Stay Positive And Laugh (Part Two)
TYPE 'H' (A.k.a. - "Well, fuck!")
Singular and unforseen major shite imposes itself upon your life, forcing you to respond immediately, regardless of how poorly equipped you are either emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, or financially. One big unpredictable mountain of shite just uses up the entire day.
The basement floods for the first time in the history of the house and a corps of plumbers must be summoned on an Emergency (read: quadruple the cost) Call-Out. One of the cats somehow incurs a gaping wound at 2:20 a.m. and will likely go into shock unless the vet is awakened and summoned to the After Hours (read: quadruple the cost) Clinic. A relative you haven't seen since you were six years old shows up on your doorstep and announces that he's going to live in your spare room until he can 'get his shit together' (also, if the Mounties call, you 'haven't seen him'). You take a fall and break a limb or two, which results in an all-nighter at the nearest hospital's Emergency Department. Lightning strikes a transformer and knocks out the electricity for 25 miles in every direction.
You crusheth your cup and nearly cutteth your hand in half.
TYPE 'I' (A.k.a. - "The other shoe.")
Nothing goes wrong.
So, according to the laws of karma, there is some serious shite happening somewhere else to some poor bastard who has done absolutely nothing to deserve it. Either that, or the universe is saving up today's shite in order to hit you with a double dose tomorrow. You can't even enjoy your shite-free day because you're either feeling guilty over some random innocent stranger having to deal with shite that should have been yours, or you're stressing over the Super-Shite day you may have to deal with sometime in the future It is also worth considering that fate may be granting you a good day with the intention of giving you a terrible night by depriving you of anything even remotely resembling sleep.
Your cup runneth over with goodness but you're too scared to touch it.
TYPE 'J' (A.k.a. - 4score&7squirrelsbakedinalandlostintime4tea)
You get out of bed after a night of non-stop dreams, buzz around without actually accomplishing anything, and suddenly collapse 30 to 50 hours later.
You can't stop thinking of too many things all at once constantly. Original ideas, useless trivia, long-forgotten memories, philosophical thoughts, bits of songs, poems, stories & shows, and convoluted connections stream through your head like a video stuck on Fast-Forward. By the time you realize you may actually have had an important thought, your brain is already speeding through a completely unrelated cluster of new notions.
You rev too high for the gear you're in. You actually vibrate. Things leap from your grasp. The simple act of picking up your cup often results in it being hurled backwards over your shoulder.
TYPE 'K' (A.k.a. - "Fuck it.")
You wake up exhausted, and slide downhill from there.
You are languid to the point of being inert, taciturn to the point of being mute, and introverted to the point of being comatose. Conversations are out of the question because not only it is too difficult to summon the energy required to formulate thoughts and generate speech, it is too difficult to maintain the energy to simply listen to anyone. No effort is worth the result - a soak in the tub sounds great until you remember the effort required to dry off afterwards. A cup of tea sounds nice until you mentally run through the process and realize how involved it would actually be to make.
The only real option on a day like this is to rally every bit of strength you have in order to surround your favorite chair or corner of the sofa with everything you might need for the day, and just become a piece of furniture.
For the rest of the day, the rule is: If I Can't Reach It, I Don't Need It.
TYPE 'L' (A.k.a. - 'Pluggumitis O' De Blowhole')
Everything you have eaten (and a small percentage of everything you have drunk) in the last few days is still working its way through your gastrointestinal tract. Slowly. So slowly, in fact, that you may not have even noticed for the first day or two.
Your digestive system has managed to distill the caloric energy from the food, but the process seems to have broken down shortly thereafter. Your lower intestine has turned from a waste disposal system into a temporary storage facility.
Nothing helps to speed up the process. Any medication or hot liquids you ingest will just settle themselves with everything else and add to the problem. Until the situation corrects itself (and it will, most likely in a rather sudden and explosive sort of way), you feel as though you're wearing a ten-pound bag of sand on your abdomen.
Your cup stayeth empty, for your own good.
TYPE 'M' (A.k.a. - "Thar she blows!")
The most indelicate of conditions, hands down. And yet, you pray for it.
If you are lucky, after a run of Type 'L' days, you will spend an entire day (and probably most of the night as well) enduring this. It will solve the Type 'L' problem, guaranteed. Guaran-fucking-teed.
This also happens when, suddenly and for absolutely no reason, something you ate (and have eaten your entire life with no ill effects) is violently rejected by your digestive system. One sip of a previously favorite beverage or one nibble of a formerly harmless snack will result in nausea, cramps, stomach aches, and a volume of output completely out of proportion to the volume of input.
Your cup filleth with Pepto-Bismol, ginger ale, ice water, warm milk, Alka-Seltzer, 25-year-old Scotch whiskey, and anything else which you foolishly believe will help to relieve your discomfort.
TYPE 'M' Addendum: ("The Grade 10 Science Lab - FM/MPS Modification")
As you squirm on the cold floor of the bathroom, trying to get comfortable using only what is within reach, you may as well use the time constructively. You're probably going to be there for a good long while.
What did you do, eat, or drink, and when? Prepare for a week of tests (unless you get lucky and find the problem right away).
TYPE 'N' (A.k.a. - "Fresh Hell")
In its meanderings through your body's nooks and crannies, the FM discovers an hitherto unmolested section of muscle, bone, sinew, or nerves, which it immediately vandalizes with all the gusto of a demolition crew.
It proceeds to jackhammer, bulldoze, and dynamite the living hell out of some innocent, inoffensive bundle of nerves and muscle, sending explosions of agony shooting through your system like fireworks, often at completely arbitrary intervals. Once the initial decimation is complete (which can take up to three weeks of unpredictable and unpreventable internal lightning strikes), the affected area will henceforth and forevermore be susceptible to the same pain (to a slightly lesser degree), along with every other section of your body which has previously weathered the same precedure.
Your cup stayeth put, because moving your left arm to grasp it will result in stabbing pains shooting through your right rear thigh, and touching it with your right hand causes sciatic pain as high as your neck.