Back in the Soviet Union children of the formerly bourgeois often held names from refashioned revolutionary slogans and technological innovations. The most comical example of just such a name is perhaps Dazdrapertrak [Даздрапертрак, a word based on the initial syllables of Да здравствует первый трактор!]—Long live the First Tractor! In honor of those comrades long since shipped off to the distant gulag, I have renamed Malika. She shall henceforth answer to Elektro-Szokotczka, or Electroshock Kitty.

It is a much less shocking name than her original moniker: Princess Stinky Butt.

This morning, sometime around 3:30 AM, she discovered her secret powers as she lay atop my chest. It seems the pink blanket is a great conductor of static electricity. As I pet Malika, she built up quite a charge. She then stretched her paws out to hug my face, causing a flurry of aurorae between her furry toes and the fur on my chin.

Like any mediocre science nerd, I of course had to repeat the experiment in order to verify and validate the results. After a couple more shocks to the chin, I decided it was time to let science finally try to get back to sleep for the night. Malika grew disinterested, returning to the foot of the bed.

Of course, the question remains: why was I awake at 3:30 AM in the first place? Answer: because after waking up at 2:30 AM to be sick and nauseated once more, it was difficult going back to sleep. Lying awake for those few hours this morning, I began assessing my doctor’s appointment twelve hours prior.

I had written here that medical science is pure hermeneutics, but now that the question-and-answer period between man of medicine and man of sickness is long over, I have come to a remarkable insight. Medicine is a faulty and impoverished version of interpretational strategies. I treat my texts—even including the daily comics—with more care and respect than any M.D. has treated poor, little, sick me.

In either field, one’s assessment should always be a bit more than rewording the patient’s symptoms as if intralingual translation itself were a cure. I am still sick with no prescribed medicine and a splitting headache brought on by my limited coffee intake. Maybe I should just take a few more electro-shock treatments with a purring cat on my chest.

Back in the Soviet Union children of the formerly bourgeois often held names from refashioned revolutionary slogans and technological innovations. The most comical example of just such a name is perhaps Dazdrapertrak [Даздрапертрак, a word based on the initial syllables of Да здравствует первый трактор!]—Long live the First Tractor! In honor of those comrades long since shipped off to the distant gulag, I have renamed Malika. She shall henceforth answer to Elektro-Szokotczka, or Electroshock Kitty.

It is a much less shocking name than her original moniker: Princess Stinky Butt.

This morning, sometime around 3:30 AM, she discovered her secret powers as she lay atop my chest. It seems the pink blanket is a great conductor of static electricity. As I pet Malika, she built up quite a charge. She then stretched her paws out to hug my face, causing a flurry of aurorae between her furry toes and the fur on my chin.

Like any mediocre science nerd, I of course had to repeat the experiment in order to verify and validate the results. After a couple more shocks to the chin, I decided it was time to let science finally try to get back to sleep for the night. Malika grew disinterested, returning to the foot of the bed.

Of course, the question remains: why was I awake at 3:30 AM in the first place? Answer: because after waking up at 2:30 AM to be sick and nauseated once more, it was difficult going back to sleep. Lying awake for those few hours this morning, I began assessing my doctor’s appointment twelve hours prior.

I had written here that medical science is pure hermeneutics, but now that the question-and-answer period between man of medicine and man of sickness is long over, I have come to a remarkable insight. Medicine is a faulty and impoverished version of interpretational strategies. I treat my texts—even including the daily comics—with more care and respect than any M.D. has treated poor, little, sick me.

In either field, one’s assessment should always be a bit more than rewording the patient’s symptoms as if intralingual translation itself were a cure. I am still sick with no prescribed medicine and a splitting headache brought on by my limited coffee intake. Maybe I should just take a few more electro-shock treatments with a purring cat on my chest.