Monday, May 16, 2016


In my belly.  Sitting here at the dermatologist with anxiety creeping in.  Why don't waiting rooms have Xanax in candy dishes?  Or liquor.  I'm not picky at this point. 

The office staff is very nice.  And they politely laughed at my lame jokes.  After I signed my life away on eight pages.  Eight pages FFS.  That seems like a lot, and only one page asked my medical history.  It was pretty brief.  I barely had to lie by omission.  I've decided that some past medical history isn't relevant because I've collected a lot over the years. 

While I'm waiting, two pharmaceutical reps walked out.  Ugh, fkn hate pharma reps.  And I already hate this doctor for seeing them ahead of patients.  Or even seeing them at all.  I forgot to look him up online to see how much they pay him.  I just want my scars lessened. 

Breathe, Wendy.  No running out while they aren't looking.  They know who you are already.  And the hard part was getting here.  At least I hope that's the hardest part.   Please don't overreact, Wendy's body.  I'm glad I can write my thoughts down while waiting.  It helps with the anxiety somehow, knowing you guys will be understanding later.

I hope he doesn't try to talk me into anything I don't want.  I hate wasting my time arguing with know-it-alls.  They probably feel the same hehe.  

UPDATE: It's done, and it burns!!!  I'm pretty sure half of the waiting room heard me yell motherfucker during one particularly painful spot.  Cross your fingers that it's successful.  Or at least not deleterious.  I came home and took a nip of my Brazilian liquor, cacha├ža, and phoned a friend.  Deep breaths.  Goodbye anxiety, I'm done with you today.

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