Mornings start with graph checks and then we’re off to live
Not all D things are solid, but we continue, we forgive.
Lots to tackle, lots to manage, lots to do in this narration
Though efforts might end up a little bit Lost in Translation

Details of the day go by in a flurry
But I’m blocking all the chaos like Rushmore Bill Murray.
One thing stays the same, one thing’s on repeat
I’m always checking numbers to see how much I’m sweet.

It’s a cycle that I’m stuck in, like it’s always Groundhog Day
With the checking and the poking and the insulin melee.
“I’ve got you, babe,” says my panc and it’s right, it’s our kinship.
So I stick to the D program, pseudo-panc right on my hip.

Tracking lows that feel like pranks, man.
All the juice that I just drank, man.
And the rebound after I tank, man?
I bust those highs like Peter Venkman.

Searching for the perfect mix of things that bounce my BGs
But that mix it changes daily; that’s the trick of diabetes.
Pre-diagnosis numbers? How I miss you.
But I’ll keep working, searching like Steve Zissou.

It’s a circle of the weirdest kind but no rest for the weary.
The repetitive cycle of this stuff can feel a little dreary.
But why bother? Why continue? Why give this constant f*ck?
Because we’re worth it. Our lives matter.
And I’m guessing dead would suck.

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