Ehhhh, Whats Up, Doc?

I've had the same doctor for as long as I can remember. He's a pretty decent guy, except for the fact that he's what I like to think of as a pill doctor. Got a headache? Here's a big blue pill. Got an undisclosed emotional aberration? Here's a tiny little white pill. Can't sleep? Here, take these. And if those don't work, try some of these, and well, if those don't work, let's have you come back in and we'll poke you with some needles.

Having said that, he also cracks me up. He's super Jewish, not that it makes an real difference, except I find older Jewish doctors to be insanely hilarious. It's got to be their eyebrows or something. Think Judd Hirsch dispensing meds like a Pez Dispenser with a medical degree.

When I was younger, and my eyesight was failing faster than Hulk Hogan's career, I swung by the ol' Doc there to have my glazzies checked out. He came back and said "You are fucking blind."

I'm sorry? My doctor swore? And told me I'm blind? As in, "I am fucking blind?" What planet does this guy come from, that this is his bedside manner? And, for that matter, why isn't my doctor Gates McFadden? She's better looking, for one, and doesn't have studiously ignored nasal hair.

When I set about trying to figure out why I was supremely pissed off all the time, I went to see him, and of course, he gave me the kind of meds that Bluto used on the donkey. (can anyone get that reference?) When I say I am pissed off all the time, I pretty much mean it. I've got this crock pot of rage, and it's percolating like mad, brewing up Evilmister's Gamorrah Style Chili Explosion around the clock. It is only through Zen-like Jedi breathing that I haven't crammed someone's head into their left nostril. When I asked him why I'm cranky all the time, he dropped the following nugget of wisdom on me:

Doc: People are like cars. You got your midrange cars, like a Ford of a Buick. Then you got your performance cars, like your porsches and maseratis. People who are Buicks go along at a normal pace all the time, and give it the gas or slow down as they need. You are a maserati. You are going flatout all the time, non stop, day or night, rain or shine. You're gas pedal is hair trigger, and the slightest pressure sends you rocketing.

After filtering this through sixteen layers of gentile medical wisdowm, I figured out what my doctor was saying.

He was calling me a spaz.

My doctor thinks I am a spaz. He has medical knowledge to back up his claims, whacky approach notwithstanding. Not only does my doctor think I'm a spaz, he could, if pressured, prove it. Scientifically.

Now, I'm sure it hasn't taken anyone out there to realize that I am something of a spazoid. Sure, it makes total sense. If I wasn't some kind of emotionally retarded, chemically imbalanced freak of nature, then the explanations for why I get irritable and moody begin to take on a kind of flavor I'm not overly fond of; the spice of insanity is great for other people, but not this kid.

The more I think about that turn of events, the more I consider trying to 'fit in' better with the general population. You know, being friendly, even helpful to people beyond my limited circle of friends and the ones who make my food for me (you do not want to piss off the guy making your hamburger, trust me). You know, doing the whole 'confront what bugs you thing' like you're supposed to do with your fears. Which, btw, works just fine.

Except when it comes to people. I can't do it. I try every day. I wake up each morning, clean slate and every damn thing. So far, I've managed to get out of the house and all the way to Tim Horton's before some dipshit pisses me off. And it's usually something completely innocuous, like him or her ordering a sandwich. Why should I get upset at someone ordering a sandwich? It's not like I'm in a hurry to get to work (which I think I now hate more than anything else except for olives), because I try and walk as slowly as possible to the skytrain station. So it can't be the time involved in the making of said sandwich, because this person is in fact assisting me in my slowness.

Could it be the type of sandwich? Hardly. I'd need Steve Austin's eyes to tell why kind of grinder is being made.

How about the slowness of the queue, then? With one cashier making some nosh, there's only one working the register, so it's got the be that, then? Right? But then again, the slowness of the line is also contributing to my slowmotion avoidance of getting to work.

It's none of those things and all of them. It's the sandwich guy, and the woman who wants a hundred and eleven donuts, all of them different, all of them fresh, all of them in different bags, it's the guy who wants to use a Diner's card to pay for his thirteen cent donut, and the woman who's talking too loudly and the smell of the construction guy, and the two kids outside who're trying to get money to buy drugs and the fucking guy in the benzo who hooks them up with a fitski, it's the sound of my mother's voice still echoing inside my head and the scratch on my chest from when Bootsie jumped up and on and on and on ...

My doctor calls me a spaz. It's lucky for him he's right on the money, or I'd kick him in the nuts. He's a doctor, he'd know what to do to save himself, right? Right?

Ahhh fuck it. I think might skip work again tomorrow. I hate them all so much. There's no discipline there at all. I could probably get away with working in my underwear and a pair of flip flops if I tried hard enough, and that makes me completely mental. No structure at work is like giving me free license to do what-the-fuck-ever I want.

Gah. I am a spaz.