I’m just too sweet for my own good.
That’s the best way I can put it. My sweetness gets me into trouble. It gives me tingles in my toes and all sorts of lectures I never want to hear. Those are usually administered by folks who are paid to care about me. Others do it for free, out of the goodness of their hearts.
I get this sugary dose of sweetness from my father. He got it from his father, and that might have gone on for a while. You could say perhaps it’s in our blood.
One time my grandfather tried to commit suicide with a chocolate cake. The event took place after my grandmother had died. That would be the one that had stopped him in the dirt street outside her house and demanded he marry her then and there. I remembered hearing my aunt announcing it loud and clear with panic in her voice, “Oh, Lawrd, Granpa Jones tryin’ ta kill hisself with a choklit cake!”
I laughed so hard I pissed myself.
It was the image of him trying to smash a slice of dessert into his chest with fervor, mistakenly thinking it would bring about his mortality. About that moment, I realized I was the only one laughing.
How was I to know that over 50 years, we would all share and pass around the same old medical girlfriend? We’ve also shared her with this guy:
Today has been a relatively good day, although weird. A water main broke, a network component went down in Chicago, giving me all sorts of work fun, and the satellite TV flickered on and off like DJ Shadow’s turntables. I did get to try Celtic Honey, however.
I like it, but not entirely as much as my Evans. No, I don’t drink nearly as much as it may appear. A little over a half a glass, and not every day, even if it sounds that way.
Microsoft did a Windows update, Woocommerce also put out a security patch, and I bought grapes. Those three don’t go together; I just wanted to see if you were still with me.
All of this sweetness came to a head tonight when I got sucked into a YouTube infomercial that might be full of shit or the best thing to happen to me.
I was officially diagnosed with Type II Diabetes a few years ago. A nice lady doctor yelled at me, threatening to cut off body parts. She gave me a pill called Metformin for 30 days, and things started shaping up nicely. At the end of my time with the railroad, I did have a period where I got my weight down and my blood sugar normal. Those were good, sexy days.
Before things returned to a Buddy Guy song.
The VA has been as useful as a football bat, and the telemedicine doctor I consulted with to get more Metformin was eager to take my money but about as helpful as my two US Senators that we can’t seem to nail down with a jackhammer until Fox News wants to do photo ops and video cuts.
In theory, there is a different pill that is not a drug. The video has a nice story that I primarily regard as horseshit, but I figured, why not put them to the test? I ordered two bottles, sixty days’ worth. I think that will be a good baseline.
I’m finishing the cosmetic setup of my blog at my author site, and I will have a blog detailing the results daily there.
This pill is called Glucofort, and while I reviewed the name a couple of times with childish abandon, I figure I’ll take a weight and two blood sticks per day. I want to see if it lowers anything. If it does, I shall sing the glories of this concoction from the rooftops with unfettered joy. If it doesn’t do jack squat, I shall curse it publicly like a love scene gone wrong in your favorite reality show.
I might even put on a dress just to tear it in rage. At any rate, I’ll leave a bad review. At least we’ll have some accurate data to work off of there.
The hope is to be sweet still when this is all over with, like the soda companies.
As for now, I have sugar plums to go dream of. Maybe they will dance in my head. I hope on everything holy it isn’t a square dance.