If you told me that a disheveled man would be sitting next to me on a Monday afternoon in the Eagan public library explaining to me how a planet named X would be entering our solar system in 73 days and how NASA is trying to kill off everyone who knows the truth (hence, the Columbia explosion), all of this while I'm in a drug-induced haze, I would be a tad skeptical.
But there I was, hopped up on Vicodin, listening to this man cite six different books explaining how the Babylonians knew of this planet and foretold its coming in books banned by our government.
Why was I here?
It all began on Friday morning, when I decided to go to University Health Services to check up on an upset stomach. Was it a bad burger? A virus? Bruises from the underground fight club I participate in? Did I say fight club? What fight club? Even if there is a fight club, the first rule is to not talk about it, so why would I talk about something that doesn't exist? He he he ... yeah.
Well, after many painful and embarrassing tests which I had to do in a gown, the doctor assessed that I might have appendicitis, which meant that I had to go to a larger hospital for more painful tests in a gown. While at Meriter, I had four more hours of tests involving me being forced to drink two gallons of malted ass juice (or so it tasted) and lie down on various cold surfaces while I got x-rays and CAT scans, all the while, more people asking me if it hurt where they poked me. Ahh, the wonders of medical technology.
It turned out that my appendix was going to explode if they didn't operate on me. I always considered the appendix God's self-destruct button. It serves no purpose in the day-to-day activities in the human body, yet it could kill you rapidly. Man, that God has some sense of humor.
The doctors did a bang-up job, and by the next day, I was ready to leave the hospital. But then, my parents decided to show up and take me back to Minnesota, where I could sit at home and do nothing. Well, almost nothing. I was allowed to take drugs. There really is nothing like going to the public library, shopping for shoes or helping to baby-sit your eight-month old nephew all while on Vicodin. I don't know if I'm in that \I'm resorting to gay prostitution for drugs"" sort of addiction, but I'd be lying if I said this didn't feel good.
So here I am, propped up in my basement, writing so far away from where you are. It really has been an adventure this past week, but I really do wish I was in Madtown. I miss The Plaza. I miss my roommates. I miss hitting Kleefeld in the head with a football from across the office. But most of all, I know I missed out on some pretty cool stories in Madison. Instead I'm stuck here listening to my mother tell me how I wouldn't have needed surgery if I didn't drink so much.
So the moral of today's story is that you don't always know what you have until it's gone (except for the appendix, I knew I had that sucker before they cut it out of me). Man, this pain is unbearable!
It's Vicodin time. Ohh yeah!
