Regrets and Chicken Butts

I have regrets, powerful regrets. First and foremost is the decision to cease shaving my head a solid month prematurely, the results are not pretty! I’m embarrassed to be in public for the first time and I’ve been bald, so put that in perspective. I look like a cross between Capt. Picard {Patrick Stewart} and a chicken butt. The tufts on the top of my head are thin, varying lengths and stick straight up letting my shiny skull glare at all in my path, while the sides of my head are ringed with white. It is a look... one I could do without.

There is a disturbing proportion of obese radiology techs at the place I visit daily. You’d think working with people in the sorry shape they do would be a wake up call, but apparently not. They’ve finally starting turning off the radio without my asking which is appreciated because I always feel like a pest asking. I can’t zone out with the tinny radio on, while the humming, buzzing, noisy machines don’t bother me a bit. I lay in the awkward position, right arm over my head, that they’ve maneuvered me into, close my eyes, roll my eyeballs back in my head and breathe deeply, 1, 2, 3, in... 1, 2, 3, out. The hydraulic table goes up, down, turns and while someone mentioned that it makes them feel nauseous, I love it. I feel like I’m on a boat or a train, it’s almost like a spa day. Spa day in hell maybe, but a spa day none the less.

One of my rads mates asked how many times they zap me, two or three, and I didn’t have a clue because I’m barely there, I’m on a train. She brings a notebook and counts how many seconds each zap is, you can tell, it’s a distinct sound. She counts how long each one lasts and records the numbers in her book and when she has enough she plays them in the lottery. I’ve never wanted anyone to win the lottery so badly in my life. Sure, I’d like to win, but I don’t play, so there’s no point in rooting for myself.