Neither me, nor my pancreas work.
So I get to shoot-up every day. Shoot up in the morning. Shoot up in the evening. Shoot up before every meal. And not the kind of shooting up that gets you record deals and biopics either. Doc says I have to start counting the Oreos I eat by cookie rather than by sleeves as well. In the past (like yesterday) I’d order my meal with Coke rather than Diet Coke because I’d rather have Diabetes than cancer. Those days are over and sadly realized. I’m an aspartame man now.