They really are. My doctors are especially evil. Not really evil but just jerks. One poked my head with wooden popsicle sticks presumably because she just came from lunch and she didn’t want to lay her hands on anything aside from her panties. After the poking session, she obnoxiously told me that she couldn’t do anything about my hairy situation because it looks hopeless and because she’s a snotty bitch who’s too high and mighty to touch head disease-suffering patients’ heads. She then ordered me to buy expensive as shit treatment from her own clinic right after she crushed any hope of me being cured. Just when I thought I’ve heard the worse from her, she went on to prescribe expensive as shit antibiotics which is one of the best ways to prevent anyone from boozing. I have yet to know the dangers of disregarding that rule but I’d love to go back to her clinic, even sicker than I was there last, and make her feel sorry for not telling me not to drink alcohol while taking antibiotics, all the while puking at her feet because I’m fully aware that alcohol and antibiotics together will fuck your excretory and digestive systems and that puking and constant shitting are inevitable once those two systems are fucked.
But dentists are even worse. They are such money drainers. They’d sell you their soul if they had them by their clinics. They’d even have them in glass display cases. That’s a corny way to put it but I really think they would. Why was I ever born unperfect? This imperfection is highlighted by these set of random slightly yellow things that I call teeth. My main beef with these yellow things is that they don’t seem to like me very much which is why they move out. I only need one fake tooth to get me through this dental problem but about three doctors told me, all-knowingly, naturally, that I’d need to get braces, which I can have done after I get oral surgery in order to patch certain gaps, which is probably the correct diagnosis, but which would make an even wider gap in my ’savings’. I sometimes wish I lived in the 50s.
But not all doctors are bad. There are those who just happen to be very old. There was that one doctor who was sensible enough to consult from a book of drugs before she prescribed anything. She asked me lots of questions, not too dopey and it seemed normal enough so I went along with her. But then it felt like I was feeding her my own diagnosis. It’s a long and boring story but she didn’t seem able to deduce anything from all the shit from I’ve told her. She’s an old lady doctor who’s better off baking cookies for her grandkids who would all get sick because she doesn’t know how to bake. And then it’s her turn, doctor grandma to feel hopeless. Saying all these brings me to an undeniable conclusion: I’m sick because I’m mean.
I’m seeing another doctor from a better hospital. I’m crossing my fingers on this one because she’s supposed to be good. I don’t know why she’s supposed to be good but she should be. But I don’t know too how and why she should be. I was at her clinic and she actually made a bad impression on me already because she showed up 1 and a half hour late. I know. Who do I think I am? I’m Peter, if you really want to know. And Peter is really sick right now. But some doctors are sicker. Please wish me well.
