'Hood - the follow-up

And then I stormed out of the office, waving a Molotov cocktail in the air.  Before I lobbed it through the doorway, I screamed, "FINE!  I'll be back in two months for an abortion referral, BITCHES!"

At least, that's how it will happen in my revenge fantasy when I go to sleep tonight, or take a nap this afternoon when I'm starving and waiting for Andy to come home from class so we can eat dinner, whichever.

Planned Parenthood let me down in every way possible.  There weren't any scary coat hanger and vacuum diagrams on the walls, no cracked-out hookers passed out in the waiting room.  The rational part of me knew it would look like a normal doctor's office, but my inner 14-year-old wanted it to be a veritable reproductive funhouse. The place was spotless, and empty save for a receptionist and a nurse.  They were super nice, but ultimately useless.  They don't carry my brand of birth control, and I'm not about to switch since I seem to have found the one formulation that doesn't turn me into a complete raging psychotic mammoth of destruction and hatred.  Seriously, you haven't met a bitch until you've met me on Yasmin, Ortho Tri-cyclen, Alesse...no birth control...I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need Yaz to function, and to not kill everyone around me.

So I went crawling back to the Walmart pharmacy, where I had to wait half an hour for them to put a label on a box of pills so they could sell it to me.  While I was idling near the pharmacy counter, I had the pleasure of overhearing three old ladies titter and gossip about their respective daughters' babydaddies refusing to pay child support.  It was like listening to an episode of Golden Girls, if Betty White and the gang lived in a dilapidated trailer, shared cartons of cigarettes, and played strip poker instead of bridge.

After a nearly two-hour odyssey, I got my damn pills.  I just want to live a sane life without unwelcome growths appearing in and on my body - why do economic forces continually conspire to deny me my anti-baby-acne-bitch-ovarian cancer pills?  Isn't it in everyone's best interest for me to have these pills?

On the bright side, I think I'm finally going to get a chance to sell my blood!  We have to make a trip up to Spokane in two weeks.  If nothing else, Spokane boasts plenty of places where one can sell one's plasma.  While Andy putzes around at the REI Garage Sale trying to snag some $0.50 crampons or some other useless crap that somebody else bought and returned, I'm going to be strapped to a chair letting some minimally trained stranger pump out my blood cells that I've worked so hard to create, in exchange for cold, hard CASH.  Which I will promptly spend on a nice dinner so I can get to work replacing those blood cells.  This kind of cycle is why the poor stay poor, but the hamster wheel is spinning too fast for me to climb off, now.

C.R.E.A.M.