It's cold out today. 36 degrees in Arizona is like the North Pole before global warming. I can't poop anymore. Little nuggets is all I get when I push. My new roommate's ex gf cats poop more than me. Of course... there are three of them.
Something is wrong with my fingers, so I researched the first signs you get after you've had exposure to asbestos. After looking at pictures of fingers I know I'll be dead soon. Dr. Google gives me 2 years max. I may be dead soon, but I still won't release my Manifesto to you. Not until I'm dead. The Manifesto has too much truth in it that y'all can't handle. Mostly it's about my 10 inch cock and how it's always ready to be manipulated and fondled. A floppy 10 inch cock that doesn't need to get hard to be a pleasing machine. My cock's ejaculate tastes like apple sauce and I usually spurt more than a quart at a time. It doesn't stop me from continuing to orgasm afterwards either. I can ejaculate all day, non-stop.
Let's not forget the rest of my symptoms like the pressure in my chest and my new cough. All that along with the intestinal back pain I've been having. It's hard to get out of bed sometimes. Hard to sit. My urine is a dark yellow and is fizzy as fuck. Like all I do is eat protein.
I get up to pee 5 times a night. The diabetes has finally kicked in I guess. There's so much wrong with me I'm not sure where to begin at a doctors office. Doctors never want to hear you describe so many symptoms. They want to know what this visit is for. Just tell em one thing they can bill. One thing they can prescribe you for.
Moreover; doctors never believe you when you describe what's wrong. Even after they have evidence. They never believe. Don't believe me? Watch your doctor when you talk to them. They just wait for you to stop talking and then proceed to give you the first thing that comes to their mind. They call that a professional diagnosis.
No wonder robots are already better at diagnosing.
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