Mostly rambles, few brambles
I feel fine. What does he know—he’s just a doctor.
Yeah, Dr. Townsend, I know I’m not eighteen. Don’t patronize me. But listen when I say I’m good, and whole-heart-edly disagree with your high blood pressure diagnosis.
Ha! God, I’m so clever.
“It’s green; fucking go, moron!”
We know, Dr. Townsend—Johns Hopkins Medical School and a residency at Mass General. Yes, you’re very bright, and very wonderful, and very good at mentioning your credentials. Let me ask you this, though, how do you know me better than I know me?
At thirty I actually feel better. My weight’s been level, exactly proportionate to my age. No decline in my appetite, nor my sexual appetite. Exercise has stayed non-existent. My metabolism and Adderall benders have been up for the challenge.
“Turn signal! Oh, fuck me? Go suck a hot bowl of shit.”
Dr. Townsend. What does he really know? I should have told him to his face I wanted a second opinion—preferably an opinion that wouldn’t leave me self-conscious or thinking I needed to change anything about myself.
He’s polite. He’s chatty. I guess we sort of have become friends over six years of checkups and physicals. Really, this is the first diagnosis where I’ve disagreed. And, I suppose, it’s also the first time he’s ever been critical.
I don’t know. I don’t always trust his judgment. He said he prefers coffee from Speedway, and once I saw him wear brown socks with black slacks. Also, why do the computers at his practice run on Linux?
“Stay in your lane and put down the fucking phone—no, no, no, you go die in a fire!”
Dr. Townsend. I just don’t know. When I’m ask you about The Wire, don’t cut me off to talk about The Shield.
“Oh, go ahead. Look at me like I’m the asshole.”
Sure, it’s his medical opinion. Though another one of his other opinions was that “No one did Batman as well as Clooney.” He’s still convinced the Knicks got it right with Carmelo. And he prefers the Johnny Depp Wonka to Gene Wilder.
Carmelo. Ha! That moron.
Yeah, I know me—and I know you get a second opinion when you don’t like the first one. Six years. Oh-ver-due.
Once I get home I’ll find a new primary care provider.
Right after I have a cigar in my hot tub.
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