My Girlfriend Is Nice and I am Sick
I decided, like a moron, to drive myself to urgent care. About 3/4 of the way to my car, my body decided otherwise.
"BITCH!" it shouted. "We haven't eaten, you stupid ho! This is abuse, I tell you, abuse! We will go no further!"
And with that Claire found herself in a heap on some stairs, too dizzy to do much of anything. I called my girlfriend, who should become Catholic so the world can recognize her sainthood like I do, and she stopped watching x-files to rescue me from my evil evil captors, the cement stairs.
We drove all the way to the hospital, only to learn that our directions were fucked up. We were on the wrong side of town. Woops.
When we did make it to urgent care, I crumpled into a chair in the waiting room with my juicebox and tried to fall asleep. The receptionist must've heard Nicole fussing over my insurance card, or maybe the juicebox took ten years off my age, because when they called me in to fill out forms it went:
Receptionist: Are you together?
Claire: (unintelligable mumblings)
Nicole: I'll sit out here.
Receptionist: No, are you two together?
Claire: Can I sit down now?
Receptionist: (Getting frustrated) No, (pointing at Nicole) YOU'RE HER MOM, RIGHT?
Yes, yes, I am dating someone who is apparently mistakable for my parent. It was not one of our finer moments. Please, if I actually look like a nine-year-old, someone tell me. I will give up pigtails for good.
The urgent care ladies were much nicer than my real doctors. They suggested a nice big fat shot, but I politely declined. They gave me a new prescription which will be filled tomorrow. For immediate relief, they recommended Mylanta.
So, after half an hour of driving around and an hour of waiting in a tiny clinic, She Who Should Be Knighted also took me to Walgreens to buy drugs, found the drugs for me, and came with me when I took the medicine in a patch of grass in case I puked it up. I did not.
Then I kicked her ass at Quiddler and showed her my boobs. The end.
"BITCH!" it shouted. "We haven't eaten, you stupid ho! This is abuse, I tell you, abuse! We will go no further!"
And with that Claire found herself in a heap on some stairs, too dizzy to do much of anything. I called my girlfriend, who should become Catholic so the world can recognize her sainthood like I do, and she stopped watching x-files to rescue me from my evil evil captors, the cement stairs.
We drove all the way to the hospital, only to learn that our directions were fucked up. We were on the wrong side of town. Woops.
When we did make it to urgent care, I crumpled into a chair in the waiting room with my juicebox and tried to fall asleep. The receptionist must've heard Nicole fussing over my insurance card, or maybe the juicebox took ten years off my age, because when they called me in to fill out forms it went:
Receptionist: Are you together?
Claire: (unintelligable mumblings)
Nicole: I'll sit out here.
Receptionist: No, are you two together?
Claire: Can I sit down now?
Receptionist: (Getting frustrated) No, (pointing at Nicole) YOU'RE HER MOM, RIGHT?
Yes, yes, I am dating someone who is apparently mistakable for my parent. It was not one of our finer moments. Please, if I actually look like a nine-year-old, someone tell me. I will give up pigtails for good.
The urgent care ladies were much nicer than my real doctors. They suggested a nice big fat shot, but I politely declined. They gave me a new prescription which will be filled tomorrow. For immediate relief, they recommended Mylanta.
So, after half an hour of driving around and an hour of waiting in a tiny clinic, She Who Should Be Knighted also took me to Walgreens to buy drugs, found the drugs for me, and came with me when I took the medicine in a patch of grass in case I puked it up. I did not.
Then I kicked her ass at Quiddler and showed her my boobs. The end.