I have West Nile virus. That has to be it. Or mono. Or cancer. Or a goiter. Possibly a tumor.
Oh my god, I hate my life.
I have a swollen lymph node. I mean, that's probably it. Which leads to either cancer or West Nile. And there's a little guy living there, throbbing, pissing me off, being a big fatty lump underneath my jaw. Ideally, I should see a doctor, you know? But here's the thing: You have to make an appointment with doctors, and to make an appointment they either must (a) answer their fucking phone, or (b) return my call after I leave five hundred messages.
I've been trying to get an appointment for a week.
I. FUCKING. HATE. DOCTORS.
Are you a doctor? (I hate you.)
Doctors, you see, have never done anything good for me. Oh, I believe in modern medicine, I just don't believe in a doctor's ability to properly administer it. I also don't believe they want to help people, because if they did THEY WOULD CALL ME BACK AND I COULD GET THIS THING OFF OF MY FACE, but they don't call me back because they are assheads. They have asses for heads and their heads are asses and they probably creep into examination rooms and masturbate to my melancholy voicemails, aroused by my foolish dreams that they know will inevitably go unrequited.
Also, I don't care what any of you say, fucking Grey's Anatomy is a stupid fucking show full of stupid fucking people and it makes me want to kill myself.
Yesterday I had this raging fever and I was walking from the bus and shivering, wrapped in a sweater. Fucking seventy-five degrees outside, and I ached for a winter coat.
Why don't I just go to an urgent care facility? I'll fucking tell you why - because they don't take my fucking HMO. No, my insurance isn't good enough for immediate care. It's good enough for dying in throbbing, agonizing discomfort, it's good enough for, "Hello, my neck really, really hurts," "Well, you should see a doctor. We can't help you, but someday, someone might."
And then I call my insurance company and I say, "Please give me the names of all of the doctors I can see" and then it's all, "Oh, you already have an assigned doctor" and I say, "Yes, but he hasn't returned any of my many many phone calls and I think I have swine flu." So there.
Why can't I just walk in through the front door of the hospital and say, "Hello, my name is Rassles, and there is a giant fucking thing swelling right here" (and I will point for effect) "and can you please cut it out of me, or give me medicine so it will go away, because I'm embarrassed to even ride the bus right now and I'm five minutes away from X-acto knifing my face."
And then if they tell me that my insurance doesn't cover elephantine tumors I'm gonna bleed on them. I'm going to slice my jaw open, and I'm just going to spray blood all over their heads that look like asses. Might kill me, but at least I'll get that last spiteful "fuck you, modern medicine" message across.
And that is why I haven't been writing blogs, or reading anyone elses, really. Because I have West Nile virus, and I'm probably going to die.
I am sooooo mad.