Friday, March 18, 2011

And I'm the Asshole?

So here I am suffering from some sort of plague, and so-called medical professionals won't go off script, listen to me, and help my sorry-immune-deficient ass. So I decide to go to the grocery store pharmacy and self-medicate.

Now I'm a pro at self-medicating, but usually my ailments are more emotional in nature, and instead of going to a pharmacy, I go to a bar. But with my new found maturity, after turning 27, I decided that I was wise enough to medicate my physical ailments as well.

So there I am, lingering in the cold and flu aisle, darting from one box to another trying to find which brand has a remedy for my symptoms. I must have looked absolutely lost because out of nowhere this blubbery woman with unkempt hair, acne and reeking of cigarette smoke goes, "do you need any help? I'm a CNA".

"Fuck. A Certified Nursing Assistant," I say to myself, "this isn't going to end well". But I figure, despite being a CNA, she may have some valuable information, so I lay out my symptoms in the most medically accurate way. I mean, I don't want to be talked down to twice in one day by wannabe medical professionals.

Well she starts out saying, "[i]n my expert opinion..."

"Expert opinion? I'm sorry, but unless CNA stands for something else, the only things you could have an expert opinion on is how to bathe an old guy with Alzheimer, or how to put a blood pressure cuff on someone. I'm cool if you want to tell me if any of these worked for you first-hand, but don't think you're an expert for a second. The only thing you are is a medical janitor."

So there's some hurumphing and she leaves in a huff, as if she held the cure to the Common Cold. Surely I overreacted, but I didn't feel like being lectured about classical immunology by someone who has a fucking certificate from some lame-ass community college, and someone who clearly smokes a dozen packs a day. Sorry if I don't value the medical opinion Jo-Anne Camel.

Sigh, and I'm the asshole?

Well I must have been, because when I get out to my car the front driver's side tire is as flat as Keira Knightly, or Kate Hudson, or Selma Blair. Whatever, you get the picture. Normal people would probably whine and call for help. Not this guy.

The trunk of my car is its own emergency response mobile command center/dead hooker transport carrier. I'm a man with the plan for all of life's foibles. My trunk is my Swiss Army knife.

So I just inflate my tire, pray to the Goodyear prayer to my personal Homeboy Jesus, and set sail for home.

That's right. Karma tried to get me, but I got Tiger Blood and I'm Winning, duh. There's no stopping this rock star from Mars...

Oh shit... I think the fevers back.

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