*See first paragraph*

"Get some sour cream and onion chips with some dip, man, some beef jerky, some peanut butter. Get some Häagen-Dazs ice cream bars, a whole lot, make sure chocolate, gotta have chocolate, man. Some popcorn, red popcorn, graham crackers, graham crackers with marshmallows, the little marshmallows and little chocolate bars and we can make s'mores, man. Also, celery, grape jelly, Cap'n Crunch with the little Crunch berries, pizzas. We need two big pizzas, man, everything on 'em, with water, whole lotta water, and Funyons." - Half-Baked

I intended for that to be the title of this blog post, in a subtle homage to Fiona Apple "When the pawn..." but alas Blogger cockblocked my attempt. Bitches.

So I just spent an hour arguing with my dad over whether or not he should get medical Cannabis. (At this point, I have to point out that the image on that website is four people who make their living thanks to weed. Beautiful.) As a cancer patient (who is in chronic pain, I might add, thanks to his uber-enlarged liver. Also, he isn't sleeping at night anymore because of combined pain and nerves) he would qualify for medical marijuana to help with pain management and to help with the side-effects of his impending chemotherapy. Did I use these reasons to argue my point to my father? Nope. Instead, I went with the catch-phrase approach: "Cancer? Try Chronic!" "If somebody told me I had terminal cancer you best believe I'd be tokin' the good shit." and my personal favorite "Fuck terminal illnesses, dad, get the Ganja." Surprisingly, none of my quips got the point across to him. I think my next approach will be exposure therapy to repeated playings of "Purple Haze." If that doesn't get him, I might have to throw in the towel here. Of course, my dad's arguments back to me were equally pathetic...things like "no" or "haha". The battle rages, I think.

I legitimately think my dad needs something to manage his pain because I share a Macaulay trait with him: we don't express our pain. If we are in pain, we rarely show it. (Ask any of my friends who have had to drag me to the hospital, like Nicole, for instance). Since being home today, my father has only gotten off of the couch to go to church with my mom and I, but otherwise he just lays there, wincing when he moves. To the untrained eye, he appears to just be lazing about on a Saturday afternoon, an endeavor that would not be held against him, even without cancer, but to those who know him, he is in a lot of pain and showing it. It would be a lie to say that it didn't trouble me. But, what can I do? The answer, of course, is not much. Still praying, still researching, still making myself better, but when coming face to face with stuff like this, it forces a reality check.

While being home, I can't relegate the troubles here to a distant part of my world, only letting them tickle the outer limits of my law school calm, like reeds on a lake causing tiny ripples, barely visible at the center of the water. I feel, at once, eager to return to the glassy surface on my proverbial lake in Lansing, and a strong pull to be here in Saginaw, providing a level attitude. My mother is still not herself, and my dad is starting to show his true feelings (something that is very unlike him or me). It is an unfortunate situation here at the Macaulay stronghold, but, as usual, we will keep on keeping on. This coming week, like all coming weeks, will be full of challenges, but I am confident that my father, mother, and I will face them head on and find support when/where/if we need it.

To finish this on a happy note, because I'll be damned if I write a post that is purely devoted to my concerns like some pussy emo bitch that wears black nail polish or like some emo dude who listens to Panic! at the Disco (you know who you are, haha), I call to attention, again, the fact that there is a website devoted entirely to legal marijuana in Michigan (sweeeeeeeet, man). Also, the music used for the Olympics promo about ice dancing? Lady MOTHERFUCKING Gaga! Seems inappropriate, but I'll take my Gaga when I can. Bitches.