“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard

Thursday, November 18, 2004

So I went to the doctor’s office today.

I filled out some papers, he filled out some papers, he made copies of the papers I brought with me.

There were lots of papers.

He then checked the basics.

My heart is in great shape (and I do so love how surprised everyone seems to be upon hearing that).

My ears are fine, even after the punishment they took at the mercy of my stereo on the drive over.

My eyes, though completely red and more light-sensitive than ever, are still 20/20 (with my glasses on).

My reflexes are seemingly non-existent. I explained that I was operating on about 3 hours sleep and massive HALO 2 overdose and he adjusted the results accordingly.

Pretty much everything was as it should have been except for a HUGE FUCKING HERNIA.

Which he didn’t even look at.

That’s right. He said he believed me when I told him I had a hernia and that he didn’t need to see it.

And yes, that did seem unusual, and yes, I did ask him if he was sure, but there’s only so many times you can ask a grown man if he want’s you to take your shirt off before it begins to feel awkward.

The number of times is usually one, and that’s only under particular circumstances. Circumstances like him being a doctor, or you’ve just gotten a new badass tattoo/scar, or you’re working your way through college dancing in a gay, biker, strip club…

Anyways, it only took me like half a fucking hour to find the place since only half of its sign was up. The half that said CARE. I found the half that said HEALTH leaning against the wall inside along with two of the address numbers that also would have been helpful in finding the fucking place.

I actually found the right building by stopping at the first building that had people standing outside and asking them for directions. YES, women and stand-up comedians, men DO ask for directions when left with no alternative, we just don’t do it around women. It just happened that the place I pulled over was where I needed to go.

I rule that way.

By the way, I still don’t know anything about weather this helped me or not. He had to send all the papers off somewhere and I’ll probably have to go see another doctor or three.

I’m sure at least one of them will want to see me shirtless.

So I get back to my place and I park out front since I needed to take Nate to work later in the day, and I’m stopped by the crazy neighbor lady. You remember, the one that called my Mom and told her that Nate was sitting on the front porch drinking beer, smoking pot and calling her a nosy bitch? The one that called my Mom ant threatened to call Code Enforcement if I didn’t do the edging on my lawn?

Yeah, that one.

She stopped me to tell me that the kid that comes by sometimes in the red car to pick up Nate looked over at her when she was on her porch having a smoke and informed her that his balls itched.

I’m really not making this up.

I couldn’t.

Really.

Apparently, anything that’s said in or near my house that can be heard from her porch must be aimed directly at her and she’s not shy about voicing her indignation to myself and my mother.

It’s starting to piss me off.

Yes, the guy with the red car (Gage, like in Pet Semetary) did say one night that his balls did indeed itch, but I remember the incident and though he was on his way out the front door, his head was still within my dwelling. And yes, Nate probably did say something one night about a “nosy neighbor bitch”, but it’s a little presumptuous of her to assume that she was the nosy neighbor bitch in question.

And this just a few days after my friends Ryan and Raychel left my house to find their car egged and something in the street on fire.

Where’s my fucking gun?



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