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Wednesday, June 14, 2017

💀 ☠ The Connection Between Sugar and Cancer

The mad folly possessed me last evening after my younger brother Mark had gone to his bedroom for the night after he laudably remained conscious just about all of the evening as we watched some television programming.

I turned off the T.V. and could have been to bed well ahead of 11:00 p.m., but I did not manage that.

And so it may have been approaching 2:00 a.m. before finally I was done with the dissolution and had sought my own bed.

I sure hope that it was no later than 2:00 a.m., at any rate.

Yet it was 6:11 a.m. this morning when I checked the time and knew that I would have to rise and commence my day.

I was to find that only my youngest stepson Poté was still home and in bed instead of at work, but he was to soon enough rise; and at 7:45 a.m. he headed out the front door to his car to drive himself to work.

The day was overcast, and there was some very light rain in the morning.

I only had one task at hand ─ this day's work upon the new post I set up yesterday at my Lawless Spirit website. I had no illusions of accomplishing anything else today without a nap.

However, my morning was ruined by the haranguing barking and piercing whining from the brown hound just beyond our backyard fence. In the misery that I already felt from my late night's misconduct and inadequate sleep, I was ill-prepared to contend with the onslaught of this noisy, intrusive harassment, for there is no peace nor escape from the volume here in the house.

Earplugs can muffle the noise, yes; but they also prevent hearing anything else, such as a ringing telephone, or a knock or doorbell ring, and especially the sound of the arrival of some text that my wife Jack might send me.

Also, I do not like to be at such a disadvantage with the house unlocked, sitting here upstairs at my computer with my back exposed to the doorway of the room my computer is in. After all, the world is not exactly into any shortage of predators and ne'er-do-wells.

At times I was reduced to trembling rages that would be punctuated with a roaring outburst from me of furious, impotent profanity as that animal abused my sensibilities over and over through the hours of the morning. A few times I put on my shoes with the thought to go forth to the fence and shout aloud a resoundingly long "SHUT...UP...!", potentially accompanied with further profanity.

But I knew that other neighbours are as likely to hear me as are any of the inconsiderate, brainless bounders who own the beast; and the stinking mutt is hardly to be impressed into any quietude by my loud display.

With a headache threatening me, I was at one point so very oppressed that I cursed damnation aloud to all in the neighboruing household, along with their infernal dog; and I rehearsed its several bloody murders at my hands.

I can't live like this. It's too much. And I'm too old.

But after having my first meal of the day, I did get my nap through the very lattermost portion of the morning, spending 70 minutes back in bed with earplugs and blindfold in place, and the house front door locked. I never heard the dog throughout in my closed bedroom, but I arose to find that it had not stopped.

Fortunately, though, by about noon someone must have allowed it entry back into the house. The fool creature considers itself a house-dog, so spoiled it is. And because of its constant pampering, it is unable to bear solitude of any duration whatsoever ─ the weak, purposeless suck needs to be in the presence of its humans at all times, and cannot endure a minute outside by itself.

It is a pathetic creature that ought not to exist, by my biased reckoning. And I would be delighted to be able to rectify that situation.

But on to other things now.

Yesterday a telephone message was left at our landline answering machine.

It's an answering machine, as I said; yet so many dense idiots just say, "Hello?  Hello?"

That happened in this instance, too; and then the female caller ─ who had a slight accent of some sort ─ went as follows:
This message for [my wife Jack]. 
My name is Vanessa Garcia. I am calling regarding an important business matter that needs your full attention. Give us a call back at...."
Well, I have listened over and over and over, and I cannot even string together the first three of the digits she starts spewing out in such rapid succession that they are indistinguishable to my ringing ears. It's of course a long distance number that may well be toll free, but it also has a set of extension numbers.

The problem with continually listening for the long string of numbers to try and write them down is that it takes so long to reach that end of the message, for the caller does not immediately speak once the answering machine kicks in. Thus, there is that long pause, and then her own pause with the needless hellos; and finally, her message with the confusing array of numbers at the end of it.

So just to hear those number twice probably takes at least a full minute to get from beginning to end, and I have no inclination to keep doing that ─ not when the numbers start getting rattled off so fast and indistinctly that I cannot even begin to try writing them down. I am pretty sure the first number is a "1" and the second may be an "8"...but that's as far as I can distinctly hear and understand.

