My doctor prescribed me something to help me lose weight. Oh, I know; he says “lower your blood sugar”, but what he means is “You too fat to be makin Yo Mamma jokes.”

Fine. I can take a hint.

He could have warned me in advance, though, that I’d have to jab myself with a needle. I hate needles. When I go to the dentist, I just have them knock me right out, because otherwise he’s got to stick me, and I don’t react kindly to that.

As an aside: Dentists can give it, but they can’t take it. He knocks me out and sends me a bill. I knock him out just once…

…anyway. So yeah, my doctor should have warned me.

But, you know, I’m an adult. I’m a grown man. I’ve got this.

I jabbed myself, went, “Oh, this isn’t so bad.”

Then I felt it.

Bear in mind: I’m all alone. Nobody else in the house. And yet, somehow, I just had to yell “OW!!!”

The outrage in my voice, too. Like I’m upset at the needle for being sharp, as if it wasn’t me that stuck it in my leg in the first place.

Anyway. So after a minute I think to myself, “That wasn’t so bad.” And I go on about my day. For a couple of hours, anyway.

Something else my doctor could have warned me about: projectile vomiting.

I mean, I know. He’s a doctor. He can’t tell me, “This shot is liquid bulimia.” No, that’s not how they do it. They use code. “You may feel a pinch, and then some mild nausea.” I’d have understood. I’d have been prepared.

I’d have worn the old pair of underwear.

You don’t need the gory details. Probably because you’re picturing them right now. You don’t want to, but you are.

I call him, he says, “Yeah, that can happen the first time. Wait a week, shoot yourself up again, and then get back in touch.”

Damn near told him where he could stick his injector, but he’s telling me this for my own good. Fine. So I did what he said.

But this time I was ready. Stocked up on TP, wore the pre-stained underwear, the whole drill.

Dinner was bread and water. Took the shot, said “OW!!!” again, felt mild nausea. Went to bed. Got up, felt better, ate some oatmeal.

Last week, it was projectile vomiting. Nice ballistic arc.

This time, big lump of oatmeal on top of a stomach full of water. Perfectly flat trajectory. Gravity did not have time to get involved.

Today I talk to my doctor again. I checked it out online; I’m allowed to switch doctors.

I’ve just cut myself a three-foot branch of limber willow.