Tuesday Hatred: No Giardiasis Yet
I hate that I accidentally let my Stanford-provisioned health insurance lapse over the summer, having thought that I would need to take no action to keep it even though, in fact, that was not the case. I hate that, in that state, I was required to go to an emergency room where I was diagnosed with cellulitis. (I have not yet received the bill, but I fully expect the two benadryl I was given to cost at least $50.) I hate that hypochondriacal tendencies led me to imagine, at length and both before and after the diagnosis, that I actually had Lyme disease, even though nothing that would enable me to discriminate between the two possibilities has come to the fore and it’s not found frequently where I was. I hate dissertating, which is nothing new; I hate the complexities of interpersonal interaction, which is also nothing new; and I hate the hopeless vistas that spread out before me when I contemplate my own future and that of the nation and world generally—also, it must be admitted, something to which I am more or less accustomed. I hate being single, but I also hate the prospect of becoming other than single—I would like to skip that phase entirely. I have, fortunately, been somewhat out of the news loop in the past week and a half, or I don’t doubt there’d be plenty more worthy of my hatred and yours that I could mention, even if it wouldn’t be of personal significance.
I hate that there was no Tuesday Hatred last week.
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