Tomorrow I get in the car and drive to go see a doctor. I’ll see a specialist who is hopefully going to be my House and he’s going to fix me within an hour of air time. Either that, or he’s going to say something scary, like “more surgery,” or “sorry but you have yourbuttisfallingout syndrome,” or “you have cancer.” I’m not afraid of the diagnosis, though. I just want an answer. I think the scariest thing he could say is “I don’t know.”
Just, please. Please tell me what’s wrong, Dr. F. I can’t deal with this one minute longer. After all, a year is an awfully long time to be literally butthurt.
