Healthcare.gov is Working!

A saying as a child that always prompted a giggle. – “Call me anything, but don’t call me late for dinner.”

The morning started in a familiar fashion–struggling through the CPAP machine wrapped tightly around my neck from rolling in circles all night as the Sodium Oxibate chased Morpheus through the back alleys of my dreams. Carradine would be proud. (Insert a Tag-IDK?)#Carradine

Awakened abruptly by the handful pills dispensing magic in my soul. Somehow I always managed to swallow all nine off my bedside table. A glorious Halloween bag of success filled colors and shapes prescribed to cure my hypertension, high blood pressure, hypopituitarism, and narcolepsy. I always accomplished this snake oil task between the first alarm, which I snoozed through, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke and puppy dander that now filled my mask from the upstairs level of my aging parents Town Home, where I often found myself in the winter.

I pushed my fears aside, cracked another Adderall in half and began about the morning ritual of testosterone injections, vitamins, compulsive cleaning and a sick stomach. Ahh-yes-pills need food. No… I, thank you—my prescious body for keeping me healthy. Don’t let them call me late for dinner. Don’t haunt me throughout the day.

I’m sorry America! I was the first Outsourcing conglomerate. My body is too expensive, lazy, worn out, or maybe too efficient in its quest for gross margin to produce anything of value in itself. And for over 20 years I have outsourced almost all its essential functions in a mixed argument of “they’re taking our jobs-and no I will not pick up that elephant shit for any amount of money!”

The situps, the situps, I have to do the sit ups. But why? I am constantly concerned I might be in a situation where a beautiful Italian traffic cop asks me to remove my shirt and retrieve a child’s toy from the Trevi fountain, and being a brand whore I refuse to go in with my “PINK” dress shirt. But alas-its too late for the exercise. The speed is kicking in. I use my pork filled Kielbasa sausage fingers to shove my hairy old man belly past the European sized Label jeans. The computer is running too slow and my mind is racing. Next…….

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About bdehaven

DeHaven keeps his heart in Chicago and his soul in New Orleans-that's why he lives in Las Vegas. He holds a MBA from Tulane and a film degree from Columbia. Once ejected from a community college for arguing Frost's agenda in Birches, he has since written screenplays, traded futures in Madrid, and was Editor in Chief of the Nola Shopper Newspaper.(and enterprise Michael Enzo Bankrupt) He also has a "shout out" in a Jay "Z" Song. He and Michael Enzo were friends. http://bdehaven.com "A celebrity ghostwriter, you’ve never heard of, examining his own life of crushing addictions and alleged organized crime connections while struggling to present the truth behind our own behaviors." Author of Confessions of a Self-Help Writer (The Journal of Michael Enzo) the #1 Most Wished for Book of the Year on Indie Bound for over 14 weeks
Aside | This entry was posted in Advice, Bourbon, Everyday Problems, Reviews, Satire, Writers and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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