I climbed out of bed.
It was another day. I'm beginning to wonder about the days. I am aimless, pointless. I need to write more poetry. I'm reacting too much to life and not being proactive. I'm taking all of the punches with no response from me. That's not good. But then again, people conserve their strength by not fighting the current. When the time is right there is an explosion of energy, supernatural power and force. That's what I'm thinking. Maybe I can be the latter, I just need a goal.
I think about stuff like this as I get up and get behind my computer. My day has not begun without that Internet, and sometimes coffee. I don't remember the last time that I had coffee for breakfast. I think I'll do that tomorrow. Today, it was yogurt. Yeah, I had to eat light because today was my MRI. My doctor wants to look into my stomach to see if there are any growths in there. If there are they may be what is making my blood pressure so hard to bring under control. I don't see why I can't just stay on the pills. I'm not undergoing any operation for THAT.
I got my book, my fat assed book, and hit the way, getting to Park East Scientific on time and I am told to wait. That's okay, I have my fat assed book. I'm going along in ancient Japan when my name is called. "Hobobob," the receptionist calls out. I stand. I'm ready. She smiles, "We had a problem with the equipment and it will be a half an hour before we can take you." Okay, I nod and take my seat, rejoining my book. In about a half an hour the receptionist calls my name again. I stand. I'm ready. "Hobobob, we had a problem with a patient and there was a little difficulty but we'll be ready for you in another half hour from now." I nod, retake my seat and wait.
A man and his son stroll into the surprisingly crowded waiting room and speak to the recep- tionist. They do not have an appointment. They are walk ins. The son needs an MRI somewheres and can they get it done today. Sure. They are given the forms to fill out. Forms that took me two days to fill out. Not because I am stupid, but because there is always a problem prior to today. I continue to wait patiently.
Presently an orderly comes into the waiting room and calls my name. I follow him through winding hallways until I get to the dressing area where I am told to strip to my underwear and put on a robe. That's nice, because I go commando. I wear no underwear. I strip naked, put my clothes in a locker, and put on a robe and booties. The robe barely closes. My junk keeps trying to come out as I take a seat. I wonder if I'm going to have a male technician or a female one. It will be an interesting experience if she's a woman. I get my mind ready for the show to ensue.
I wait. Soon, the son who was the walk in, is escorted to the dressing rooms, puts on a robe, and walks off. I wait. Moss grows around my feet. Then, a very professional and stern woman in a medical jacket comes up to me, hands clasped together, leaning over. "Hobobob, we have a problem. We are trying to reach your doctor. We had asked for your bloodwork and they sent us one more than six months old. We need a recent bloodwork. Have you had one recently?" Yeah, just two or three weeks ago. Shit, I get one almost every week when it comes to my doctor.
"Well, we can't put you under the machine because your kidneys might fail if their output is not healthy. I hope you can understand. Would you like to wait or reschedule?" I shake my head. I've been waiting all morning long. Meanwhile, while I'm talking the son of the walk in comes back and enters the changing room. When I'm finished talking to the medical woman, he comes out and is gone. No problems. In, out, like ducks fucking. Whereas, with the hobo luck, there are always problems.
Well, the good thing is that I will not have to be buck naked in front of anyone today. Oh, the sight of that! Ugh. I go into the dressing room, put on my clothes and reschedule an appointment. I also ask for a doctor's note. They have them printed out as forms. I guess I'm not the only person that needs these stupid pieces of paper to show to someone they are beholden to. I look at the paper. One of the points of information that is supposed to be on the doctors note is the time in and out. I told her to put it on the form. She scribbles.
I split, feeling fine. So good that I walk from 59th street home...to 98th street. That's right, up damn near the entire West Side of Manhattan. I make it home and look over my paperwork. The time is not on the paper. Which I am not surprised. No one wants to be held accountable for a grown man. No one. People feel that if you put someone's location and time on a piece of paper it will be used in a murder case as an alibi. This is just what I hate about this doctor's note thing. Technicians are the least ones to put your time and location on a piece of paper.
How much do you want to bet that WECARE will have a problem with this documen- tation? How much would you like to bet that they are just itching to find little errors in them like this to disqualify me from my benefits? How much do you want to bet that? I take a seat behind my computer and realize that I'm playing a losing game here. There is no winning, not unless I can get a job. But in this job climate, such a thing seems slim.
I've already surfed the telecom companies websites to see if they are hiring technicians in the New York area, but no dice. Nothing. Further, I am running behind on my editing of the handbook, another way out of this hole that I'm in.
The hole that I'm in. Hell, this shit was deeper than this five years ago.
That's how I measure things, in five year parcels. In another five years, nothing will be the same about you. There will definitely be changes. All this too will change in another five years. This much I know. I will not be living in the same place, doing the same thing, wearing the same clothes, looking the same way. Nothing will be the same. Nothing.
I check my roscoe. The bitch is finally empty. Shit! I sit down with crackers and salsa dip, and a diet coke for dinner. I've got food. I just don't feel like making anything.
I wonder where I'll be eating in another five years?
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/07/lack-of-five-year-plan.html
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