Sticks and pain

The first ten minutes or so in an MRI aren't bad. You can't hear the music or whatever you've asked them to pipe through your headphones because the machine is a noisy one. But no matter: MRIs are often done quickly these days, and the Complete and Total Loser heard others being theirs would take about ten minutes.
The Loser's took longer. Much longer. He was in for an hour and fifteen minutes because of the five pounds of titanium he has instead of artificial the knee joint most would get. 
And there's more! After an hour, he needed to be injected with a dye to show contrast. The Loser used to have nice veins and he'd get that little unearned thrill people get from being told something about them is good (hair, eyes, hands) when nurses told him what an easy stick he was. Not anymore. The numerous operations and tests he's had so far in 2017 have led to scarring and the nurse had to abandon his left arm for his right to inject the dye needed for the last fifteen minutes of his MRI.
You know what? All the pads and cushions in the world won't make keeping your lower half completely still for an hour and fifteen minutes comfortable. 
The Loser needed the MRI so his doctor could see if the bone sarcoma had come back and needed to be tended to. Meanwhile, the Loser needs to visit this doctor anyway because bone has grown around the hinge now serving as his knee, limiting its range of motion, so the doctor will need to knock him out and force it to bend, grinding away the bone growth as he does. This isn't really an operation but a manual manipulation. Still, the Loser knows it'll hurt like hell when he comes to.
After the MRI came a lung cat scan to see if the Loser's bone sarcoma has spread to his lungs. There's a one-in-three chance of it doing so and if it does there's no treatment for it—the Loser would be dead within a year. That needed a different dye for contrast and required another stick. This one in a large vein in the Loser's right hand. 
The second test required that he not eat, so the Loser skipped breakfast. Not a big deal, he'd thought, as he'd be in at 8:30 and home by 10:00. He didn't get back until after noon and, though he'd promised himself to have something wholesome and nutritious, bought discounted cherry turnovers and chocolate chip cookies at a supermarket on his way home and ate too many of both.

The bathroom sink in which a spider died.

Tomorrow, maybe the day after, the Loser will learn if he'll be dead in a year or not. It would make sense to enjoy this day of not knowing with a light heart and happy mind, but the Loser is finding that impossible.
He sees misery everywhere these days, the Loser. A few days ago while cleaning the sink in the picture, a sink that he never uses because the bathroom has two, he found a dead spider in it. It had fallen into the sink and died, probably after several days. It would have tried to climb out, never giving up, always sliding back just as it neared the rim. While the Loser knows that its tiny arachnid brain is incapable of higher thoughts like regret, he can't help thinking the spider thought some version of oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.