Not in your mouth, not in your hand, but in your head.

Brain gone. Replaced by coffee. Coffee stocks fading. Brain fading accordingly. It’s gonna be one of thooooose entries. Work today has been a pissing contest of how much can go wrong. You know those days where each new issue begins to prompt maniacal laughter? Where you’re mere inches away from diving through a window screaming “I AM A GOLDEN GOD” to prove the fallacy of polytheism? When your boss has piled the junk food table high and you don’t have the discipline or presence of mind to imagine the cautionary image of what your brain looks like when you’ve eaten a brain sized portion of mini eggs?

As the great scholar William Frederick “Fred” Durst once said “It’s just one of those days.” He also said “Everybody’s judged by their fucked up face”, which may be more true than ever we knew. A true Nostradamus of My Generation.

I’ve been trying to book an appointment with a specialist over whether or not operating on my deviated septum would help with my breathing problems. It’s excellent that I’m covered by OHIP and thus get access to consultations without paying hefty GP fees. Furthermore, if I end up getting the operation OHIP will once again have my back (and septum), paying the applicable costs. I’ve been entangled in this weird system of trying to sort out the appointment. A few weeks back I made an appointment with my GP in order to make an appointment with an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist. She sent through the application and said they’d contact me.

Then yesterday, possibly ten steps after I turned my phone off airplane mode (I get no cell reception at work, so it just drains my battery otherwise). I got a call from my GP with an appointment time, telling me to call the specialist back directly to confirm. She said to do it quickly (within the next day) or else I’d lose my appointment. I asked why the specialist hadn’t cut out the middle man and called me directly. She said clinics rarely ever do that. I told her that because of my non-existent cell signal at work I’d left my email with them in case they needed to get in contact. The receptionist at the GP said they charged $10 per email, so they hadn’t emailed me. She once again implored me to call.

I called the specialist many times today without getting an answer. 70% of the times I called, there was a Rogers answer phone message saying that the number was not connected. The rest of the times brought me to a phone menu that eventually led to a number that nobody answered. I checked that I was using the correct number umpteen(!) times. I was. I sent them an email saying that I wanted to confirm, but got no response. You know, I should probably try again before they close for the day.


Oh, I finally got in touch with someone at the specialist. They said their automated phone system is a piece of shit that loses calls and drops out so often that they should just pay someone to take calls. I couldn’t agree more. I gave her my details and she said my number didn’t match the one they had. The number she repeated back was the phone number of my GP. She asked me why they’d use their number instead of mine, when they could just cut out the middle man. I couldn’t agree more. I confirmed my appointment, which will no doubt culminate in the specialist telling me I don’t need the operation because my pre-existing allergies would negate its benefits, making this whole thing a colossal waste of time. Guess I’ll find out on Friday.

With my mind successfully melted for the day, let’s get the fuck out of here.


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