MySpace Archive: My Brush With Death (Part 2 of 2)

(Or: Anticlimax On A Grand Scale)

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

My Brush With Death Comes to a thrilling conclusion today. SPOILER ALERT: I don't die.

Like most things in life, this was pretty dissappointing, huh?

Well, not for me. I was fucking elated.

[Originally posted on Wednesday, November 22, 2006]

Well, I DON'T have cancer!

Current mood: Fucking elated

This is what I don't have: Pancoast's syndrome. Also known as Superior Sulcus tumors. A relatively uncommon form of lung cancer whose stage II description happened to fit every symptom I have right now.

Thank goodness the murky potential tumor on my X-ray was just old scarring from my 2 bouts of childhood pneumonia.

I'm not going to lie. I was scared shitless for the past few days.

Of course, this means I still have ridiculous, unexplained weight loss and near-crippling pain in my right shoulder blade [I have since gained about 5 pounds back. And my shoulder does not hurt anymore. It's a Christmas miracle]. Not to mention something like 1200 bucks worth of medical bills with no insurance. But at least I have a higher than 2 out of 3 chance of outliving Jesus now [Pretty edgy, huh?].

Now that I have a second lease on life, I feel it's time to squander it on bourbon and McRib value meals.

You know what? I'm going to take time out of my busy schedule of Not Dying and Rehashing Old Crap to complain about the whole "McRib on Tour" marketing plan. I'm so sick of being McDonald's bitch every time the unholy goodness of McRib hits the Windy City (pretty much every December, making it as seasonal as Egg Nog and twice as WASP-y).

The only thing I'm more sick of than that is people telling me how nasty the McRib is. Yes, I've seen it without the sauce. Yes, I'm aware that it's not really "barbecue." I grew up in South-By-God-Carolina. I know barbecue.

But I also know the McRib is a fine slice of fast-food Americana, and I will not stand idly by during its mocking by some fictional straw-man reader. I just want to have it available year round, so I'm not at the mercy of Ray Kroc's ghost when I want pressed pork-like byproducts on an oblong bun.

Okay, enough of that odd cul-de-sac. Next blog: I forgive everyone for everything. Sort of.