Hey, you wanna know something that’s really frustrating? Trying to make an appointment with a lady doctor. There’s like, 5 trillion of them in the Oklahoma City area, and I think I called and talked to them all. Okay, well, maybe just 12. But out of the twelve, 5 haven’t returned my call, 6 can’t fit me in until at least the beginning of May, and only 1–I repeat, 1–was kind enough to not only get back with me within an hour, but they also squeezed me in on a Friday morning 2 weeks from now. Sweet.
Where’s my old doctor, you ask? The one with a lucky green eye and a lucky blue eye? Don’t know. I’ve lost count of how many messages I’ve left with her receptionist.
And what’s so wrong with me, that I might need to see said doctor right away?
I don’t feel good. I’m tired. I have a headache. My tummy hurts. My dogs are annoying me. I think I have an eye infection. Billy Crudup’s last name is "Crud-up." I’m always bloated. My hands are fat. My back is sore. And several other disgusting girly things that nobody should ever know about. I don’t even want to know about them.
Cheyenne says my hands are always fat. Well you know what? They are. I have man hands. Gross, stubby, man hands. And monster music plays somewhere in the background whenever I lift them up.
We can’t all have dainty piano hands.
And I miss my lucky doctor.