On Friday, I was so fuckin’ angry I wished I had a penis. No, I don’t have penis envy. Friday, though. Friday, I wanted a penis, so I could say “SUCK MY MOTHAH’ FUCKIN’ DICK”, to everyone. I wanted to march myself out into the world in groin clutching, crotch enhancing man jeans, grabbing my dick at the speed of light, screaming at the top of my lungs. That’s how I angry I was.
If I could’ve thrown every piece of glass and ceramic I own against the wall so hard that I would’ve felt the reverberating debris inside my womb, I would’ve. I wanted to watch it all crumble into a gazillion little pieces onto the floor. I don’t think I could’ve screamed as loudly as I wanted to, but I sure as shit wanted to try.
The health care system in this country isn’t fucked up, it’s a diseaseapalooza.
Doctor’s secretary, we’ll call her Spawn of Satan says, “Take this new medication. If you have side-effects and feel sick, call.” Katie asks, “What side-effects should I look for? Can you describe what feeling sick means?” Spawn of says, “I don’t know. You’d have to ask the doctor.”
Hmm… Doctor’s on vacation until the end of the first week of January and doesn’t have a handy-dandy-sidekick, so who the fuck do you suggest I call if I have side-effects?! Jesus? It is the holidays. Maybe he’ll make an appearance if I’m desperate. Or should I call 911? What’s the split on that dosage? 99/1? If I’m short, how about some thirty-something ovum? I’m sure a recovered crack whore and her city hall husband, Monty, would be none too pleased to have a thirty-something Jew egg. What would be more insulting I wonder, the “Jew” or the “thirty-something?”
Fuck.Fuck.Motherfuck.Fuck. Fuck them with a fine tooth comb covered in lice and crabs. Fuck their eyeballs with searing hot, multi-colored toothpicks. Fuck their noses with impregnated-ready-to-pop black widow spiders.