I happened upon this “scary but we knew it all along” segment from Last Week Tonight with John Oliver while searching for Sookie and Eric love scenes from True Blood on YouTube. Hey, it’s not porn. It’s HBO porn. And the only men, oh, and one woman, who’ve touched my naked flesh or stuck something in me these last five years were surgeons and radiologists. Shoot, did Dr. Liz or Brian, the other P.A. (incredibly attractive, of course; I swear they get these guys from Central Casting), insert the catheter this time?

Hell, I don’t care. I love my body even if it keeps breaking down on me. Even if I’m the only one. OK, before I belly flop into a pool of pity, my reason behind posting this. I’ll keep it brief now ’cause I feel sick. The timely topic fits in with my and my roomie’s experience in hospital. I, for lung surgery; she, for constipation. I’m discharged with one script for Valtrex that my mom kindly dropped off but I didn’t pick up. Yes, I got a cold sore the day after surgery and they offered it. (FYI–it doesn’t work any better then the lip balm I’ve used for years that my dad picked up at CVS for me that day.) My constipation-free (more on that later; trust me) roomie’s discharged with scripts closing in on double digits, on top of the drugs she’s already taking.

More on all of this later. I need a Motrin.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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