There is nothing more soothing than listening to ferocious waves crashing onto the shore as you lay in a camper.
Unless you’re camping in Antarctica.
Hell is spelled the same.
I am wearing 2 leggings that are stuffed into a set of jogging pants, a long sleeved shirt underneath 2 sweaters and a coat, and I’m tucked into a sleeping bag that claims that it’s good enough for you to survive living on a glacier without feeling any pain.
I call bullshit.
I hate cold. Cold is painful. My cobalt chromium artificial disc is conducting it like that one time when I bit onto a piece of aluminum foil that was left behind in the turkey stuffing because my mom wanted to kill me and it made contact with my cavity filling. That night, we had the best cable reception ever and we didn’t even have cable.
Drinking beer has been my saving grace. You can’t feel things when you’re drunk except for your bladder at 3 in the morning. That is probably the hardest decision making ever. Get out of bed and risk having your feet snatched up by the monster who lives under your bed or sleep and risk peeing the bed? The worst part is when you realize that in the 10 minutes you spent thinking about how much pain you’re in while your urine crystalizes, you could have peed and then would have been back to bed already.
You never get the time back.
The thing with drinking is this: I take Lithium and she comes with rules. Drinking the adult beverages is not prohibited unless your name is Kimberly and had experienced Lithium toxicity (which wasn’t confirmed because I didn’t…I mean that Kimberly didn’t want to go to the ER and have the doctors condemn her for drinking and then throw her into some sort of rehab of which she doesn’t need even though denial is the first symptom).
The key is drink one here then drink one over there in about 24 months.
I was sick for a few days and eventually had to man up and email my psychiatrist. He only responded with 2 very short sentences that spoke volumes with all the exclamation points.
I read, “You’re stupid.”
Find hole. Stick head in it.
It kind of reminded me of the time when I got so drunk that I couldn’t see anything but the insides of planters and garbage cans on the side of the main strip of our city. My friends were terrified of my dad so instead of putting me in my bed, they dropped me on the front porch, rang the doorbell, and got the eff out of dodge.
My dad never said a word.
But I knew.
I survived both accounts.
So here I am, in Antarctica with a full bladder. I don’t want to get up to pee because I don’t want to put on another layer of socks and find my UGGS.
Mainly, I don’t ever want to use the outhouse.
I may get constipated this trip.