the end of the start of the rest of my life

I have some health problems that have largely gone unaddressed. I might be young, but I have the body of an old man. Instead of getting angry anymore, I just get heartburn. I get heartburn at least once per meal. Or six times a day. It’s gotten to the point where I have a favorite Tums flavor. I’ll carry them around in my backpack, I’ll offer them to strangers like they’re Skittles: You’ve gotta try black cherry. It’s truly delectable. 

I’m scared of going to the doctor. Doctors are so judgmental, and only because you don’t wanna get vaccinated? Let’s be clear: I don’t like vaccines for the reason you think. It’s because I’m terrified of needles. So, when I go to the doctor, I have to go in there and convince him that I am NOT anti-vax. I’m just a little bitch. 

In all honesty, the waiting room is the worst part of the visit. It’s a purgatorial location, the space between two spaces. It serves no other purpose than to detain those seeking passage from one side to the next. The tension, the anxiety, the smell of surgical rubber. And most of the time, the waiting room also doubles as an office, where a receptionist’s keyboard is the only sound that reminds you of the outside world.

As if the waiting room isn’t enough, sometimes you get dealt a bad hand and end up with a hot doctor, which is ultimately unfair. How come you get to be two important things to society? I think ugly people should have the important jobs, and hot people should work at a Midwestern Chipotle off the highway.

I think hot doctors revel in telling you what’s wrong with you: Hate to break it to you buddy, but the sad truth is, you really are what you eat, and you eat like shit. You eat like shit because you hate what you’ve become, because you’ve become what you hate, which is nothing. And now you’re coming here, asking me to fix all your problems. What this all means is your thirties are off to a great start. And you’re only twenty three.