Missing in action

So I've actually been getting hate mail from people demanding that I post a new journal entry, now that it's been over a month. As if I owe you fuckers something. Well, here I am, and I have nothing in particular to say except that I was sick with motherfucking bronchitis for a fucking MONTH. A MONTH. Thirty days. I snotted, I puked, I coughed up bloody mucus, I lost weight faster than Mary-Kate Olsen... It was a Goddamned blast. The highlight of being sick, however, was the doctor I went to see. A general practice doctor who I chose more or less randomly from a list provided by the insurance company website. But when I went to see him, I noticed on his office plaque that he was not just a general practice doctor, but also an AIDS specialist. Whatever, I just need some antibiotics. So the doctor comes in, and he is tall, good-looking thirty-something with a deep booming voice. He seemed like a motivational speaker. Like that one dude with the big horse mouth. Tony Robbins.
Anyway, I tell him my symptoms and he starts right up with, "so you've had a sore throat?"
"Yes."
"That could be gonorrhea of the throat. It could account for your other symptoms, as well."
Really, what the hell am I supposed to say to THAT? It was possibly the last thing I would ever have expected to hear, short of him telling me that flamingos had laid eggs in my esophagus. I am sick, and tired, and now quite confused, and the best response I can muster is: "Um. Okay..."
Then he says, "And how might one contract gonorrhea of the throat, you might ask?" I hadn't asked, but I had a feeling he was going to tell me anyway. He leaned in real close to me, and said, in a low voice, with his hot breath musking my face: "From going down on a woman!" And then he paused. "Or a man. Whichever. I'm not here to judge."
Again, all I can think to say is, "Uh. Okay." So he continues chipping away at my confidence that I couldn't possibly have gonorrhea of the throat, until he asks, "do you still have a sore throat?"
I tell him no, I do not.
Looking a little defeated, he says, "Oh... then you probably don't have gonorrhea of the throat."
Really. That's really good to know. That's fucking excellent. Thanks, doctor.
Next, he pulls a seemingly total non-sequitur and starts lecturing me about hepatitis. This guy is so hung up on STDs it's like he was desperate to diagnose me with one. Let me remind you I came in to see him about a COUGH. Not penile discharge. Not open fucking sores. A COUGH. He starts telling me about the different types of hepatitis and the dangers they represent and how one might contract them. And then he leans forward again, and says:
"You can also get hepatitis C from rimming." And then, in a quieter voice, "do you know what rimming is?"
For a moment I debated saying no, just to hear his explanation, but this was all coming so far out of left field that I couldn't get it together. I just said, somewhat in disbelief: "Um.. Yes."
"Good!" He seemed excited. Yes. Good for me. That's excellent for me. I know what analingus is. I get a gold fucking star. Now can we please address my violent cough now, which has happened at least fifteen times while you've been telling me about gonorrhea and rimjobs?

An hour of poking and prodding and testing later, he managed to diagnose me with bronchitis, but only after determining that I probably didn't have gonorrhea, or chlamydia, or hepatitis, or AIDS. All of which are major causes of a head cold, I'm sure.

So, a couple weeks and some antibiotics later, I am finally better, and a week of feeling like my old self again has led me to discover something about Los Angeles: It eats a fucking dick. My apologies to you Silverlake (aka Williamsburg three years ago) hipsters who swear to your beloved plastic playground, but New York City kicks the sloppy cunt out of this shithole, and somewhere deep inside you all know it's true. Like that stupid "song" that INDI 103 can't quit playing, with that snotty LA asshole sniveling sarcastically that "New York is sooooo cool!" Deep down inside, he knows what he's saying is true, and he masks it with sarcasm because he knows he could never afford to move to New York with his bussing job at the 101 ("It's only for right now, until my band takes off"), and his lame-ass band would get trampled and battered and spit on and left to die in New York City. You all know it's true. Defend this town all you want, but it ain't got shit on the big apple. Look, we even have a cooler nickname. THE BIG APPLE. That conjures up an image of giant fucking red apple that doesn't take shit from nobody, and could fucking squash your ass. What chance do you have against a giant apple? None. Not a fucking chance. What's Hollywood's nickname - TINSELTOWN?? Please. What a pussy nickname. TINSELTOWN. That makes me think of an eight year old's arts and crafts project. A shoddy little cardboard village decorated with those tacky little strands of silver that white trash families put on their Christmas tree. A flimsy, shiny little tinsel town, living in fear of giant pieces of fruit that could crush the fuck out of it.

Prove me wrong fuckers, if you feel strongly to the contrary. In the meantime, I'm going to go work on my tan.