The Doctor is in a foul black mood.
Mrs. Zombie made me go to the doctor a week or so ago because, despite being an evil, undead scientist; I'm also turning 36 in a few weeks. And, as I'm a fat bastard, I needed a general check to make sure everything is going well.
I should preface this by saying that I did this same thing when I turned 30. I was told at that time that my liver had elevated function and, although I don't really drink that much now... I somehow damaged it when I was in college and drinking everyday. This was compounded by the fact that I didn't really drink much beer at the time - - it was all hard liquor. Add to the fact that I went to school within an hour's drive of the Indiana border where an enterprising college student could get gallons of Everclear (190 proof grain alcohol!!!) with little to no problem (Mmmmm...hairy buffalo....).
So, I went to the doctor this weekend to discuss the results of my tests and, guess what. I have pushed my poor abused liver to the limits of its tolerance.
I am no longer allowed to drink. At all.
Let me say that again. I AM NO LONGER ALLOWED TO DRINK!!!
No tasty microbrews, no frothy adult beverages, no Guinness. Dear sweet god, I'm not allowed to drink Guinness! I'm Irish for chrissakes!!! How am I not to drink Guinness?!? And you can be damned sure that Mrs. Zombie has put the screws to me and put her pretty foot down about drinking. Some silly nonsense about "seeing my kids grow up" and "walking my 5 year old daughter down the aisle someday".
Yes indeed. The doctor is in a foul black mood. I will be out tonight - in the inhumanly hot weather - stalking someone, anyone, on which to take out my anger. I warn you, dear reader, if you hear a knocking at your door in the darkest loneliest hours of the night; look before you answer. It might be me, and I've got my blood stained doctor's bag with all of my bright, pretty, sharp things within. I've things that stab, and gouge, and cut deeply into the flesh of my victims.
Pray I don't stop by.