Matters of Indelicate Substance

Today I found it necessary to repeat every medical test that had been run on me in order to qualify for a legal document. Quite surprisingly, in the clinic in which I resorted to had an added bonus of some more tests. It is not that I mind them so much, but they do tire one so. Earlier this month, it required the leeching--ehem--bloodletting from both arms to get the sufficient amount of rabbit-essence from me to swill and watch and compare and stare at to get results. At least one arm was spared this time, but it took the Grandfather of Syringes to prod out enough of me from me.

Ah, and these ponderous people wonder why I lack blood.

Oh well, now I officially am lacking blood for a little less in a month running. It had the ponderous people's certification. Ah me, ah my, which explains why I've been more on the yellower and purpler side of things--that is, on the outside. I would have told myself that a long time ago, but it was not official, and I was no more official than... than... than a pig is about matters concerning cows. Old McDonald would be. But I admit I fantasized about being sick, it gave an excuse for why I was tired most of the time and have the tendency to be floppy and inadequately dexterous. Then it turns out that it was because I was really sick.

Yay, for me. Fantasies do come true. But the Knight would frown upon this thinking, and would force me to get well, for a good reason. But I do have a reason why I like getting sick. People care about you more during those times. If they don't, then one has the excuse to indulge in self-pity, that emotional chocolate and cream truffle. But then again, I don't really know why I like being slightly sick. Note that I said slightly sick. It means sickness without a tremendous amount of pain. Or even half of tremendous amount of pain. Not even a quarter of it, I think. But I like me sick, nevertheless, that fuzzy, disconcerted, silly state. Every time I have a fever, I think that I am a furry ball, emitting a tangible fuzz of heat.

Malady, thy name is Anaemia.

Come to think of it, I've always found Anaemia a lovely, lovely, lovely name. If I were to name myself, I'd probably call myself that. It's so nice, it has this yellowish tinge in its sound, and as childish as Gretel or Spiegel. And its dipthong, especially when it is writ with the second A and E in miniscule are joined together, is wonderfully antiquarian. No one makes such nice names about sicknesses anymore. It's either named after a physician, or an odd jumble of inconsequential letters. They write it like they write mathematical equations, letters and numbers with parentheses and brackets. You could say that the physicians from long ago simply loved their illnesses.

There was this one ponderous person from that said group earlier who gave me a psychological test. An official psychological test. A first for me. One that will go down my national records. It was long-ish, but I savoured every question mark and blank. It seems that I am more being offered questions and looking for answers. I don't know how he did interpret my drawing of a boy and a girl. He asked me to do one, and I thought of churning out Hansel and Gretel, in the moment of unbeknownst brink of desperation, because right behind them, a crow is eating their crumbs. I don't know how he'll find it. Them people always make fabulous conjectures, almost downright silly. Maybe he'd find that I am stuck in my childhood, terribly moody, and depressive.

Oh wait. I think I am that.