(The slow motion crisis of age)
Fuck. Up with the stars, the spinning milky galaxy. Each night my veins fill with some sort of watery embalming fluid and I am stricken with a mild dysphoria, only coffee can offset the effect, the secret sleep mortician's damage is done. It is a mild addiction, but at least nobody will bother me about it. Few, anyway.
Perhaps my doctor.
I will make a call and fire him when his office opens at 9am, just after having him refill my xanax prescription. I wonder if he would ever be willing to subscribe morphine to me, for my pain.
"But sir, you simply stop coming here and then choose another doctor that you feel will be more supportive of your 'coffee addiction', you don't need to 'fire' your doctor, it doesn't really work that way. Yes, of course, we have your address on file. And no, I have never heard of the doctor delivering a gallon of liquid morphine to a patient's home. It is a controlled substance, it has nothing to do with whether or not we trust you."
"You know... I didn't want to do this, and I suspected that you'd make this whole process unpleasant. I just somehow knew you'd make your silly little scene about it all. But now you've pushed me too far, and I am in no mood for this. You're fired too! Get a cardboard box, pack your shit, and get out, NOW! I'll be coming by to pick up that morphine prescription myself, since you claim that it can not just be called in as usual."
That's what my day looks like. A real Donald Trump.
I feel bad for them, but what am I to do, suffer these indignities forever? I had to fire everybody in the office. They put me on speaker phone. I could hear them all laughing. My suffering will soon be over.
I will have to call my insurance company, of course, let them know not to pay any outstanding charges I might have with them, explain the situation, see if they'll give me a cash advance against any future claims I might make before the end of the year, then run by the pharmacy and verify when they will be able to fill a prescription for a 5 gallon jug of liquid morphine and a customized silly straw.
I would write more this morning, dear reader, you know that I would. But alas, this relationship was never meant to last. It was doomed from the start, the very first words we ever spoke….
Mine was, "Fuck."
.
