Date: 29 Jun 25
Subject: (Conclusion of: “What It’s Like To Have A Raisin Super Glued To Your Anus.” June 30, 2025)

At any rate, after the doctor pulled her gloves off and I pulled my pants back up, we had a seat again.

Doctor: Well, it appears you’ve been experiencing quite a bit of pressure back there.

Me: (Misunderstanding her suggestion.) Hey! Look! I ain’t down with that kind of stuff! (Almost standing up.) I don’t mess around with guys like that!

Doctor: (Smiling real big, and using her hand to signal a “relax” gesture.) I know. I know. I can see there’s no ripping of the tissue back there. You must be experiencing some other kind of pressure.

Fortunately, her use of the word “Pressure” reminded me of a particular strain I had been experiencing the last few times I had a seat on my toilet. Probably due to the fact that those last few times were so many days apart from each other. Actually, now that I think about it, the use of the word “Strain” seems like a rather mild description. This is after all a memoir, and so I do have to remain honest. Basically, it was like this: The fact that I wasn’t in the doctor’s office to have my anus restitched back to its normal size, after having experienced some form of a lengthy laceration was truly remarkable. However, I must have busted something else on my last excavation.
So with the root of the problem having been deciphered, the doctor wrote me out a prescription for some better working bowels, and handed me a tube of ointment for the disintegrating of my unwanted hitchhiker. Then while leaving her office, I’m sure I made some form of smart aleck remark regarding the timing of our visitor earlier, and returned to the waiting room.
After sitting down, I waited for the next movement… I suppose I should clarify that statement, considering what I was talking about. You see, every half hour the prisoners were permitted to leave the medical department if they were finish [sic] seeing the doctor. The procedure was given the name: “Movement time.” Look, the whole thing doesn’t sound all that silly when you’ve come to see the doctor about something like a sore throat, or an earache.

(Sorry to cut you short, but that’s the end of this chapter. Next week I’ll start you on a new one entitled: Mind Over Matter. I’m quite sure you’ll really enjoy reading about how difficult it can be to just trim the whiskers on your face in a place like prison. However, I think if you’re female you might still like it for other reasons.)