what a drag it is getting old
February 13, 2007
Rather disappointingly there were no kittens on the ceiling. Instead there was a poster of a Renoir painting, which, while nice, was lacking that little something extra I have come to expect.
I forgot how much I like her. When we talked about switching medication she said, “Let’s try lexies.” Like they were some sort of illicit street drug. I liked that. I may stop calling them mother’s little helper and humming the tune by the Rolling Stones every morning, that is how much I like this new nickname.
Even though when I was asked if I drink alcohol I stuttered and stammered like we were still living under Prohibition or like she had just asked me if I give out blow jobs in exchange for crack. I ended up giving a non-committal, “Uh, you know” for an answer.
But we chatted. She asked questions. I answered them.
1) No, I don’t drink milk.
2) Like a stuck pig.
3) Only when I laugh really hard.
Then I got weighed. And I had to point out that their scale is wrong, as in eight pounds wrong. Also that my clothing was heavy. And my shoes. And my earrings were exceptionally large. And I hadn’t properly exhaled.
Clearly I am at least 12 pounds lighter than what is reflected on their scale.
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