Being sick sucks. It really does. I woke up with the sore throat, stuffy nose, and overall feeling that the grim reaper was standing over my bed. Lurking over me constantly checking his Rolex watch to write down the time of death. Expensive taste. This figure is probably around 8 feet tall, holding a sickle and wearing a floor-length black robe. With every wheeze or cough I make, the reaper starts to write, but then stops. Sighing and clicking his pen until finally saying, “COME ON ALREADY!” For real though, I think if I had three wishes, one of them would be that I never got sick. The perfect immune system. I Am Legend. But I guarantee that would come with a whole slew of problems as well. If you’ve ever seen the Wishmaster, you’d know that all wishes come with a price. For example, if you wanted to be rich, you would be, but only for a few days and then the IRS would come and audit your ass wondering where all this undocumented money came from. A few days later you’d be broke and bankrupt. You’d be living out of a cardboard box telling everyone about the magic genie that sounded like Robin Williams who granted your wish.
So I call the doctor. They tell me to come. Imagine the phone ringing and the blond-haired female receptionist just picking it up and shouting, “GET IN HERE!” That’s basically what happened. No matter what time I go into the office there’s always a crowd. I am fairly certain I am his youngest patient. It’s also very Italian-dominant. The Doctor’s Italian. All of the patients are Italian. If you sit in the waiting room for 5 minutes you’ll pick up on what’s going on at the track, where the best pizza in Chicago is, and who whacked Jimmy Hoffa. However, you’d need a translator. I love this doctor. He comes into the office with a diet coke in hand, tells me I’ve been dead for weeks, writes me a prescription, and sends me on my way. Moments later, a ghastly cough is heard as the grim reaper also walks out of the doctor’s office with a prescription in hand.