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A Throaty Wimper
Well, I don't need a "procedure" on my throat. Not yet, anyway. The horrible looking protuberances -- that was for you, Kim -- emerging from the back of my right tonsil are only horribly swollen lymphatic tissue. Hooray for me! My regular doctor, whom I like, did help to put my mind at ease, though. In all likelihood, he said, I don't have a staph infection of the throat, but rather a strep infection from a strain that yields a false negative. Strep can be pretty awful. But I somehow find it a comforting diagnosis. I've had strep so many times in my life. And, though more and more resistant strains are showing up, it still ranks way behind staph on the refuses-to-respond-to-antibiotics scale. Maybe my exhaustion really does have more to do with the antibiotics than what they're fighting. Time to head back to the front room, where Kim is working her ass off yet again -- her February 1st deadline is near -- and I'm trying to relax by rooting for Arizona to beat Oregon. I know, I know. I do give the Wildkatzen love sometimes, even when they're playing a Pac-10 rival. Just not against the Bears.
Sausage
One of my favorite exhibits was this sprawling work-in-progress by a few fucking insane local artists. Part of their project (which had something to do with German and English romanticism and art therapy) involved making blood sausage from their own blood and serving it to dinner guests (who, I hope, were informed of the sausages' contents).
It was wicked great -- very pristine room with step-by-step instructions on how to safely draw enough of your own blood, and then detailed cooking instructions. The only uncooked blood I've ever tasted is my own, but I wonder if other animals' blood has a comparable iron content. I can't imagine ever wanting to eat something that tastes like loose change.
my blood sausage
ah, perhaps for Art...