Yes, I have been captured by a group of insulin-producing human aliens, who have forced me to join their cult, by injecting their foreign chemical into my own body.

My problem began when a Doctor with a strange alien accent, announced that my soaring sugar count had convinced him that the time had come to move me to: “the needle”.

Now, after 3 weeks of being held hostage by insulin-producing humans, my body and brain, have entered a motion slow world. For example, at the local recreation center last night, the timing on my table tennis stroke was:

off, and then:

on.

Eventually my forehand stroke became: lost-in-space.

And, now this morning, I feel fat. Of course, after three weeks of insulin shots, I am only imaging that I am getting fat. But the Doctor promises there will be a day when the imagination runs out and reality “weighs in”.

Worse, it turns out that my well-regarded creativity might only be a symptom of this disease called diabetes. That is, since moving to the needle I have started following the uninspired practices of most insulin-carrying human aliens, such as:

— spelling a word correctly in my head before writing it down.
–letting other people, even my wife, finish sentences.
–filling table tennis sign-in-sheets with a full name rather than scratching out one initial, followed by three impatiently tapped dots.

And:

–abandoning all efforts to “smell-out” the taste of candy and ice-cream.

It is true. Getting shot up and drugged on insulin produces weird sensations; such as feeling calm, when nothing is wrong. Or thinking I am fat after walking into a pastry shop. Is this how other people feel all the time? No wonder, that in the past, everybody seemed like torpid louts.

Anyways, my situation turned serious when a crafty nurse and her alien-looking aide “assisted” me in sticking a thin needle, dripping with insulin,—- a needle which I was afraid to even look at— into the left lower side of my own breath holding stomach.

Nurse: “Are you OK?”

Me: “Yeah, no problem”

Nurse “Remove the orange cap”

I removed the orange cap.

Nurse: “You OK?”

I barely heard the second question.

I was contemplating the meaning of stabbing myself with sharp pointed object in the soft underside of my lower stomach.

The back of my brain filled with the sonorous voice of Richard Burton reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy.

“Just point, jab, and push. And hold it for ten seconds”

Me: “Ten seconds?”

My brain switched to Fred.

Fred is a table tennis friend who had immigrated to America from Haiti when he was 22 and has since developed a wicked backhand shot.

I imagined the conversation.
“Fred”

“Yeah-whats up?

“Can you find me a Doctor? You know one that cures aliments by sticking needles—into–into something other than my own stomach? Like a miniature doll. I mean, could a Haitian doctor cure my diabetes by sticking needles in a snickers bar?”

No, Fred would be insulted. He would probably tell me to contact a supply side economist.

Then back to the nurse:

“Yea, OK, I am ready. Here goes.”

The needle didn’t go.

That is, as my hand pushed forward at the last second, the point of the needle swerved—side-w-a-y-s. A miss.

“sorry, survival instincts. To be and all that”

Then, another miss.

A third try:

“I did it!”

“Ok, push the injection handle-in the back. Injection, in the back!”

“eight,– nine, –ten seconds”

“Good”

“Now, wipe it with the gauze.

My head filled with an alcoholic smell and grade-school horror memories.”

It was done.

Now, three weeks later I continue, each morning, to stab myself in the stomach; all by myself.

This action, allows me, in the long run: “to be”. Throwing away the needle and letting sugar grains reckless run through the fluids of my body and would eventually cause me: “to not be”

It’s not even a question.

It’s a fact.

And, of course, after 3 weeks the idea of sitting calmly for hours on end, and working through a pile of paperwork, no longer seems Alien.

In fact, I can’t wait to fill out the paperwork for those extraterrestrial acting insurance companies.