Throw Up in Anger
"So I think I'm making progress, Bunni. What do you think?" asks the Doberman as he paints my wall.

"I'm trying to read about how cherries can cure cancer."

"You don't care."

"About you? Of course not."

I'm wading my way through a packet of information, including books espousing alternative cures to everything from ADHD to MS, that although well intentioned is so enraging I now know what it is like to have a conniption (Also see Bill Cosby). There are, for example, Potatoes Not Prozac and Orthomolecular Treatment for Schizophrenia: Megavitamin Supplements and Nurtitional Strategies for Healing and Recovery.

But the book that made me so angry that I wanted to throw up was a book by Dr. Hulda Clark called The Cure for All Diseases. She then went on to pen the Cure for All Cancers in 1990 and The Cure for HIV and AIDS in 1991.

If you don't know what's wrong with these books, I am not going to waste my time explaining it to you. Let's just say I give it the same credence that I give Dr. Weil's Spontaneous Healing,
which is to say I wouldn't bother wiping my ass with this pseudoscience. These books are attractive because they appeal to a Nietszchean idea that if you are sick, it is because of some FAILURE on your part-failure to believe, to fight, to do adequate research. That last one I find particularly insulting.

That is when I am confronted with the attitude that I'm not disabled because I don't look disabled.

I've never thrown up in anger, but the Doberman was pleased to witness me reaching a new level in my rage.

This is my Saturday night.

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