Hard to Swallow

Occasionally when surfing the Intranet, I will hear a tiny bleating of discomfort from somewhere deep within myself. It is as though something demands my attention, and my body is forced to protest my tendency to use the gift of connectivity to watch videos of fat girls falling off motorbikes and tracking where my dollar bills went.

Sunday I heard that call, and went where my keystrokes took me. They landed on craigslist, in the "Therapeutic Services" category. Among endless ads from foreign women advertising "Tender Flowing Touch w/Sweet College Girl," and "Pure Body Bliss from Real Asian," I saw the ad for "Urea Therapy."

"Naw, it couldn't be." I thought, as I clicked hurriedly towards the weirdest thing I heard all day (which is a feat, since I was hanging out with my sister and her best friend earlier and they had some tales to tell! Fake pregnancies, distant husbands, and falsified HIV tests, oh my!).

Some wacko claims that he got a massage (in Eastern Europe, of course) where the masseuse kind of flipped the script on him. Oh sure, Uda the Masseuse used lotion on Mr. Craiglist, but occasionally he would urinate on him as well. Apparently the pee-lotion made for a really desireable effect.

At first I thought this Mr. Craiglist enjoyed his Golden Massage because he is a serial killer. But then I googled Healing Urine and came up with ALL THESE PAGES that say this is a good idea. Apparently urine is sterile for about 15 minutes after exiting the body, and even after that when bacteria begin to grow, they aren't all bad. If you massage it on your skin, it makes your skin all soft, and doesn't even smell! One site even suggested you use it to clean your windows!! And, like a magical, golden shaman, it heals ailments!

The most intriguing information was that the bodies' experiences, both psychological and physical, collect in the urine. So reintroducing it to the body gives the immune system another go-around at building strength against whatever is ailing you.

I can't bring myself to try it.

Flash Foward to today. Upon exiting my yard, I stood atop the final, large staircase and took a deep breath of the cool air. I put my left leg out to begin the descent down and promptly fell down the stairs. With me came a bag full of hard drives, DV tapes, and important CDs that managed to land on my sternum. I lay on the steps for a minute, shocked and praying I hadn't broken anything. After I determined that I was mostly okay, I opened up my mouth and wailed "Owwwwwwww," loud enough that a painter next door poked his head out of the garage and said "Are you okay?" in a thick accent. I nodded and stood up, assessing my wounds.

I whacked my right ankle on the brick hard, and I landed on my left ass cheek super hard. I scratched up the palms of my hands, and made a deep gash on my right pinkie knuckle. And now, 12 hours later, my ankle and pinkie are killing me. When I am going through any trauma, it causes me to talk to myself. Here's what a conversation with myself looked like as I limped into the SavOn to get an ace bandage.

"Hang in there, chief. Pain only makes you stronger, Grae. That line is some bullshit said by some unintentionally optimistic retard whose brain doesn't even register pain. They sprain their ankle and instead of 'Ouch' they say 'Ice Cream!' or some shit like that. This hurts so bad, it assures me I never want children. Fuck the stairs, man. This is why people should drive everywhere, even right into their house. Fuck the environment and the EPA. They're full of the same retards we were discussing earlier. And also I hate Asian drivers."

So I am sitting here, throwing my head back in pain every 30 seconds, wishing for more Vicodin.

And I have realized that these things always happen as they are supposed to. That ad on craigslist wasn't just an accident.

I think I'm going to have to piss all over myself.

It's the only way to heal this ankle and pinkie is to urinate on them constantly. I have my water bottle filled and ready to leap right into this. Squat for the cure, baby.

tinkle. g