Nobody cares about your tumour

If at some point in the future, anyone happens to ask you about the exact moment in time that this blog turned into a livejournalshit set of entries filled with exciting diatribe* such as what I ate for dinner (nothing yet), my hair's natural propensity to do the opposite of what I want it to (for the record, it mainly hangs in my face and annoys me), and what I drempt about the previous night down to the last boring detail, you can refer them to this post:

I'm about to talk about my health.

After my roomates started doing stuff like constantly offering to make me tea out of sympathy, encouraging me to spit my ever-present flem out, and threatening to kick me out of the house unless I made a doctor's appointment, I realized that I am in fact, still very sick.

Actually, that's a lie. I still wasn't going to go to the doctor, but I haven't had a good sleep in over a week because of my ever-persistant cough. And it's not getting any better--last night I was awake until 5 a.m. coughing and hoarking up various colours of mucous at appropriate time intervals. So I finally hauled myself to the health clinic today.

The doctor prescribed me antibiotics, not because I have a bacterial infection, but rather because they don't know what I have so prescribing random medication seems like a fun activity. I was also prescribed cough syrup with codeine so I can sleep at night. I know nothing about codeine. When I got my wisdom teeth taken out, I didn't take painkillers and I stopped taking my antibotics, because I'm not big on medication. But if it's going to help me sleep, I'm not going to complain.

I eagerly went to Shopper's Drug Mart, happy and grateful for universal health care.

"This is a narcotic," the phramacist told me, "and the doctor forgot to write directions. We can't give it to you until we get directions."

"Okay," I said, dissapointed, and went to pay for the antibiotics. But while the phramacist was trying to give me directions on when to take it, I had to step away and into a corner because of a coughing fit that startled everyone in the drug store. Somehow, I managed to retain both my lungs and step up to the cash register to pay. The phramacist looked really concerned. "What is wrong with you?" he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. "I just want to sleep," I told him, pathetically.

And because of my pathetic nature, Shopper's gave me enough codeine to get me through the night. Let's hear it for narcotics.
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*Fun Fact: I will regularly type a sentence, using a word in context, and then realize that I don't fully know the meaning. (I've become obsessed with the idea that it's a common fallacy that synonyms can be used interchangably. Each word is a unique and beautiful snowflake with an individual meaning.) So I'll have to look up the word then and there in my trusty dictionary, despite the fact that I know I'm using it correctly. Anyways the actual definition of diatribe is "a harsh and forceful verbal attack" so although I've used it correctly, there is probably a more correct word, because I'm not being harsh, except for ironically, and I'm not being verbal. (See? This is what I mean about synonyms). But I've decided to leave the word in place because the etymology of diatribe is from Greek for discourse. Which is definitely what is going on here. The End.