Sometimes I just want to be punched

Let’s see if I can write some positive stuff for a few weeks. I’m generally happy in real life, but as soon as I start wondering what to blog about it’s all negative.

I love doctors. I hate having to visit them, but so long as my issue isn’t life-threatening and they don’t need to shove a stick up my rectum I feel comforted by their presence. Sure they sometimes get things wrong, but at least it’s going to be a calculated error.

I saw a new doctor last week. It was great. He looked me in the eye and shook my hand. I felt like a proper adult. Part of me wanted an earth-shattering diagnosis so I could get a man hug off him, after which we’d discuss the brutality of life. What is wrong with me?

I love sitting in a room and feeling like the stupid person without feeling patronised. I feel like a child again, a time when I trusted adults had all the answers. They don’t, but it’s nice to pretend they do every once in a while. In a world where the majority seem scared of offending me, where I can do no wrong, I’m comforted by the fact that if I was dying this particular doctor would not hesitate to tell me. Well he’d obviously hesitate a bit, build some tension.

God, I’m so tired of people distancing themselves from me, viewing me as this fragile misery machine that I get joy from visiting the doctor’s.

Sometimes I just want to be punched in the face. When I used to go clubbing I’d always have some random stranger hug me at one point in the night. I like hugs, but it has to be the right kind of hug. These guys would always give me the sympathy hug, the you’re-an-inspiration-and-I’m-glad-I’m-not-you hug, peering over their shoulders to see if any girls noticed. Of course they noticed. So when these two star-crossed lovers would start sucking each other’s faces in front of me, I’d get these fantasies in my head.

What would happen, I’d wonder, if I kicked him in the nuts? I have a long leg, he’s inches away. Better still, I’d have a back-out clause: it was my spasms that done did it. So I kick him in the nuts, her in the ovaries, what are the chances that they’ll get angry? I’d get shouted at if I was lucky but I don’t think I’ll ever be punched, at least not by a stranger. It’d be ‘cowardly’, wouldn’t it, to punch a disabled man. That, and you’d be guaranteed an extra beating off security.

I kind of agree with this notion. Some of us are physically fragile (brittle bones comes to mind) and it’s best not to risk it. Maybe you could punch someone with a weak heart and kill them. So it’s logical that we feel reluctant to hit disabled people, but at the same time…

Just give me a little dig. Go on. Your sister is a horrible person. I don’t know your father but I bet he’s just as bad as your uncle who I also do not know. Now punch me so hard that I have to visit my doctor again.

Because everything is better than being a sympathy sponge. You feel sorry for a dying chick in the middle of a road. You feel sorry for Charlie Sheen. But you don’t need to feel bad for me, stranger. I’m OK. Who knows, in some ways I may be better off than you.

I just want to feel like a man, OK? I want someone to write a Blues song about me. I once gave myself a black eye by accident, and it felt good. There was tension when I entered the room, tension that dissipated once I’d revealed that I’d jabbed myself with my erratic left arm, but just for a few seconds people feared me. Yes, I want to be feared. But just for a day. I don’t want to be a meathead for any longer than that. I’d exercise so hard my new man-breasts would put me off balance.

And it’s at this point, discussing man-breasts, that I start questioning the point of this post. What have I said here that I haven’t said within the past year of blogging? At least it was somewhat positive. I didn’t mention death, not once. Apart from the image of a dying bird. And the weak heart bit. And the part about craving a bad diagnoses.

Sorry. More positivity next week, I guess.


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