I am just a guinea pig in a sea of guinea pigs.

I am sure that I haven't been anywhere near sober the last few days; not on cloud nine but I can see birds flying from here. Or maybe they are spiders. Don't remember much of last night, or the day before, dreaming hasn't happened in two days, except for that nightmare I don't want to talk about. Hooray, I think, but not sure, I don't care, or, uh, what. Right. Uh. Sure.
Prior to this three legged cat incident wreck-ta-fying my emotions, I did something unheard of called "Seeing a Doctor". This was not my idea actually, for other than the possibility of getting some medication I will never take as directed, I have little use for doctors ever (exception: severe fucked-up-ed-ness). I have a very bad history with them; misdiagnosis and abuse I probably should have reported to the authorities had I not been on so many tranquilizers at the time.
Currently, I am not bleeding, nothing is really swollen (I'm just fat), no breaks or tears, lesions, oozing, nada, ziltch, I COULDN'T BE BETTER NO REASON TO SEE A DOCTOR. Well, I guess I could be better but fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you. Self medication was working just fine, now I am just lost again, wandering in the woods wondering where my panties are or maybe in a hole, I can't tell.
Back to the doctor, who was a joke, like most doctors I have encountered in my life.
It went a bit like this.

My request: Prescription for 2 pills.
Her logic: You need 3 pills scripts.
My argument: Why take an extra pill?
Her rebuttal: You would only be treating half the problem with 2 pills.
My retort: But 2 pills DOES THE JOB.
Her stance: You can have 1 pill script.
My resignation: Am I speaking Chinese? I fucking hate you.

Adding insult to injury, she wrote my one script for the lowest dosage possible with no refills and referred me to a shrink who is likely going to take the same three (or four) pill position, unless I find a way to manipulate this in my favor before I even show up and sign paperwork. Ha. What am I going to do, go in and tell the truth? The truth can only be shared with a doctor who deserves the truth, which may take more than the visits allotted on my insurance policy for mental health, oh I guarantee it is gonna take more unless divine light shines down on me (not going to happen). So, since this likelihood is slim, logic dictates I should continue to exploit the system that only wants to skull fuck me anyway.

They are not miracle workers, they are only doing their jobs, just like my car mechanic or the guy who bags my groceries, paid better but still only performing a task.
I am Angry. Lost. Mean. Resentful. Paranoid. Suspicious.

Three Little Birds, baby.
Three Little Birds.

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