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"I once heard a story, 'Whatever blooms from the Baobab is given back to the earth, because a mighty tree never forgets its roots" Like the mighty Boabab, McDonald's and I will not be moved" -From the McDonald's "365black"website, a program aimed at empowering the African American Community
 I never really thought of myself as a bigot. Ya know the cigar chompin' goin to klan meeting at Porky's kind of bigot. Over the course of this four year journey of Juvenile Diabetes, I've discovered become much more dogmatic against a select brand of folks.
In my mind, I have created a heated blood rivalry between Type One and Type Two diabetics.
The media tends to class all of us together. It's two very different things. Type 1 diabetics have to be pretty healthy and NOT the gynormo squad you see on the news. So Type 1's get lumped in with the fat asses.
We hate it when someone finds out the and becomes and expert because "My Grandmother had that." I'm not going into all the details about it, but it's a whole different ballgame. A little known fact, the American Diabetes Association gives a lot more money toward Type 2 diabetics. Type 2's didn't have to be this way. Type 1's just happen and each day is painstaking obstacle course in learning your body.
A delightful anecdote:
I quit my oppressive, back biting, sham of an existence job. I had only been there a week when I realized that I hadn't done a good job of interviewing my supervisors. They were ASSHOLES. And not just in that "Every Boss I've had is an asshole" kind of way. These folks ran DOS for chrissake and got down right cocknasty about it when I couldn't figure it out. Real above and beyond the call of duty type assholes. I sat in my office for three months grinding insciors into the jawbone of my discontent. In my indestructible youth, I would have walked almost immediately. But now I am a Type-1 diabetic need benefits so I can go on to cobra. So I wade through three months of daily abuse.
The day after giving notice, HR Gina comes to my desk with a broad smile. We never really got along but I was curious about how she would be in the sack. "We're bringing in Shelly for you to train. You'll love her" and then the magic words "She's a diabetic too."
Crap.
Two days later Shelly thundered on in. Shelly, late 40's and fat. REALLY fat. The fat had fat. She liked tight revealing clothes. Maybe revealing isn't really quite the right word but there wasn't a whole lot left to the imagination. Her tropicana style blouse clung into her folds, her brown Sears poleyster clung to her every nether crevasse. Her overblown man hands clutched onto a a power gulp resusable chalice of 64 oz Circle-K fountain spew. She had a large needlepoint bag that she obviously picked up a local crafts show.
I'm gonna stop right here. There is noting wrong per-say about being gluttonous. Sure, I have had some less than perfect (let's just call them failures) diabetic days. But when I see diabetics, who obviously don't even give a damn to even try to take care of themselves, it drives me double chocolate dipped bananas.
"Let me get in close so I can really see what your doing." An office chair squeaked and thrusted into my space. Shelly had selected some kind of Jolly Roger Watermelon Ode to Ross Dress for Less scent that wafted and strangled. It stuck with you too. It rubbed off. I was one Watermelon smellin' man.
Mid-morning I was feeling a bit low, so I pull out my monitor to test and pull a 70. Her eyes light up at the site of One Touch ultra Smart. "Oh..." sweat furrowed in my pits and under my chin, here it comes "I'm a diabetic like you!"
No bitch, you're not. Right around 70 is when your temper ignites and blazes. You want to wreck things and scream. I've gotten good at playing it off keeping a calm exterior while my innards push out frozen sweat out of my pores. I smile and tell her I need a coke, the all satisfying emergency beverage, and will be right back.
When I return my desk is oddly different. It could have been the Two short of a dozen overfrosted titanic pink cupcakes, B-B-Q Kettle Chips, Nacho Con Queso Dip littered what was (for the next ten days) MY desk.
"You're back." Shelly said. She then proceeded to fellate the soon to be doomed pastry. "I need a snack before lunch." She took a swig out of her fountain spew.
"What the FUCK could you possibly eat for LUNCH?" danced inside my mouth, daring my teeth to part and let it escape.
Now granted I can eat all of these things in moderation. But I do need to shoot some insulin and work out afterwards. But watching her consume all of these death to diabetic indulgences in massive portions, just got my skin crawling and the water melon perfume dizzified me.
There was a part of me that just wanted my draw my dullest syringe and attempt to puncture her sea lion skin.
It was the last insult to injury that this torture chamber of a post-production house could have ever produced. The next two weeks was a barrage of Double Six Dollar burgers Jumbo sized fries and other items described in commercials as "savory." "refreshing," and "tempting." It was a harsh ten days.
I know every Type-2 isn't like this.. but they always seem so smug when they are choking that shit down.
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