I carry a notebook around with me so that I can write anywhere I go. I have never shared any of this stuff and I considered these works to be more of an exercise that later helps me develop some of my short stories. Today I felt complelled to share this entry, from a trip to my cardiologist office.
Inside of the waiting room at my cardiologist, and I feel like I have landed a spaceship on an alien planet. Is this really what happens to all of us towards the end? Every single person in here is behaving in the exact same way, and I bet if you recorded this area and muted the sound it would all appear to be choreographed. Everyone complaining, everyone is tense with hunched shoulders or suffering in pain. Not one single person in this entire room seems happy; hell, nobody is even trying to fake it!
The lady who checked me in was on auto pilot; you can just tell that she is numb to her job, and it bothered me that she never even looked me in the eye, although we spoke for over three minutes. The receptionist to her right, however, has not stopped staring at me and she’s been doing so with her mouth wide open. I visualize myself slapping each one of them upside their heads just before I smile and say to each of them “Thank you.” Now I am feeling better about myself.
“What a life this is,” it’s the only thought I can hold. Scheduled appointments, referrals to specialists, tests and pharmacies, wheelchairs, shunts and holter monitors. Only to be shoved into one more line and then told to wait, and they wonder why everyone is so pissed the fuck off in here!
They had handed me forms that I will use to complete a life story, and later someone who has never met me before today will judge me based on these 2 sheets of double-sided information, and he/she will determine how I need to proceed with going about living the rest of my life.
A disgusting vile human female now has my attention. What a selfish bitch. She just wont stop talking, and when she does pause she’s still audibly annoying the piss out of me. Snuffing and rattling mucus around through her nasal passages. Each time she has opened and then closed her mouth again she produces the most heinous smacking noise, and her dry sticky lips are caked in coral wax. Her phone has not stopped ringing and with each new caller she begins telling her story from the beginning. I sense that she knows that I am writing about her, and she returns my sarcastic smirk as I glance up from my writing to acknowledge her.
Why do I have the feeling that I am looking into the future? That this disgusting vile human female is the future me?