**Warning: these entries may be graphic and, hopefully, frightening. Keep in mind this is merely fiction. No humans (or animals) have or will be harmed in the production of this blog. All names have been chosen at random and are not meant to represent anyone, living or dead. Any similarities are purely coincidental**
10/18/13 9:10 AM
I just got off the phone with Radiology. I have to go back in for another MRI. I very angrily informed the doctor that I could not afford to pay for another damn MRI but he assured me that I will not be charged. Really? Since when does this cog in the financial dominance wheel do something for free? I suspect there is a reason for the sudden altruism because their generosity is never fueled by genuine concern. I tried to find out why but he was very tight-lipped, making me that much more suspicious. He merely hinted that perhaps the first study was not as clear as it ought to have been and that it is urgent that they repeat the test as soon as possible. At that point he transfers me to scheduling. Their first available appointment is October 31st. I explain to the moron that the doctor told me it was urgent to have this test performed and urgent means now- not two weeks from now. She very rudely told me the 31st is the first available and she put me in for 10AM. Then she hung up on me. Clearly, she wants to play “Die, Bitch, Die” with me. We’ll just see if I can figure out who Becky in scheduling is and pay her a little visit.
While showering, I had the radio on. Now I see why the hospital is performing a free MRI. The story is all over the news. The Radiology Department hired an intern to attach the films and corresponding reports to all of the patient files. Somehow their free laborer made a boo-boo. Instead of attaching each test and report to the appropriate file, she copied the same exact information onto ever patient file. They no longer know whose files are accurate and whose have been compromised so they must retest everyone from the time the intern started until they discovered the problem yesterday. It appears that the unnamed student is costing the hospital hundreds of thousands of dollars. If I knew who it was, I would shake his/her hand.
I sure hope Marcus made the most of his date with Angela because it was hell-night at the restaurant. Miserable customers and stingy tips, I need a better paying job. There was a small ray of sunshine on my otherwise crappy evening. Around six o’clock a group of ladies wearing uniforms were seated in my section. Their badges showed they worked at the hospital. As I was approaching their table I heard a familiar voice. One of the ladies was telling her co-workers about a call she’d had with a “difficult patient”. She repeated our conversation-verbatim- then had the nerve to call her “patient” (meaning me) an asshole. I took a deep breath and approached their table. They all ordered drinks-alcoholic drinks. In my very charming mode, I tell them they can’t possibly be old enough to order alcohol and I ask them for their IDs. They giggled and flirted and handed over those driver’s licenses. There it was: Rebecca Hadley 1465 Sycamore Lane. I had the bitch’s address in my hand and you’d better believe I memorized it. By nine-thirty the restaurant cleared out and Jack was kind enough to let me leave early. I ignored the pain racking my body and took a little ride down Sycamore Lane. Becky the Bitch is actually stupid enough to hang her work ID from the rearview mirror of her car, proving she was home. I zipped my black jacket up to cover the white button-down I have to wear for work and pulled my black leather driving gloves from the bag in my trunk. A black ski mask, leftover from last winter, called to me from the corner of my trunk. I folded it to look like a regular woolen cap, knowing I might need to pull it down over my face. Casually strolling down the street, I slipped into the alley and crept to the back of 1465-a frumpy little half-double to match a frumpy little cow like Becky. I peered in the window. She was stuffing her face with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s while watching TV and petting her cat. The moron actually leaves her spare key under the Welcome mat at her back door. The look of surprise on her pudgy face was priceless-almost as perfect as the terror in her eyes as I squeezed her flabby neck. It took longer for her to die than the Jenkins bitch-probably all those folds of skin cushioning her windpipe. I waited for about ten minutes after she finally stopped kicking to let go. I know because I watched the minutes tick away on her wall clock. I couldn’t feel a pulse but I didn’t completely trust myself through the gloves so I snatched a steak knife from her kitchen and plunged it into her belly. She did not flinch-proof she was really dead. I turned off her porch light and slipped out the back. No one saw me and I’m guessing no one will notice until she doesn’t show up for work on Monday. Bitches like her-the ones who are home alone on a Friday night –only have Ben & Jerry for companionship outside of work. I have a feeling I’ll sleep like a baby tonight!