Phrenologist...it's what's for dinner

You didn't have to say it. You didn't have to write it. I knew what you were thinking when you read my last post.

"He's lost his fucking mind. He's either on drugs, alcohol, or has experienced a massive medical meltdown that has affected his brain."

No, it ws just me trying to let my mind get a workout.

I'm not crazy. I promise.

Oh, I had a voicemail waiting when I got home today. It was the phrenologist's office. "This is Cindy at Dr. Cannotpossiblypronouncehisname's office. I finally got the doctor to tell me when he wants you to come back for a follow-up. He said three months. That will be in November. Please call me to set up an appointment."

Three months? WTF? I dropped off a huge orange bottle of piss yesterday, and they took my blood, and they want to talk again in three months? Not fucking likely. I want the results of the jug'apissathon. I want to know what the blood said. I want to know what week before last's renal sonogram revealed. Come back in three months? Are they fucking crazy?

I'll report back, one of these days, on the phrenologist's reactions to my response to his office's voicemail. "A promising young phrenologist was killed today by a blast of wind from an angry patient's lungs and throat...."