Jamming to this harder than the most potent of liqours

Goddamn American Hero

A recap: I counted my pills last week and realized I was going to run out of medication when I’m home, which is only slightly terrifying because the only time I went off meds after being on them was when I dove into a 3-month spiral of doom that ended in self-harm past the mental state and a higher prescription (wee the system works!). So… Called the doctor to get a refill and tried to pick it up yesterday. Pharmacy says I can’t get a refill until 12/24. I leave 12/24. Call the doctor again, they move the date up. Pharmacy tells the doctor that’s all fine and dandy, but my insurance is saying hells no. Call my insurance and they’re all, “naw man it’s chill”. 

Cut to: Pharmacy – Night. 

Line. There’s always a line at the pharmacy. Just rows and rows of frustrated sick people. The pharmacist at the end of it blatantly ignores everything I’m saying and spouts information like a programmed machine. One more point to drones running the world. 

Dude finally calls my insurance and again ignores important information I have to give him – like my insurance group number or, you know, any identification for who I am. He asks for my phone number. I’m looking him right in the eyes as he writes down none of it. He asks for my phone number.

Fast-forward to more waiting.

A homeless lady is on the verge of tears because after weeks, her insurance finally clears, but the pharmacy doesn’t have the medication in stock. She can't go to another pharmacy without starting the process all over again. Another sad pharmacist is trying to deal with this lady screaming at him for asking her address. Of course, he’s only asking this information to correctly validate her identity, but it’s using an additional 2.5 seconds of her time, so we can't have any of that. Five people in a row are tapping their phones.

I get back in line after 30-minutes or so and the guy nonchalantly says, “Oh yea it’s ready” – as if I hadn’t been sitting right in front of him, waiting, staring him down for the past half hour. Couldn't flag me down or give me a heads up? Yup. Great. Back in line. After nearly two hours at the pharmacy, it takes all my strength not lose my shit like the lady with her ten orphan Christmas babies. I smile. I crack a joke. I try my best to be a decent human because I’m a fucking good person. A goddamn American hero.

Medibletations: The Cheese Grater Perspective

We both approach life from either side of two cheese graters. From behind yours, you think and function and exist. But for me to see any trace of what's going on back there, you have to jam your thought through a cheese grater. Then it will exist in a scattered and partial form in the space between our graters. The form is called Language. I imagine spoken word, body language, and art all floating in this no mans land. It is then up to me to decode as much of this language as I can by gathering as much as can get through my cheese grater. From there, I will get something comparable to the dinosaur DNA they had in Jurassic Park. Like those engineers, I then fill in the blank spots with things I already understand from my own database of past knowledge, and end up piecing together a projection of what you actually are.

NYC Story

I probably have better stories about my trip but the one that sticks out to me now happened a couple nights ago.

Gia and I were coming back from seeing her family in Rhode Island. The bus was nauseatingly hot. We slept uncomfortably until we were let off in Midtown. The cold air was refreshing and we took a slow walk to the subway. Underground our train came quickly and sat down for an hour long trip home. We decide to take the time, now away from family and the exhaustion of holidays, to zone out with our respected music. Halfway though my TV on The Radio album our train hit major delays.

An extra thirty minutes and we're above ground on the open air track in Brooklyn. The night skyline is beautiful, Gia and I finally feel recharged from the long weekend away. Our stop comes and we get up to leave. Gia walks out the doors and I trail behind with my roller suitcase. A black woman who has been sitting across from us for the last hour also stands up. As I began to exit the subway, I look back at my rolling luggage and notice this woman is now staring at me. As I break the threshold of the train car, the woman spits at my face and in a deep and angry voice grunts "Asshole".

The door closes. I have spit on me. We walk home.