visuals . . . the view from here

You briefly consider doing some free-style on your stationary bike using those pegs.

You devise a makeshift binkie of your sweat towel as you recover from your therapy-to-the-brink-of-peril and hope that the new teenaged patient  in the middle distance is not wondering, horrified, if all sessions culminate with near collapse.

You sit in the waiting room at the Social Security offices of Birmingham, AL.  It reminds you of that television show called "JAIL" which showcases a variety of misdeamonoring rare-do-wells as they come and go through the booking process.  While the miscreant of the moment refuses to cooperate, an assortment of other reprobates harangue from their seats.  You half expect a fight to break out at any moment--there will be spittin and cussin and all manner of Cain raisin any moment now.  (And you don't know it just yet, but that cubicle in the distant right . . . that's station A, your station in a while, where works the amicable sumo wrestler smiling and smiling.)

You are impressed by the high-tech production and a-list casting of Social Security's "Boldly Go" initiative--an instructional campaign to walk you slowly through the process of disowning your autonomy in easy to understand steps plotted-out by amazing visual graphics.  And look, there's George Takei, taking a break from being gay to being re-he-heally gay alongside his co-host (off screen) Patty Duke of course.  Patty Duke?  Where did she boldly go, you wonder? To Scotland to visit her genetically-impossible "identical" cousin, Kathy?  Those numbers in rectangles at the bottom of the screen are the "now serving" numbers.  You are number S214.  As you can tell by the bottom right box, they are currently serving S211.  You are thrilled.

You take a picture of yourself to see if your countenance accurately reflects your physiological torment.

You reluctantly un-package your mint-in-box LOTR Stratego game to pass a yarky hour.

You advance a platoon of Uruk-hai while the forces of good diddle on an iPhone. 

Watch it wiggle, see it jiggle.  You eat directly from the bowl for optimum consolation.

You briefly panic, scouring your memory for the taking of your anti-convulsants this morning.

Your enter a kind of creepy lounge for adults at the frenetic arcade where you're surprised not to find ashtrays and rocks glasses.

Given the dearth of children's playthings, you give your baby niece small objects from your desk.  In this case you are in luck because you happen to have a Kung Fu Panda figurine handy.

Your niece obligingly tries to play with the heavy glass paperweight in lieu of the Kung Fu Panda.

You rouse the ire of a peacock.

You notice that the difference between you and a kangaroo is that you are more prone to heart disease.

You entice a goose with bread.

  You rouse the ire of a goose.

Chemo Day One:  You can stay at home and catch up on some writing--you've been meaning to anyway.

Chemo Day 2:  You can read.  It's better than writing anyway.  

Chemo Day 3:  Your book is a blur, your binkie is all twisted.  Woe, woe is you.

Chemo Day 4:  You can catch up on your stories.  

Chemo Days 5-7: You can eke out sustenance while comparing your travail to the mightiest, most  agonizing travails ever known to man.