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September 1, 2007
It started again. I wanted a new physician, someone to float me an antibiotic every once in a while so I could stop pissing off the pharmacy with my inability to remember my own DEA number. The previous night was spent writhing, hopping to the toilet to pee out what felt like liquid nitrogen, back to bed, back to the toilet, and finally, around 3 AM, a defeatist concession to sleep on the toilet in lieu of catheterizing myself. The new physician was all too happy to hear my self-diagnosis, write me a script, and send me on my way.