However, what manner of "important business matter" could this possibly be when the caller does not even identify who the "us" are that my wife Jack is supposed to be calling back, let alone what the matter may even concern?

I can only presume that it is a whitewash to con Jack into calling back to listen to some spiel, and get her subjected to some utterly needless credit card or other offer.

She has yet to hear the message.

As I recently have been discussing here in my blog, I have gotten into the natural fermentation of vegetables ─ thanks to my wife Jack. I had no idea that she knew anything about it until she decided to mix up a batch of what she calls "pickles" a couple of months ago.

She learned how to do it back in her home village in Thailand.

I had read about the benefits of regularly including fermented foods in one's diet, but I deemed the procedure to be just a little beyond me ─ as much as I envied having access to such a rich probiotics and prebitoics food source.

Upon witnessing Jack prepare her "pickles" twice, I decided to give it a go, and I am presently into what I think is my third batch ─ this one is comprised of a purple cabbage, a leek, and about six or seven stalks of celery.

Anyway, I have been lamenting that I do not have access to organic vegetables.

Well, this afternoon the local free twice-weekly Surrey Now-Leader arrived, and as I paged through it, I came upon an article featuring the Surrey Urban Farmers Market: Farmers’ market rebuilds in North Surrey with zero funds for marketing.

I had been wondering about it, but I had no idea that it had already started up last Wednesday, and would be in place each Wednesday until and including October 4, and with operating hours spanning from 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.

It's about a mile from where I live. However, I hate going anywhere in the afternoon. If I don't get out in the morning, then I tend to remain home because of how unappealing the hustle and bustle out there is by the afternoon.

So I cannot say if I will ever make a point of paying it a visit.

I do not drive, and so I have to walk everywhere.

Something else I was reading about today concerned lung cancer. Did you know that cancers of the lung are classified as either small cell or else non-small cell?

What a ridiculous time I had trying to get an explanation of what the actual differences were ─ I don't mean a description of the types of cancers that fall beneath each of the two categories, but rather precisely what makes one lung cancer "small cell" and another "non-small cell"?

I actually think that most websites detailing about lung cancer do not actually understand the difference themselves! They only know that there are the two categories, and they understand what the various types of lung cancers are that belong in each of the two categories.

I finally found the explanation I was searching for at MedicalNewsToday.com: Small cell vs. non-small cell lung cancer: What are the differences?
Small cell cancer is true to its name. When viewed under a microscope, the cells of a small cell cancer appear small and round. Non-small cell lung cancer cells are larger in size. 
And it's apparently as simple as that. So why couldn't I find that spelled out anywhere else?

Anyway, I bring all of this up because of a study I read about that stresses why people need to consume as little sugar as they possible can. And if they have any kind of cancer at all, then just eradicate sugar entirely from the diet:

JacksDailyDose.com

UTDallas.edu

That last website is of the university where the research was performed.

Earlier I alluded to having something of a headache. I think yesterday may have been the first day in the past week in which I did not have a vague headache, although I may be wrong about that ─ since I never engaged in any exercise yesterday, I did not challenge my brain with any sort of strenuous blood pressure change.

I pondered not exercising today, too, but that becomes a slippery slope ─ skipping two consecutive days borders upon neglect.

So as unable as I was feeling, shortly after 3:00 p.m. I donned a pair of gym-style shorts and headed on out to the backyard shed in just a t-shirt. Soon after I was out there, the Sun actually shone brilliantly for less than a minute before the cloud cover assumed full control of the sky once more.

Anyway, I achieved a full complement of what lately has become my targeted volume of repetitions in the most arduous of the exercises I engage ─ the pull-ups. So I am content.

With the practice of good behaviour after watching T.V. this evening, I should have a more healthy day tomorrow than I have experienced today.

Okay, I want now to post an old scanned image of a postcard that belonged to my mother Irene Dorosh and her husband Alex ─ it was a souvenir from one of their chartered tours over to the U.S.S.R. in the 1970s and 1980s.

