I am currently sobbing my head off and bawling my eyes out. Loudly, like Bambi’s mom just got capped.
What’s the use of health insurance if I get a bill for $1680, fair and square, when I’ve been in the hospital for four days? I am so angry. The hospital wouldn’t let me go! I felt fine, and they wouldn’t let me go. They kept me on and on and on, costing me more and more money out of my own threadbare, holey pocket. Fuckers.
I’m really mad at my doctor again, too. She made a call from her office, but she either didn’t ask the right question, or she lied to me. I said I would only go if I were completely covered, and she said I would be. This was not so.
I was starving on my drive home this evening. I was so hungry I was cold. I was planning my meal on the last ten minutes, and seriously considering going and getting a hamburger. No, I’d eat kitchari and save the five bucks. I really want to move. I got the mail. I hadn’t gotten it in a few days. Today had been a good enough day. I came in the door. It was fucking freezing. Then I opened my mail and got so fucking angry I forgot I was cold and hungry for an hour and a half.
You fucking fucks.
My HMO wants to charge me $1680 for something called “referral services” for my hospital stay back in November. What the fucking fuck? I was never in Oakland at any time, contrary to what this bill says. This is fucking catshit. Oh, you snotwaffles. I only agreed to go if I was completely fucking covered. Otherwise, I was just going to go home and kick the Kayoed on my own. No. No, no no. I can’t call them until Monday to straighten this bullshit the fuck out, and you bet this shit is getting straightened out. Fuck these fucking scrotes. My HMO collecting monies for coordinating getting me into that mental hospital is an issue of paying fleas to suck the blood off rats. Fuck you all. I hate all you parasites right now, living off of patients’ misery. All I see in this moment is that man in the wheelchair with the DTs in the throes of a panic attack and the nurses pointing and laughing at him. I don’t want to enable your scabby, saggy asses any fucking more.
Thank Athena this finally happened! Dr. Andrew Wakefield, the go-to guy for all vaccine and autism causation proof, has finally had his study disproven and taken apart in BMJ. The article is called, “How the case against the MMR vaccine was fixed,” and it’s really worth a read.
I have done the research for someone who wanted to know if she should vaccinate her little baby or not. I could only find one study on PubMed that found a link between autism and vaccines. That was Dr. Wakefield’s. (I did find a lot of studies that said they couldn’t replicate his results.) It’s case studies of twelve children, if you haven’t read it. That’s not a lot. I’m not saying it isn’t significant to those families, because your child means the world to you. But twelve children does not a convincing argument make; it’s just an interesting finding. All that says is that more research really needs to be done, and hey guys, we found something new of note, and we think it’s real, and time will tell.
Jesus, today was fucking rough. It started with me falling back asleep after my alarm went off. I had a disgusting morning dream, about dogs shitting worm-infested feces all over a lawn and it getting all over a purse I really own. It would have been bad enough if it were a purse that I only had in the dream, but now every time I look at my wonderful brown Kangol purse I’m thinking of it covered in parasitic poop. Oh, and because I have an iBook G4 and Apple won’t let me upgrade my phone’s OS, I can’t get the stupid fix for the alarm problem, so I have to remember to make all my alarms a series instead of one-time things. So I way overslept in the land of excrement. Great. Fucking great. Even with all that extra time, I just couldn’t get it off my purse. So ill. So very ill.
Then I had to go to work, which just fucks with my life in general. I’m supposed to be a burnout when I grow up, like Shaggy and George Costanza and Roger Clinton. I’m not supposed to have a job proper. I’m just supposed get by, being a special spirit and wacky neighbor. The problem is, I’m not especially hardy, so I need to be financially independent. This is where the lotto figures in, since nobody’s giving me a talk show where I can wow the country with my quips. I really, really want to win that $330 million dollars. It’s $208 million in cash. I pay attention to these things. Fuck man, that would make up for a lot. I know the first thing I’d get. I’d buy cancer treatment for someone I know who doesn’t have insurance, the finest treatment money can buy. Then I’d get out of this hellhole.
Hey hey! Miss McRicketts-McGee is back in action!
This post is a bit rambling!
Where was I? Well, according to one of my fellows, I was in a hotel. No fooling. That’s where she thought we were. Despite the strip search, photographs, and interview; your cell phone, belt, shoelaces, underwire bra, credit cards, and ID being taken away as contraband; the nurses, gowns, wristbands and locked doors; the people looking for you every fifteen minutes–even when you’re asleep–and checking your name off on a little sheet of paper, the medication dispensed, the cafeteria for the good boys and girls and the tray meals for the troublemakers, and the constant yelling, crying, pacing, and hysterical laughter. I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t pull up in an ambulance. Maybe she pulled up in a Rolls Royce.
I am so cranky in such a mediocre way. I can’t get the energy up to be furious. I just wrote a long, rambling, nonsensical post that added nothing to the blog whatsoever, and I decided that I hated it.
I feel like this:
My head is on fire. I am impractical. I am an insect. The only difference is I am not drunk and haven’t been in twelve and a half years exactly.
Nothing is as it should be. I should be further along than this in every way. I should have more skrilla, I should be further in my career, in my applications, I should be married, have kids–I’m shoulding all over myself today.
Get it together, Seer! For god’s sake, girl, you’re a fucking mess. At least take a shower.
This post is quickly on its way to meet the other one, so I will bid you goodnight. I will try to put down the bat and pick up a feather, since I’m already covered in bruises and this game historically ends in tears.