Tuesday, January 17, 2006

I have issues: part 1 million and 1

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred fucking phone calls to get that scan set up!

After fighting with no less than 5 cranky bitches at the doctor's office, making more phone calls in one week than I do in a year, multiple tears and tantrums, it's finally done. And I got the extreme pleasure, sort of like being ass-fucked by a cactus, of spending 3 hours on the phone with my lovely insurance company last Friday being told a variety of different things concerning the drug I have to get for said scan so I don't have to go off my medication and practically die.

I was told I couldn't get the drug at all. That it would cost me at least $700.00. That it would cost only $70.00. That it was covered. Wasn't covered. And the best pile of bullshit for the day, that I could get it but I'd have to inject it myself, not in this fucking lifetime, asshole, and that if I bought it at my pharmacy and had the doctor inject me it was considered a criminal act.

I just can't convey the stress last week caused me. I'd write a scathing letter about how we all hear over and over how stress causes illness, possible even cancer, when the people who are supposed to help you prevent disease make it 100 blargillion times worse than it needs to be because they are inept, fucker, rude, cold, uncaring, stupid, careless, heartless, bungling, incompetent, dickwads, but I don't think my company would appreciate me making 45 thousand copies of it!

I finally got hold of a woman who, shall I ever breed and under the assumption she would appreciate a gift of this nature, would be welcome to my first born demon spawn. She took the bull by the horns and we called the pharmacy division together and she ran buckshot all over their asses making sure they knew they'd been retarded and caused a patient undue anxiety and assured me she'd take care of it all and she called me honey like 3 times. It was glorious.

The doctor has chosen to ignore my messages to call me back directly, and he shall pay for that. Oh yes he shall. But at least the scan is scheduled and now we need to pray to the deity of your choice that I don't get fucked to the wall by the disability people. Fingers crossed!


In other news...

There is some darn good reality TV out there right now, peeps, so I hope you're tuning in. I'm now addicted, but not limited to, the following: The Gauntlet II (can't wait for Derrick to blow, dismember a team mate and smoke them in a beer-can bong), Runway II (who took my chiffon!?!), Roller Girls (I'll refrain from saying anything snarky because those girls could kick my ass from a hospital bed), and the new season of the Bachelor:Paris (can you believe that springer spaniel chick cut up an orange and stuck it in her mouth like redneck teeth? What the hell was she thinking?)

The boy and I are having a great time making fun of people and adding our own brilliantly hilarious commentary. And we have pa-lenty of material, let me tell you what. The problem is, this constant string of improv has caused me to become a chatter. Yes, I am morphing into one of those idiot people who can't shut their pie holes long enough to take a breath while watching anything on TV. I'm still OK at the movie theater, as long as a have a large popcorn to power shove in my maw the whole time.

I can't help myself. It just comes springing out of my mouth like verbal dystentary. Last night, as a preview to the reality TV we viewed later in the evening, during dinner we enjoyed Friday the 13th part 3. Now before you get all up in my grill for rotting my brain on such crap, the boy loves him some bad 80's horror and I recorded it on the DVR because I'm an awesome girlfriend like that. Unfortunately, I found myself nattering on every 2 bloody seconds without end. WTF?

I commented on everything. Their hair, their clothes, the girls camel toes, the music, the cars, the camera angles, the script, the acting, the murder weapons, the lack of neck by the supposed hunk, the lame special effects, the worn-out shlong spot on the black dudes jeans.

And perhaps worst of all, I made the goofy sounds this particular genre is famous for. FOR 2 SOLID HOURS. Chi chi chi shh shh shh eee eee eee ahh ahh ahh. I couldn't shut the fuck up! And I didn't even say everything I wanted to. My god. It's a wonder whitey didn't shove a pillow down my throat. I have the best boyfriend.

So let's just add this to my long list of "issues", shall we? Oh yes we shall!

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