There are actually three scans of the postcard, for it was in two sections ─ that is, a front flap or cover and a back flap or cover. In other words, it was more like a greeting card that one would open apart to see the message inside.

Unfortunately, the glossy front of the postcard had gotten wet and adhered to another postcard's glossy surface, and both were damaged in separating them:


The back flap, page, or cover:


And this was the printed description inside the postcard that probably explained what the illustrations were of ─ I cannot decipher it, for I do not know Russian or Ukrainian:


My eyes are most certainly bothering me. There are other things that I could have rattled on about in this post, but I am going to finish up with this old journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster

I was renting the small accommodation in a house located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

For several weeks, I had been employed full-time on a three- or four-month contract with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society.

The building no longer exists that housed them back then, but it was essentially where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station today opens up onto Carnarvon Street.
MONDAY, June 14, 1976

I arose about 5:40 a.m. I believe I had a NE during the night.

I rested up for 50 minutes prior to getting set to leave for work; I'll mail dad's letter.

David came in a while this morning.

Took doesn't seem eager to work on the truck anymore; my partner today was a certain Steve, a young fellow.

After work Gilles did his best to ensure spending the evening together, but I explained I was going to mom's. (Hopefully I'll see him but 5 times monthly.) That's also what I told Angelina whom I was espied by on Carnarvon; she then invited me over for tomorrow, but tho I implied I might, if left to me I shan't.

I am heading for mom's just about 7:00 p.m.

I did so in a light rain, and came home even damper.

On the bridge to Surrey I was honked at by a red car like Bill's; a large fellow was passenger, possibly he.

My only piece of mail at mom's was the Olympic Lottery ticket from Nelson's St. Joseph School

Mom gave me a couple pie plates, cause I've decided to try my hand at making them rather than paying double and more for bought pies.

Bed afore 11:00 p.m.
Philip David Prince was an old friend of mine who then was also rooming in New Westminster. David perceived that he was unlikely to see me if he did not seek me out at S.A.N.E., for I tended to avoid him.

"Took" was an Indigenous Canadian somewhat older than I was, and my co-swamper on the S.A.N.E. pick-up truck. Our driver was generally a woman in her early 40s named Esther St. Jean. 

We could get pretty darned busy working on the truck ─ sometimes we had a moving job to do that might take several loads. Perhaps "Took" figured that he would relinquish his position and just do whatever duties might come up in "the store," as we tended to refer to S.A.N.E.

I found not having truck duty to be indescribably boring.

"Gilles" was a young French Canadian whom I had come to know from having as a co-worker at S.A.N.E. during previous part-time employment a year or two earlier. He was a nice enough chap, but he talked far, far too much; and he seemed to have nothing better to do whenever he connected with me than spend as much time with me as I would allow.

I'm not sure just what I meant about only having to see "Gilles" five times a month. I remember having written awhile back that he was hoping to get back on at S.A.N.E. Maybe he succeeded, but only at a day a week like had been the case for me when I was working part-time with them previously.

I had things I liked to do when I was on my own at my room ─ like intermittent exercising, for example. I also enjoyed playing around at baking and other cooking. And I liked to read. 

I didn't want company. 

Angelina Smith was another matter. She was the wife of another former S.A.N.E. co-worker, Art Smith. Art was in his early 40s, and loved to drink. Angie was in her early 30s, and a little too interested in me. The pair had three kids.

So if I got enmeshed in visiting at the home of the Smiths, then my evening would be lost; and to boot, I would have to drink with Art, and suffer the consequences the following day of a potentially late night and far too much alcohol.

As for my mother Irene Dorosh, she and her husband lived out in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey. Their home was my main mailing address. The little house is gone now, but its address used to be 12106 - 90th Avenue. To hike there from my room would take about 1½ hours of fast-paced walking.

It was probably my old friend William Alan Gill I speculated was in a red car that honked at me on the Pattullo Bridge as I trudged across it to Surrey.

Back then, lottery tickets were not available in stores and in booths in every shopping complex like they are available today. I had mail-ordered an Olympic Lottery ticket from the school in Nelson ─ the school was probably involved with selling tickets as a fund-raising project. 

I would not have visited too long with my mother. I still had the long walk to get back to my room in New Westminster. 
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