I went to the dentist for my routine cleaning this week. They took my blood pressure and it came out slightly elevated.
Well, fuck me in the chicken wing.
Maybe that increased pressure was due to my anticipation of having my teeth scraped by a sadistic butcher. Or, maybe I’m just getting old and careless.
So, after returning home with clean — be they bloody — teeth, ears ringing, and orange spots in my vision, I did what most humans would do nowadays: I Google’d how to reduce high blood pressure. I was not shocked to find “eat better,” “exercise,” “quit smoking,” and “reduce stress” as the main ways without a prescription.
Well, fuck me in the linguini.
Life is an extended game of Whack-a-Mole, isn’t it? I mean, once we get our act together in one aspect, some other shit pops up. I’m in a great relationship and now I’m broke. I’ve paid off that credit card and threw out my back. I got a promotion at work and my kid just bit the teacher. I bought that new car/home/suit I always wanted and now I have to pay for it.
Well, fuck me in the escrow shortage.
This is why I drink and write. It’s therapy for me. What do you do? Pray? Do yoga? Go to therapy? Watch a movie? I get it. What works for one works against another. Even the things we use to cope with pressure can blow up and cause more pressure. Drink too much and get a beer belly, hangover, or DUI. Write too honestly and offend the shit out of those unmentioned, even though they are unmentioned, thus causing additional isolation.
Well, fuck me in the pronoun.
Man, I don’t know the answer. Maybe it’s death — silence and no worries. (Don’t fret, I’m not suicidal.) All I can do is mix in a salad or smoothie, five miles on my bike, and a few more shrugs. Jesus won’t save me. I’m not winning the lottery. My Bumble choices are fleeting. Guess I’ll crack another bottle and jog toward life’s cliff.
Well, fuck me in my mortality.
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