I saw a picture of sea=salt that claimed to be hundreds of year old, and it had a best-by date of next year on it, Go figger. I have slowly rebounded thus far but tomorrow--oh, tomorrow!--I re-enter the biochemical Maw of Medicament as predicamentary prey, or a subject of the predicate, as you whist.

I will struggle to play that night but the next day will be riddled with slugs of lassitude and spasms of the upper GI and great indolence of brain. This is called Going Through Hell to get to the Other Side, which is called Getting Better.

Then, the voodoo cannibals tie me up again and cut me open in order to Remove Important Parts. Assuming none of the foregoing kills me, I will then be declared a Cancer Survivor and will be sent home to nurse my resentments and crawl out of the hole I did not, myself , dig. This is the Modern Miracvle of American Health Care post Nixon, also known as Shit Creek Sans Paddle. But if it does not kill me, it will surely make me more calloused one way or the other.