I come to you from the pits of hell to let you know I’m alive and unwell. You see:
I went to the doctor, who graciously offered medication to make me feel better. The problem was that all the drugs that he wanted to prescribe me were jealous of my stunning good looks. They intended to make a rash to take me down a peg. You know I ain’t lettin’ that happen. I put my hand on my hip, rolled my eyes, and channeling my inner Sweet Brown, said, “Do I have to tell another doctor how to do his job? I know I’m brilliant, and so y’all need me to help out but, c’mon… do I need to tell you what drug to prescribe?”
“Yes please,” he said sheepishly.
“I’ll take some prescription strength vodka.”
“Okay, gimme some Omnicef.”
What sucks for me is I’m not feeling any better. I had thought he prescribed a generic, but now I think he gave me something to make the bronchitis last longer. I know it’s because he’s madly in love with me, and wants me to make a return visit soon. Either way, this post sucks because of him.
Lady or Not… Here I Come!