Throwing Poo

I have something of a confession to make.  Last week when I wrote that my newfound friend - Lumpy the Death Merchant, I call it - was nothing to worry about, I was being dishonest.  I didn't have any idea whether it was or wasn't (an untrasound test is the only way to know for sure).  However, since the subject was weighing down my thoughts, not to mention my carry-on baggage, I wanted to write about it.  At the same time, I didn't want to unnecessarily worry my family or encourage them to start divvying up my shit.  So I lied.  

Last night my doctor called to tell me the test results.  Lumpy is, in fact, no death merchant at all.  He (its in my junk, so it's got to be a "he" right?) is just an innocent bystander.  A pedestrian.  

Goddamn Lumpy.  Always scaring the shit out of people for no reason.

Anyway, after dancing around the house for an hour singing, "I ain't got no cancer!  I ain't got no cancer!"  I called N.S. to break the good news and suggest we celebrate with a fancy dinner and a fine bottle of wine.  Also, to tell her to cancel that new Match.com membership.

We had a lovely evening.  This morning I woke up wanting to be a changed man.  I wanted Lumpy to leave a mark - a bruise on my consciousness to remind me that time is short.  

Two hours later, I'm once again sitting in an airport, dutifully waiting for a flight somewhere to do shit I don't want to do.  Waiting to collect another paycheck.  Waiting.

Fuck.