My back is out. It hurts like a motherfucker. And when I move something pops.
So I'm ouchy and go to see the doctor. She examines my back, has me lay down and hears the pop. Alarmed, she sends me to get an xray. (The pop, really, is very impressive.)
Meanwhile, I'm still ouchy. So she prescribes a muscle relaxant. It's called Skelaxin. Seriously? Skelaxin? What is its target demographic, the pimps?
Anyway, I get out of the doctor's office with only the $25 copay and it's off to the pharmacy. The Creech gingerly loads my crippled ass (literally) into the car and we head to Target. Walking through the football field that is that store is out of question for me so I hand him the prescription, my insurance card and some cash. Just to be sure I pull out three twenties because who knows, he might be moved to pick me up the new Kenny Chesney CD on his way out.
A good while later he's back. The tiny white bag contains the 21 Skelaxin pills which are to last me one week. There's nothing else in the bag. No Kenny Chesney CD, no change. The Creech is prepared "Yup, they kept all of it."
I freak out: "What the fuck do you mean?! Sixty fucking dollars? Did they run it through my insurance?!"
I am really fuming now and it's doing no favors for my back.
"Yup. Look at the retail price, it's $75. You really got some discount there."
The Creech is a kind soul and he's already doing me a huge favor. So I try to spare him the full extend of my rage.
"I. Hate. This. Fucking. Country! I would never have to pay this much in England. None, probably. And in Spain they'd prolly send a doctor with pills to my house! I've seen
Sicko, I know!"
The Creech is quiet and calmly proceeds to drive my raging ass home.
"I mean, seriously, what kind of a developed nation are we where a simple backache results in an $85 bill? And what would happen if I didn't have any health insurance like all those other people?"
The Creech sighs and continues driving.
"Fucking A! I hate this place. What right do we have to claim any sort of supremacy on the world stage when we can't even manage to keep our population healthy. Or literate?! What is this, Zimbabwe?"
The Creech says nothing and finally we're home.
I collapse on the yoga mat trying to arrange my clenched limbs into some kind of a stretch. Seconds later my new downstairs neighbors plug in their new amp and begin band practice. The bass reverberates through my spine and I scream, causing one mother of a back spasm:
"FUCK YOU! Fuuuuuck you, you douchebag hipsters!!!"
Well, at least they're probably uninsured.
