Needles. NBD.

Remember all that bitching and moaning I was doing about having to give myself shots?

Well, a couple of things:

1) It’s not really that bad. And by not really, I mean I can’t even feel it — and I’m the one doing it. I know it’s in there. I can hear the needle-pen clicking, and still, it’s like a hot knife through butter. Thanks fat stomach! You’re finally good for something!

2) That shit works, y’all. And it works fast. Eggs are everywhere. Think fertile thoughts, particularly on Friday, if you’d be so kind.

3) After being informed that said medicine was not covered by insurance, and finding out it was upwards of $800/month — a Christmas miracle occurred, and it only cost us $30. So we went out for sushi and accidentally spent $100. Oops!

So, this morning I was running late for my monitoring appointment, and I hastily pulled on a pair of mismatched socks, thinking “No one will even know. I’m wearing boots.”

And these socks? don’t match at all. It’s not like they’re both blue, but different sort-of close blues.

No.

One is blue, with stripes and snowflakes, and the other one is brown.

Then I got to the doctor, where my only reason for being there is to take off my pants and lay on an exam table. A place where the only thing I have on from the waist down is my socks.

At least my legs weren’t hairy.

 

 

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One thought on “Needles. NBD.

  1. Paging Doctor Bummer!

    Y’know, if I only had a fun-size Twix for every time I believed myself impervious thinking, “I’m wearing boots”…

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