I’ve developed an enemy since my diagnosis, he’s sleek, shiny, a real hot shot. He looks like a dream but when it comes to work, he’s a lazy S.O.B. Always missing spots, leaving just a little something behind, never going the extra mile, you know the type. This morning we battled for 30 minutes before my shower, another 20 after. We still have business unsettled, it’s pushing 2 p.m.

How did this all start? We met almost three weeks ago, just after my initial hospitalization—my father picked him up, doctor’s orders. He was the best of the lot, priced at $200; that’s before his living expenses, sucking up electricity, nestled up in his cradle each night. The worst part is I barely need him, call on his services every other day, if that. But he knows that “barely” is only an adjective describing the undeniable, he is needed. He’s knows aplastic anemia, knows my bone marrow has failed, knows my blood counts are pathetic. I can’t afford to outsource to a cheaper guy, he’s the one with the guarantee—no cuts, no scratches, no bleeding. And it’s wrong. It stands against everything American, defies the simple beauty of the free market—the guy who offers the best service at the best rate gets the gig. He’s what the Department of Public Works is, a instituted monopoly that takes full advantage of their charter;one guy fills a pot hole(sort of) while four others look on talking about each others wives. They all get paid.

I’ve thought about cutting his legs out from underneath him, just letting myself go. But I can’t, it’s too itchy, too hideous, inspires too many jihadist jokes from my father. A beard is just another spot for germs to sit, cozy on in and get ready to infiltrate. Without an immune system, I’m left little choice. For now I’m stuck with my right-hand man—last name: Norelco, first name: Phillips, calls himself the arcitec. Absolute clown.

The bane of my exitence looking extra smug this afternoon

The bane of my existence looking extra smug this afternoon

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