I puked on myself on the drive to the hospital. bad time for my shifter to act up again. the last time it broke, a piece of plastic cost me $700. I can’t afford to fix myself, much less a piece of shit car. after my humiliating turtle-paced waddle into the emergency room, I waited. “have you ever had a stone before?” the employee asked me. “yes.” I replied, as calmly as possible. “may I have something to vomit in?” I reeked of it already. I waited. I thought about the same morbid things I always do while in the waiting room, awaiting medication. I wanted to die. eleven years later, this is no different, or better. in fact, it only seems to be getting worse. new complications have developed. ejaculation is nearly out of the question, due to excruciating prostate pain as result. my right vas deferens is nearly double the size of my left due to swelling. my inner-thigh aches past my groin into my stomach. a friendly pat on the back from a co-worker is enough to make my eye water. it’s mid-october, and I realized I haven’t woken up without being in pain to some degree since sometime last year. I owe the hospital something like $15,000. I sat up, and left. I waded back to my car, numb in all the wrong ways. I wept in the parking lot, for longer than I care to recall. I hate feeling sorry for myself. I hate that my physical condition is depleting my mental health. I hate how fucking painful it is. it hurts so much. words truly fail me. to see pieces of your insides come out of your eurethra, as a result from a stone shredding it’s way out of your body incites a feeling I just can’t convey. something like hopelessness. or defeat. I don’t know. I feel alone. and tired.