Scream Test.

Is this supposed to be a fucking joke? How am I supposed to react? What am I supposed to do with this news and how does anyone expect me to carry on? Two weeks ago I had a blood test. I'm 42 years old and I've never had a blood test. I drink too much, I eat bad food and I rarely if ever exercise. I have managed to convince myself that using the Wii is exercise. Not Wii Fit but Wii Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? I have not looked after myself and I have psoriasis, asthma, a foot lump, arthritis, a beer belly and funny eyes. I am fucked, basically. So this blood test has had me scared. My big foot is still uncomfortable and the blood test will no doubt reveal that I have gangrene. My cholesterol will be sky high and I will be forced to give up booze. I will be one of those people that find out if they have one more drink they'll be dead. I've heard that story a lot over the years and think it's a blessed miracle that these people discover what will kill them just before that one last final drink. It's a blessed miracle and not a big fat lie. No. And I will be one of them. I will have the dirtiest blood that any medical professional has ever seen. It will be full of cancer and AIDS and bile and faeces flakes that are swimming around my body clogging up my heart. I will have an ulcer the size of a bean bag and an aneurysm that is actually fucking my brain. My liver will be fictional and my spleen will be cursing me on it's deathbed. Everything else I will tick off on my donor card quickly because the warm, loving, gentle grave awaits. But I will have a few blogs still to go and people will comment on my bravery. They will write and tell me that I'm an inspiration. Children with terminal illnesses will wipe a tear while admiring my good humour in spite of the painful inevitable.

I will find this out today because I will go into Dr. Finch's office and he will tell me the results of my blood test. The very results that he HAD to tell me face to face. I go into his office knowing my fate. My bravery, a reminder to the world that strength in times of despair must be illustrated.

And the thing they HAD to tell me face to face? I'M TOO HEALTHY. I'm in perfect condition. I can only imagine that I'm so much the perfect...no.... THE ULTIMATE human being that they had to worry me for a week just so I could somehow come close to understanding what it must be like to be one of you pathetic, filthy blooded dweebs.

I mean, they wrote me a letter in cold, you're-going-to-die, black ink (not even a fun font) and they said I must speak to my doctor about an abnormality they found. The abnormality was that I have slightly aggressive blood cells in my stomach that love B12 but my B12 levels are normal so they are passive. COULDN'T THEY HAVE SENT ME A CARD? A lovely card with a smiley face on it saying "RESULT!" and you open it and it says "Your results are A OK, Blood!!" Why a fucking ice cold invitation to dine with The Grim Reaper if I'm fine? And my cholesterol? Do you want to know what he said about my cholesterol? He said "You could cut out the results and frame them". My Cholesterol is perfect. Like the rest of me, apparently.

So that's my tear-jerking, heroic, slip into the next world blog gone. Thanks, Dr. Twat.

My foot is getting better too. What's the fucking point?

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