You're going to regret reading this entry once you're finished. The smell on the clinic floor is foul, filled with anguish and death and numerous other substances I'd rather not describe. And I'll be featured in this cesspool for the next three hours. As I allow my ritual anal retentiveness to align my possessions on the little side table that mocks my need for more space, I glance around slowly. Obese Gout Dude is dressed in his regular disgusting outfit: stained wife beater shirt and flip flops that expose his gout riddled feet. Blathering Idiot is trying to impress the more attractive staff members with his unremarkable remarks, unwilling to realize that they are all trying to retreat from him as quickly as possible. Hairy Playa is speaking as loud as possible on speakerphone so everyone will know undoubtedly that he is the jones with the ladies. When you pose too long, the cracks start to show and nobody's buying anymore. And the Mexican Twins are two chairs away from one another, so they're jabbering quickly and loudly over the patient in the middle. His suffering is painfully obvious. Its Monday. The most insufferable day of the week at Dialysis. And not just because of these Emmy award winners. I'm really overloaded with fluid. I'm in a foul mood to begin with, so the last individual on the planet I want to deal with is Overly Positive Tech. He's tall and lanky and full of 1950's advice that buggers the hell out of me. But most of the time he's pretty expert at sticking needles, so I let it pass. I've been attending this mind fuck for the last five and a half years. so you'd think most of them would learn by now that if I grunt all my answers, I'm not to be trifled with. Yes, I freely admit I'm an asshole when I'm sick. Takemytempthancuffthebloodpressuredealeyandcleantheareaandforceinlidocaineohgoditburnslikehellfuckfuckfuckfuck... The endless cycle of endless Dialysis. From time to time when people raise their head out of the latest People magazine and what Jon and Kate are doing, someone will always inquire what it feels like to be on Dialysis. This unleashes a flurry of sarcasm they probably didn't deserve. I used to describe it to the unsuspecting inquiree that you take two finely sharpened pencils, jam them into your upper or lower arm (take your pick depending on what access you've been forced to acquire) attach a garden hose to each pencil and connect those to the washing machine. Place machine on Heavy Wash for three hours. Most of the time I look up to find I'm talking to myself and all that remains is a Road Runner smoke cloud. But I ceased to describe Dialysis that way years ago. I have a new fully charged description. Imagine you're a giant sponge. You're full of vim and vitality, vigor and strength. You feel fantastic and everything couldn't be better. Then you're strapped down into a giant chair that smells of soiled underwear and three day ole parmesan cheese. The chair doesn't adjust properly so you will endure awful back pain in three hours. Which is when your treatment will end. As those minutes dribble by, you will be unceremoniously squeezed of your essence until all that remains are the pores of your spongy exterior. Now dry and hollow, weak and shaken, you stumble out of the clinic wondering what you've just left behind. And whether it will ever return. After a while the emptiness never fills, not even after you're loaded with less vital, less potent fluid. Perform this task over and over and over again until all your other organs give out or until you allow yourself to bleed out in the locked bathroom because you've clearly given up. I told you you'd regret it.