I Used to Like My Doctor But Now She’s Evil

So I went back and saw my doctor yesterday to make sure that the piece of my face that crumpled up and fell off wasn’t cancer. She was really nice about the fact that I handed her a three-week-old scab that I had saved in a plastic sandwich baggie, too. She even mentioned that she read the blog post I wrote about her being all stingy with the cryosurgical blowtorch and she had decided not to sue me for libel.

And right about the time I was thinking she was a total class act for treating me like I’m a normal person, she had to go and blow it. This sweet doctor who laughed at all my jokes and didn’t prescribe me pills even after she found out I posted photos of my nose-scab on this blog and let people vote about the diagnosis…GAVE ME A GIFT BAG FULL OF SAMPLES.

Do you know what a person like me would be willing to do for a gift bag full of free shit? It’s like the best present ever because the rest of the world had to pay for all that stuff but NOT ME! I’m a SOMEBODY! My name is on the VIP clipboard so I get my tubes of funky creams for FREE, beeyatches! It’s not about the products themselves because they were just little cool non-terrorist-sized tubes of TSA-approved lotions and sunscreens and stuff (and the joke’s on her because all that stuff will keep me from ever actually getting cancer…she’s just hurting her own business). But I got it FOR FREE!

Then I remembered that giving away free tastes of stuff is EXACTLY how drug dealers work. Sure, that first hit of heroin is on the house, then you’re gonna pay for it by turning tricks out of the back of a rusty Pinto. This “doctor” (I’m gonna use quotation marks around her title from now on) got me hooked on all kinds of good smelling stuff that made my face smooth and shiny and less Shar-Pei-looking. I know when I go back to see her because I’m all out and I’ve just gotta have one more taste, she’s gonna be all, “You’ll need to make an appointment,” and “Sure, would you like me to start you a tab? We can put you on a payment plan for this exfoliant, if you want.”

I totally see through her plan. I’m never gonna use sunscreen again, just to prove to her that I don’t need the goods, that I can quit any time I want to. Heck, I’m not even gonna wash my face anymore, let alone moisturize. We’ll see who needs who. (I’m lying. Doctor, if you’re reading this, I totally love you and I’ll do anything you say. Just don’t cut off my supply of sheep placenta and retin-A.)

Please, Please, PLEASE Can I Be A Drug Dealer?

Stop it, she's not actually doing lines of coke. That's ground up birth control pills, about $600 worth on the street.

I made the mistake of choosing “public school teacher” and “author” as career paths without marrying a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon first. That basically means I’m doomed to a lifetime of driving a nine-year-old minivan and vacationing in places whose historic landmarks date all the way back to 1985. But never fear, I am ever the intrepid opportunist and I have found a whole new source of income.

I’m going to be a drug dealer.

I’m really, really scared of people who look like thugs and I’m the biggest chicken when it comes to doing something I was told not to do and then getting in trouble for it, plus I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to crack and I almost flunked chemistry so I probably shouldn’t try to cook meth. Fortunately, I got the bestest idea EVER from our own government and now I’m going to be So. Fucking. Rich.

I’m going to stock up on birth control pills and sell them on the black market when our government finally finishes those last few inches and gets its collective head the rest of the way up its ass.

Yes, like any good carpetbagger, I’m going to make my fortune off the backs of the people who are about to be royally screwed over by the government. I will conduct business in bus station bathroom stalls where I pop out and sell illegal Depo-Provera shots. I’ll be that person who says, “Psst,” in a loud whisper then beckons you over to the trunk of my car (mini-van…sigh) by jerking my head at you and asking you if you wanna taste. Of Lo-Ovral.

And just like all those mail order Canadian Viagra websites, I’m gonna make a fortune. I’ll be the person that you all know when you tell each other you “know a guy.” And you will pay me whatever I ask because I can get the good stuff, the really high quality pharmaceutical grade stuff that will actually keep you from getting pregnant. Not only that, even when you’re done paying me you’ll never really be done paying me because then I will OWN you for buying drugs from me. I can make you be my bitch because you’re addicted to only having two kids.

Wait. This stopped being funny about a paragraph-and-a-half ago. Because it’s gonna happen. But at least I’m gonna get in on the ground floor.