In case you've been on pins and also the needles re my sore throat, I seem to have rallied. Because I'm tough. But I'm fair.
Also, yesterday I started a new headache study, which I can tell you very little about, so you can ask all the goddamn questions you want, but I'm not gonna answer them, as I cannot. Not allowed. It will be for approximately 10 weeks, I think, and yesterday I had to go in there for the preliminary stuff, which included 94593939300303 questions on top of the 97,000 they already asked me over the phone.
Then? After the Qs and my vitals were taken? (STILL FAT. WHAT THE HELL.) (Says the woman who noted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts in the machine, but who had no cash other than a $5, so she went to the healthy vending machine, which takes five-dollar bills, bought something for a dollar, took the change and went to the UNhealthy vending machine, bought the Pop-Tarts and then ate both items. WHAT A MYSTERY.)
Anyway, after the Qs and my vitals, they had to do this pain threshold thing. I am not making this up. I forget the fancy term they used for it, but basically they inflicted pain on me ("How, June?" Sigh.) for AN HOUR and I had to tell them how much it hurt and so on.
I was really scared of that part. I mean, who wouldn't be? I kept picturing Wesley in the Pit of Despair (aka my head) or whatever it was called in Princess Bride, where he cries at the end.
So, I entered the room for the torture, and? It wasn't that bad.
I think I might have a high tolerance to pain. I know I don't SEEM like the type who would, but I think I do. The guy inFLICTing the pain wouldn't tell me if I had a high tolerance, but I noticed him watching me sometimes, like, seriously? Is she just, like, fine with this?
I might get this from my mother, who no matter what she has done, always says, "It didn't really hurt." She said that about CHILDBIRTH. "It didn't really hurt."
The place they're doing the headache study is the same place Dick Whitman works, and after I went to the coffee shop Dick Whitman always goes to, where I had a quiche (see above ref to fat) that Edsel just finished and a decaf latte, because I'm a laugh riot. What I'm saying to you is I was Dick Whitman for a day.
Dear Alexes and Everyone Else I Know Who Works in Winston-Salem: I did not know how I'd react to the torture portion of the thing, so I made no plans to get up with anyone and anyway you were all at work it was the middle of the day so get off my back.
Dear Everyone in W-S Who Still Won't Let It Drop: The rest of the study is on weeknights from 6–8, and then I have to drive all the way back to Greensboro after, so no. Let's NOT meet up after. I have a dog. A dog who never wants to go outside, but still.
Am I the least-sociable person you've never met?
The other exciting news is the receptionist gave me these flowers from her yard. She said they're all blooming early and they'll freeze this weekend, poor things, so she's bringing them in to enjoy them as much as she can.
I just heard that damn demon Steely Dan jump onto the roof. Goddammit. Hang on.
The good news is that if you call him, he's willing to jump right off and come inside. Be sure to ask me how he does it again. I DON'T KNOW. That cat is pure evil, y'all. But then when he's inside, he's all cuddly and on your lap and purring and acting sweet. Till he deceives you again.
Here's my tenant, fmr., forcing him into submission just the other night, when she stopped by to torture herself with interval training again. That's what they should have done at my study--just make me do interval training for an hour. Look at SD's fine expression. Soon he'll devise a way to disappear when he's being held, like Clarence when Burt the Cop had him in It's a Wonderful Life.
Speaking of old movies, last night I took my own self to my old theater, for a change, as they were showing Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. As you know (Big Book of June Events), my technique for avoiding Ned at the theater is to get there early, a thing he never does, and get a seat far from our usual seats in the balcony.
I got there at, like, quarter till last night, but Bohemian Rhapsody was playing on my radio, so I sat in my car to hear the rest of it, and as I was Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for meee, for meeeeeee!ing, I see a car pull in, and I was all, Is that...? Goddammit.
He pulled in right next to me. I still waited for my song to end, but he waited too. "I could've sung the rest of it for you. I know how it goes," said Ned. I reminded him that he's no Freddie Mercury. The good news is, Ned donated to the theater and therefore has a pass to get in, so it was Guess Who Got in For Free night for old June, here.
The event went without incident, and I love the idea that anyone could be upset that their daughter is marrying a famous elegant doctor from Yale because maybe he's more tan than you. Also, Katharine Hepburn was really very beautiful. ALSO, the maid in that movie is Weezy Jefferson. Also also, I can't THINK what that house in San Francisco would cost today. Like, at least three billion dollars.
I'd better go get ready for work, as I suddenly have an overwhelming amount to do there, and it might even interfere with me telling just everyone about the torture I endured yesterday, which I will not at all exaggerate for dramatic effect.
No one at work likes me.