Examination Nation.

Fleet Foxes' "Sun Rises" plays as I awake, I smirk, Lady Fortune smiles upon me with a well placed track on a c.d I use as my alarm. I go through the main hoops of my daily wakeup, and hour chillfest to tivoed shows and sipping on my weird latte chocolate mutant I call my favorite beverage. I depart for medical check ups, I am a media darling. Or atleast I'm going to be.

The ride to the Pediatrics center, the home of ADD medication, Mrs.Holbert with her gaptoothed grin and her overly optimistic advice that I refuse to believe (even though she's right most of the time.), and an ex-highschool basketball player doctor. Now it's circus for my reality television debut. For I am a warrior on a 100 yard field. Or about to be.

I whisper to myself as he feels my belly, "Please don't vomit." He asks me the questions and statements that's plagued me for months, "So what are you going to be made into? What's MADE? I haven't watched MTV since Bevis and Butthead!" I answer these like a robot, sure, when I first heard the news, I was excited, I whipped out my award to start any conversation with a stranger, now it's an old routine. My mistress has grown old.
"Ok, now I need you to take off your pants for the testicular cancer exam." I knew this was coming, I slide my eyes to the wall. The back of my mind I panicked,
"What should I do to prepare myself for this? Should I trim? What happens if I have micro-penis?"
He scrambled my opposite of eggs, (My moon side downs?) with neither revolt nor colored impressed, a bittersweet victory. He explains why he did that, which doesn't matter. My examination is over, and I go home to nap.
My mother wakes me up, it's time for the next batch of medical trials. We drive there, arrive, and wait for endless minutes for my appointment. As we were signing in for our appointments, the ebony woman with a look in her eyes that she didn't give a shit that I was the dalli llama (If that is how you spell it.) she wasn't going to be fazed. A spritely woman popped out behind her, mid forum signing, and said, "Can I ask you what you're going to be MADE into?" Her eyes were bulging out, and the receptionist had a cold look that she couldn't stand this girl for five minutes. I told her my story. She smiled and said, "Well you need to tell us when it's going to be aired!" Which is the hospital's catch phrase apparently, they should put that on a t-shirt...
I go for my echo cardiogram, "Take off your shirt." "
Shit... I should've shaved my nipple hair." I think as I quietly kick myself. She sticks shiny silver stickers on my body, things I overlook under the fat folds I'm going to lose. They find nothing.
I go meet Dr.somethingindian, who pressed his fingers against my fat, and asked me about my classes. He seemed disinterested, and after I explained what MADE was, he said, "Well that is an experience." I'm bummed, but I continue on to my ekg. I lied down, my mother beside me, she couldn't stand the waiting room, a man in a suit paraded his bratty daughter around in hopes of interaction, she would have none of that. National Treasure was playing as an elderly birdwoman squeezed warm, soap/jizz like substance on my stomach. Again, I try to hide my hair laden breasts from prying eyes. I couldn't help but look at the screen she was watching, the palpatations of my heart. I caught myself thinking, "Please, be something wrong with me." I mummed myself, it wasn't I was afraid of the show. Well, I'm scared shitless of the show, but that's not what I was whispering to myself for. Finding a heart tumor, or a small alien subspecies would be like winning a scholarship. I slap my hand whenever I think this, my grandfather is dying of cancer, but I can't help but think in my warped mind how a diasease would make my life so much fuller, treasured. When people are diagnosed with something, they find the true meaning of life and move to India to help people find their innerselves.
No such unluck, I go to my stress test. They put more of those damn stickers on my torso (FYI, I don't have a whole chest of fur. That I would be proud of and flaunt. It's square on my aeriolas) cover it with an uberly gay fishnet tank that squeezed the electrodes onto my body. Then I ran to Judge Brown as the nurses pandered me for information. The one nurse was witty, with a dark sense of humor. (She was inline at a supermarket, the cashier asked another woman her babies name, it was ridiculous. The nurse (let's call her Jackie) was next in line. "-insert baby's name here- is the worst name ever!" Jackie retorts, "That was my sister..." (Not a big story, but to do that you need some balls.)) the other nurse was a freak, she looked like a maiden of mercy, or that she plays scrabble using only terms of murder and competes against other nurses on how many patients they can murder. She stared at me, and that's all she did. Nurse Creepy got me a drink of water, as I drank it, something came through the straw, onto my tongue and into my throat. It could've been 3 things, a micro-biotic organism that's going to consume my magical essence, a booger, or a stray lemon seed. All of the options would have been creepy. I pant like a dog and run on the treadmill and leave, yearning for sims 3 and a nap.

I wish I could close this better. but whatever, it's a blog no one reads.