Little Bitter Party

Can I just carve out a little space for a bitterness party? Just for a moment.

(More like overwhelmedness turned desperation turned bitterness/frustration.)

I understand that your job is to answer phones and give info, and you're damn good at what you do. Cutting me off in mid-sentence like that to crisply inform me of the standard approach to a situation has left me reeling with awe and respect at your expertise as a secretary. (I can only pray that you're not the doctor herself, otherwise I'm already biased against you.) I just want some effing help, okay? I wouldn't be calling you unless I was at the end of my rope. I'm not a frickin pleasure seeker out for a cruise through local doctor's offices.

Specialists. So damn hoity-toity. Well, I don't have a primary care physician. You wanna know why? Because I'm poor, that's why. Does that mean you won't help me?

I didn't even get to ask my question, you brisk b----.

How in the everlovin' schmiggedy do I get help with this?

I'm so tired of being sick.

And I'm so tired of being brushed off by doctors.

I wouldn't even consider dealing with your office again, O Most Exalted Of Secretaries, except that the professor I like and highly respect recommended you.

Hopefully it's enough to overcome my distinctly anti-jerk bias.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled, optimistic programming.

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