Monday, February 16, 2009

Standard Operating Procedure

The aroma of unwashed ass and unsocked feet festers in my nostrils as I step upon the clinic floor.

I find an immediate path to my designated chair and find I'm planted four chairs away from Obese Gout Dude. His gelatinous fat spills over the sides of the over-sized chair as he continues his addiction of shoveling Lays Potato Chips down his gullet. His bulbous gout covers both his calloused feet as potato crumbs stand proudly on his belly.

Across the clinic floor, out of view of my vision, but incredibly loud is Pompous Lawyer Douche. He has made the proud decision to accidentally, or possibly not, pull out his headphone jack so everyone can enjoy, "Fuck me! Fuck me! Harder fucker! Spank my ass! Ugh! Ugh! Spank it!" Massive fumbling is heard just moments before the Windows chime bellows across the clinic floor. I couldn't see the color of his face, but I'm guessing crimson.

Tonight I have the unfortunate luck to be seated directly next to Blathering Goatee Goon. Every word he utters must be spoken AT THE LOUDEST VOLUME POSSIBLE BECAUSE EVERYTHING HE SAYS IS REALLY, REALLY IMPORTANT AND EVERYONE MUST SUFFER THROUGH HIS EVERY IQ-DEPLETED STATEMENT.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes and allow my overworked imagination to transport me to the front row of a first class jet that will not land until it arrives upon the beaches of Greece. As I plop myself upon the main cushion, a petite little brunette wearing less that she should curls up beside me.

"These chairs are big enough for two, can we share?"

The entire affair is rudely interrupted by Stealth Gang Member who is shoving Spanish quickly and effortlessly into his cell phone.

The mundane and habitual takes over and I hold back very little surprise when I find that there is once again feces on the rim of the toilet bowl and on the wall nearby. I'm not certain, but I believe once the government certifies a Dialysis patient as disabled, they also hand them a license to crap wherever they damn well please.

Mine must have been misplaced. Or I appear to be a gentleman with grace and common sense who would never treat my fellow man with such disgrace. Hard to tell.

Tonight it was Stilted Accent Tech's turn to pummel me into submission. I have requested, nearly demanded and cursed loudly for him to listen, but he is so set in his ways that it falls on deaf ears.

"Please insert the lidocaine slowly. Please do not scurry the needle around when entering. Please pull the needle straight or it scrapes."

I used to witness his presence in my pod and request someone else administer my pain. His verbal assault on my character to anyone who would listen taught me a valuable lesson.

As I shuffled to my car in the breezy rain, I found myself taking stock.

Frustration for my condition and hatred toward myself had long since evaporated, yet I didn't acknowledge their absence.

Had I grown, or was that hollow feeling I still possessed a reservoir for something I needed?

Maybe its time for love again.