Me: “Tweak, fetch me a razor blade.”

Tweak: “I can’t move fast enough.”

Tweak snaps up from her morning cleansing, amped for instruction.

Me: “And while you’re at it, drill a hole in my skull.”

Tweak: “It’s tricky without thumbs, but maybe the dog will go halfsies with me on an icepick.”

Her feet bounce toward the junk drawer. The possibility of a home amputation puts a spring in her step.

Me: “Oh, and where can I buy leeches?”

Tweak: “Can this get any better! Is it my birthday??”

Her fur vibrates. She almost smiles. In the distance, small children cry for no reason.

Me: “No, it’s my mammogram.”

Tweak deflates. She stares like I’ve just smothered her babies.

Me: “Honestly, I think blood-letting would be less archaic.”

I’m reading an insurance form that says I need an appointment for my biennial Squishing and Waste of Time.

Tweak: “What’s a ‘mammogram’?”

Me: “It’s a test where they squeeze your boob.”

Tweak: “What’s a ‘boob’?”

Me: “It’s a test to see if men will look you in the eyes.”

Tweak drops down onto the floor now that the opportunity for surgical violence is gone.

Tweak: “Does the mammogram hurt?”

Me: “Only my dignity.”

Tweak: “Then why do you care?”

Me: “Because the only reason women have mammograms is to pay for the machine. That gives them mammograms.”

Tweak: “Modern medicine is a snake eating its tail.”

Me: “Modern medicine is a leech.”

Tweak: “Modern medicine is a boob.”

Me: “My eyes are up here.”

 

13 August 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”