Better then a bong

For a week now, I have felt as though someone is sitting on my chest, preventing me from taking a deep breath.

Last night, I finally went and picked up a new steroid inhaler at the clinic.

Yeah. Another trip to the clinic. It was as awesome as you would imagine.

I went right up to the counter and handed them my insurance card. And the chick was all "Go have a seat and wait for your name on the board." And I was all "My doctor called this in hours ago, it should be ready." And she's all "It's not." And I glared at her and snatched back my card and went to sit, and wheeze and cough, and shoot nasty looks at the pharmacist who was definitely NOT making an exceptional effort to give me the gift of oxygen. I commented loudly that if they didn't get that inhaler ready soon, I was going to have to go to the doctor's office for a breathing treatment.

Miraculously, my name popped up on the board.

Amazing - 25 minutes to slap a damn label on the outside of a box. I mean, there was no counting, no measuring, all they had to do was pick up the box and PUT A FUCKING STICKER ON IT.

So while I waited in line for my turn (again) at the counter, I started to fee a little lightheaded, because really, air was at a premium. When I got to the counter, I ripped open the box and started sucking on that thing like, well, like you suck on things.

Everyone seemed a little uncomfortable, but I figured hey, they couldn't be more uncomfortable then ME trying to BREATHE. Fuck 'em.

So now it's 16 hours later, and I have to say that yeah, I feel a little better - but that inhaler was not the miracle I hoped it would be.

On the bright side, Lucy stopped puking and Max is back in school, and we got our tax return. So, you know, it's not so awful.