I went to the dermatologist today, and I could have punched her. For the record, doctors, like plumbers or baristas or persons from any other actual skilled profession are NOT all created equal.
Some have brains, for instance, and others don't. The dermatologist asked me why I was taking Plaquenil, and I told her that it was because I had a mysterious illness that had me down and out for about eight months or so. I had a strong family history of auto-immune disorders. Eventually I ditched my PCP who laughed at me and patted my shoulder as he was leaving the room, chuckling "You aren't depressed, now, are you?" And had I been depressed, I wouldn't have told him then, that's for sure. Yes. I left HIM, and went to a doctor with a brain, who listened carefully to what I was saying and gave me a plan which actually worked, and I'm feeling much better.
I felt like punching the dermatologist, however, who then went on about how AWFUL it must be to be ill at 25 years old, and how her twenties were the BEST years of her life. And how she just couldn't IMAGINE having to take two pills every day. Ha ha ha. She THEN proceeded to list all of her medical problems, including dry eyes and dry mouth (which often accompany auto-immune disorders). I told her that I'd started to experience dry mouth and eyes as well. Then she went on for eight minutes about how she wakes up with sludge in her mouth and how her first husband couldn't stand to hear about it. "It's just so gross, and I have no idea what to do about it." Honestly -- ask me who wants to hear that stuff, especially after you've just put me in the pit of despair with your former comment!?
And THEN, worst of all, she sort of casually asked me what my "heritage" was, a rare question in a doctor's office, if you are WHITE. I knew why she was asking, because I happen to have a brain. So I told her that I was Irish. She looked up at me. I paused, and then said I'm also Italian on my dad's side. She nodded her head vigorously and shook her pen in the air, relieved to be able to tell me that it was "natural" that I had "more hair" because of my "Italian heritage." I looked at her fake-o blonde hair set in a poof on her head that was secured with a butterfly clip and her clumsily done blue eyeliner and thought of all the possible nasty retorts I might make at that moment, but held back. Again, because I have a brain. But I mean. Come on. Aren't doctors supposed to be ok with the body and all of the stuff that goes with it?? (Fluids, hair, etc.) Ugh. How utterly irritating. It made me want to grow my body hair down to my ankles in fierce rebellion of her bridge-and-tunnel-bred idiocy.
In any case, and this has nothing to do with the blondie brainless doctor from hell, I have over the past month or so accumulated an arsenal of hair-removing devices and solutions and have decided to take it upon myself to look into the whole hair situation. It should be interesting. I just find it really difficult these days to care much about my appearance or reputation ... or anything. I am sitting on an egg which is my little life. I realize that before too long it's going to bite me in the ass and I'm going to have to move, move, move. So I've just been sitting here in the meantime, growing a small forest on my body, and dreaming of all of the tiny creatures and wood nymphs that might possibly inhabit it. Because I'm in Pittsburgh. And the weather's nasty. And unless you REALLY like beer or sports on television, you have to WORK to do anything. And I'm sick of working. (Blah blah blah blah blah -- who cares, right?)
Aaaand that's all for now, folks.
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