"And what do you want your birthday present to be?"
"A bottle of Seroquel. And health insurance."
I don't ask for much at this point in my life...except for much.
---
Today was bizarre and underachieving. Dilemmas upon dilemmas upon more dilemmas make this day a load of crap, if you ask me.
It started with a trip to this clinic I never heard of, at the corner of Anaheim and Chestnut. I tried to check it, but they told me to schedule an appointment in the afternoon. Got that done. I would come back later. More on that in a bit.
The next stop I went to was this place near San Antonio Drive and Long Beach Blvd. They asked me, are you here to file an unemployment appeal?
Crap. Why did that old guy at the Social Security Office refer me over here? Bastard.
So, I went down to the Career Transition Center, near my work at the Long Beach Bar Foundation. Guess what? In what I feel is a blatant attempt to fuel my paranoia, they changed the rules at the beginning of the month. Now I DO NEED my Social Security Card. That same card that I lost with my wallet from hell. Motherfuckers. Tomorrow I could reregister...but my bus pass would be invalid, since tomorrow begins that month of August.
With little else to do, I completed what was a brisk two hours of work at the Bar, then went back home to refuel. This huge-ass lady, who is barely getting by on welfare and smoked one too many cigarettes, one too many chitterlings and way too many bottles of alcohol, gets on board. She has cellulite from the top of her forehead to the bottom of her cankles, and her teeth were few, yellow and brown.
Ugh. All I could do was turn away and wait for the bus to drop me at the stop.
So, you think this story is over, right? Wrong. Here's some more stuff to pile on.
After I got to the clinic, the doctors there (who clearly would not be hired by the likes of Kaiser-oh God, I actually MISS having decent doctors for a change) told me that I was at the wrong place. I should have gone to the Long Beach Mental Health Clinic, near the Social Security Office. One of the staff there, called my name as if I have the hots for her. Based on her appearance, "Sorry, I'll pass. I have my limits."
So I go to that clinic up the boulevard, and the receptionist there (who, in spite of a bad hair job [ditch the mad fro, lady], was courteous) told me to check in Monday morning. EARLY MOnday morning, a la 4 or 5 a.m.
I thought at the back of my head, "Oh please, let some hot anime chick rape me now. I've had too many bizarre things happen today, get me the hell outta here!"
Not kidding, mind you.
