Miss Emergency's Prologue

First things first. I took a dump, which brings me to emergencies. Shitting is a ritual emergency so this is something very close to Miss Emergency's heart. I come from a family of colon interlocutors, and so this makes shitting even an inch closer to my heart.

I, Miss Emergency (I am so filled to the brim that it has taken so long to type unfettered!), I have pictures of my colon in the drawer where I keep my checkbook and my long and arduous pile of bills from the outside-of-network gynecologist who is no better than the in-network gynecologist I used to have, but my ex-best friend hypnotized me into joining her paranoia bubble about university health center gynecologists and so I said, "sure, I'll try your out-of-network gynecologist" and the friendship was a spectacular failure, but I kept going to the expensive gynecologist, because ....

... it turned out that this gynecologist (the expensive one) has candid, unposed photographs of women dancing, laughing, sitting, running--framed--all over her office walls. [These are the patients who got cancer.] So I kept this expensive gynecologist because I wanted to keep going back to the office to watch the framed spontaneity along her walls, dancing on pause over the shelves full of porcelain figurines of black women arranged in gossipy semi-circles. Some framed women are not white. Most are white, framed. Black women are the three-dimensional shapes on the ledge. This gynecologist has lovely legs. I told her so. But this is how I said it:

"Are you a dancer?"

Yes, of course she is. She wears two-inch pumps and panty hose and her white lab coat, trotting around the unposed figures of feminine joy all day. I figured that this was worth the long and arduous pile of out-of-network paperwork, if I could get this every six months to see if that possible std had finally worked its way out of my system.

I took a shit, and it makes all the sense in the world that I should feel that this act is very near and dear to my heart. I saved the picture of my colon, shiny and blasted away with Colon Cleanse.

I do not like my expensive, out-of-network's red headed (redheads=like palm readers) administrative assistant. I do not like the way she sneers and turns her volume up when she talks about the co-pay. I do not want to enter the bubble with her. I do not like the way I bubble myself off so that she will have a harder time reaching me when she wants to demand that I pay now, the higher co-pay amount, before being examined. I do not want to pay before or after. I want to send her a check later. I do not want her to call me and harass me every time I turn around, before I've had the time to make it over to the Drawer with all of my Records and Arduousness. The people who blasted and photographed my colon were much, much nicer about demanding payment.

These are things you need to know before I take full control here.