|Posters and prints on sale now! Click above and buy some eye-candy for your walls!|
Epileptics, Don't They?
Chapter 5: Another Fucking Drug
Written by: Alex Sandell
After I had waited a combined 124 minutes, the doctor made his grand entrance. He chatted me up a bit about this and that and the other thing. He never apologized for making me wait over 2 hours, but that's not what he's paid for. After asking if I still thought President Bush was a bad President (seriously? Doesn't everyone at this point -- outside of overpaid doctors?), he casually mentioned that I probably didn't have long to live.
"You don't seem the same as you used to." He said, after telling me I'm a dead man walking. "You're calmer -- more subdued. The energy is gone. Are you depressed, for some reason?" 124 minutes of waiting, when you've been fasting for 2 days, can do that to a person. Or maybe it was just the side-effects of being told you're dying. Call me crazy, but that can sort of bum you out. Not as much as knowing your doctor is still stupid enough to support Resident Bush, but it's up there.
He put his stethoscope to my temple to listen for "blockage." I think he was checking the wrong end of my body. He then rushed me down to the basement of the clinic to get my labs. He did briefly pause to check the progress of The Juicy Cerebellum. It wouldn't come up on his absurdly small notebook computer. "You haven't been updating as much as usual," he said. I wasn't sure how he knew, being that he never did get to the page.
"Why is that? You used to update all the time." I answered with a pre-adolescent sounding, "I dunno." I wanted to say it was because I was busy beating Devil May Cry 3, but that wouldn't make any sense to him. "Why may the Devil cry 3 times? And what would he be crying about? Are you a Satanist?" Being a gamer can be a fulltime job, sometimes.
I did want to tell him that the reason he wasn't finding my page was due to the fact that he was spelling "Cerebellum" incorrectly, but restrained myself. I also wanted to mention how a doctor treating epilepsy unable to spell "cerebellum" made me a little nervous.
I considered admitting that I was depressed and didn't feel inspired to write. I yearned to explain how feedback for my updates had been minimal and if readers couldn't take a minute to tell me what they thought of my articles, I wasn't about to take 3 or 4 hours to write them.
I'm stubborn that way.
I also wanted to tell him that everything felt hopeless, and how I felt lonely, even when drinking green beer with suicidal friends. But I kept my mouth shut, knowing that the results of my heart-spillage would have been more hot lovin' from big Pharma. The doctor would have ordered me Prozac, Zoloft or some other impotence causing anti-depressant and the last thing I needed was to be put on another fucking drug. Or to become impotent.
Because I get laid so fucking often.
I finally went down and took the labs I should have taken 6 months earlier. "Just a little poke," the lady with the needle told me, before jabbing a "sharp" in my arm.
Of course the poke wasn't little, and the bruise on my arm has been growing daily, ever since. Sort of like The Blob, only with better FX. I watched tube after tube slowly filling up with my blood and recalled the punk band Blatz singing, "It's a real pain in the ass being human."
I thanked the
vampire tech and went on my way.
I met up with my doctor on the way out of the clinic. He told me that he was retiring on the 25th of May. He didn't know who would take care of me from that point on.
He again mentioned how high my cholesterol was/is, and how it will inevitably lead to a stroke or heart-attack. "What are you eating anyway? I've seen really fat people with cholesterol half yours." "I don't really keep track," I responded, "but today it's sure to be a Whopper with a side of Chicken Fries."
He shrugged and walked off into the sunset.
<<<Back to the start
Back to The Juicy Cerebellum
©2006 Alex Sandell and The Juicy Cerebellum Inc. [All Rights Reserved]. Copy this without permission and I'll damn you to a waiting room for all of eternity. One filled with patients exposed to bad dysentery. Plus the bird flu. And bad gas. The kind that smells like rotten eggs.