The Randomness of Deliberate Intentions

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Man, what the fuck is my deal?

I can't get behind all this shit any more. It's like everything is out to fuck me, and I'm not even a virgin. Or pretty for that matter. Today was just another uphill climb, just like all the rest of 'em. So did I give a fuck? Naaah. Just another day, right? So I got ready this afternoon and headed for the drug store, my local Duane Reade, to pick up my prescriptions that they said were on order from Friday. Guess what? You guessed it. It's Monday and my prescriptions are still on order.



You have to be shitting me? I ask. This has been FOUR fucking days and you still don't have my meds? The woman shakes her horse ass head. "Sorry, the shipment of orders only comes in at two O'clock PM." I look at my watch. It's 11:00AM. I sigh out of sheer frustration and promise them that I will be back by two. They can count on it.



So I hopped the train and headed for Dr. A.'s office. Upon getting off the shuttle at Grand Central Station, I undertake the laborious task of climbing flight after flight of stairs up out of the subway to the street level. Upon exiting the subway I was panting so hard that my entire oxygen system, from my gaping mouth, to my swelling lungs, were on fire. My muscles were cramped and aching so badly that I could barely make it a few more blocks before stopping and catching my breath. I never had such a difficult time like this before.



In time, I lurched from the street lamp that I leaned up against and headed on the rest of the blocks to Dr. A.'s office and saw him. He seemed to be in a cordial  mood. He was under the weather for a few days and had fallen ill, but today he wore a smile. It was good to see him again. But in fact, it's always good to see him. I left shortly afterward, going to the blood lab and getting my blood tested. I swear there were so many blood tests checked off on the form that when the Phlebotomist came up to me she had a fistful of vials.



My arms are so fat now that she couldn't find a vein in them, so she had to use my left hand. That woman sucked out so much blood from my hand that I thought that I was going to faint. I joked with her as she filled up vial after vial. Hey, I came in with a half a tank. Do you think you'll empty it before I get out of here? She smiled, lifted a small cup and another vial. "Fill the cup with urine and pour the urine into the vial."



A urine test too? What the fuck? Was I having a drug test being done at the same time? That's cool. I haven't been doing any drugs recently, other than some light alcohol. I'm good at the old urine extraction shit. An old pro from my year at the shelter. Although the shelter would not take my urine often, my alcohol therapist did, once a week. She stayed on top of me when it came to screening for alcohol.



I drop off my sample and head home. Later. I get hungry and make dinner. I have a rotisserie chicken in the refriger- ator and I carefully cut off some layers of white meat to eat. I warmed it up in the microwave and sat down, watching a vampire movie while eating. Now here's the thing that raises the question at the beginning of my blog.



I'm eating WHTE MEAT CHICKEN here. Okay? White meat! While chewing, suddenly there is a crunch in my back molars. Then more crunching. I immediately stop chewing and started spitting chewed chicken into my hand. What happened? Did I bite off a piece of the porcelain plate? This is WHITE MEAT CHICKEN, cut by yours truly. Nothing should be in this. I spit out some more and begin chewing on the little bit of meat still in my mouth. More crunching at my rear molars. I send the tip of my tongue back there and get this shit. All I find are broken, jagged teeth. That's it! I'm chewing on WHITE MEAT CHICKEN with teeth coming apart and fragmenting in my mouth!



I frown. With my tongue I liberate more bits of molars, creating a jagged and sharp landscape for the bottom of my tongue to rest upon. My mouth feels like I'm chewing on a busted beer bottle. I shake my head. Are you kidding me? Now I have knives pressing against the underside of my tongue way back in my head. Now I have to find a dentist. I have no choice. This is not going to be good by any stretch of the imagination. How do you find a dentist when you are poor, huh? Just how?



Oh yeah, I just cut my tongue, because my tongue can't stop tonguing the fucking jagged teeth back there. Every other second it's back there, with a mind of its own, feeling for the sharp edges of my teeth. But I tell you boys and girls. I refuse to give up. Fuck it then. I can't get behind this shit.



I lay down and stick a finger in my mouth, brushing over the broken teeth. Wow. Can anything else go wrong for me today? Maybe if I just drift off to sleep, all things will change. Or at least stay the same and not get worse.

Hopefully,

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