I walked into my doctor’s surgery yesterday and announced: “Sorry, but I’m here for another icky thing.”
My doctor thinks I’m a bit of a cack. We always have a laugh together. He’s quirky like me.
Do you see a same-sex doctor for your intimate stuff?
I used to … but in my old age I’ve decided to grit my teeth and bare it.
My doctor assured me he looks at people’s gory bits all day every day, so it was no biggie.
I commiserated with him. I would hate looking at people’s gory bits all day every day.
After he’d poked around in my nethers and taken a swab, we discussed my body’s difficult relationship with sugar.
The latest icky thing.
I was full of pseudo-scientific theories because DD and I have been trawling through medical journals together. Nawwww!
DD got curious after I gave him the lowdown on my bizarre medical history. Mind you, when I mentioned the fermented diarrhea, he started wailing “Boundaries! Boundaries!”
(You’d think he’d have realised by now that I DON’T HAVE ANY.)
Anyways, after patiently listening to all my wild presumptions, the doctor gave me the news I’d been nervously expecting: give up sugar and yeast.
I’d been kinda unofficially doing that already in anticipation, aside from licking the spoon while making a new batch of piggy cupcakes for the fundraising stall at the school athletics carnival.
I always convince myself that licking the spoon doesn’t count – it contains zero calories and guilt. Do you do that?
I sighed at the doc’s diagnosis and moaned: “No more Kit Kats!”
I do love a Kit Kat.
Afterwards, I texted DD and suggested he might like to join me in sugar-free hell. He was understandably hesitant. He quite likes his sugar.
So, it looks like I’m on my own in sugar withdrawal hell.
Approach me with extreme caution.
Song of the day: Rolling Stones “Brown Sugar”