the hardening of yuhri

I'm dying.

Every so often I feel a little flutter in my chest. Once in a while, when I drink something that has caffeine in it, I feel my chest tighten up, and my arms start to go numb. These are warning signs, you realize. I'm doomed. High cholesterol. According to the blood donor information that got returned to me by the Stanford Medical Center, if I don't do something about my cholesterol, I'll be dead before I reach thirty.

Lean food. Exercise. Diet. Self-discipline. I'll be singing with angels in no time. This is a problem for the angels, since I've been told by People Who Know that I am not a jewel in the crown of vocalization.

(True story.) I was walking through the halls at school, warbling something at the top of my lungs, when a pack of vocalists came pouring around the corner. They skidded to a stop and stared at me fixedly until I noticed them.

"Was that you, singing?" one of them demanded.

"Yes."

"Don't do that."

"You sound like Kermit the Frog on crack," another vocalist seconded.

I felt hurt. Coming from these particular vocalists, particularly considering how musically challenged they were, this was hardly flattery. "I like the way Kermit the Frog sings," I said mutinously. "I'll sing whenever and however I want to."

At which all of them, grimly determined, started to stalk towards me with their hands outstretched.

I ran. Later that night, I stole the doors off of their rooms.

All of that was true except for the last part. I never stole their doors.

I can't imagine things will be tuneful in heaven when I get up there, but at least they'll sing on key, which is more than anybody should expect from a group of white, politically incorrect Judeo-Christian chicken-wings.

This morning, feeling conscientious, I ate a fat-free breakfast of exactly one serving of Kellogg Corn Flakes. This afternoon, for lunch, I ate a piece of chocolate, (I had to. My newly returned co-worker insisted and I didn't want to hurt her feelings), half a chicken-fried steak, a pile of mashed potatoes and mixed greens. If it weren't for the fact they were drenched in gravy, it would have been a good meal. I suppose this evening I'll have to make up for it by eating a stalk of celery and doing twenty jumping-jacks.

Tomorrow, I will exercise self-discipline and control. I will eat a sensible breakfast, nibble on a lettuce leaf for lunch, and dip daintily into the chlorophyllic treasure trove of Mother Nature for dinner. I will sprout radio shack antennae from my head and run seven miles back and forth from work. I will also learn French.

"Your problem, my little lotus flower" says one of my newly favorite people at work, "is that you're programmed."

"I'm not programmed. I'm socially engineered." Ah, listen to that bullshit flow.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not. Besides," I told him in a blithe display of inconsistency, "it's an Asian thing."

"I'm not programmed," he declared, proudly.

I eyed him critically. He wasn't naked. White boy. "No, you're not."

He ran a hand over his head, Captain Picard-style, and looked wistful. "#*%&," he said. "I need a beer."

There was a moment of silence, during which I genetically engineered a flying pig. When I looked up, he was still there, meditating on his fingernail.

It occurred to me that we had never actually greeted each other. Despite knowing better, I offered, "Hi."

"#*%&, no," said he, bitterly. "Not yet."