the BRUTAL, UGLY truth of my FABULOUS, BEAUTIFUL life.



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10:58 a.m. + 2004-07-15 = is there a doctor in the house?

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Once upon a time nearing my twentyfirst birthday, in a land far, far away from the likes of HMOs and Tricare Dental [the terrible plan given to families of militarypeople]... Riina returned to our room a few floors above Dragarbrunnsgatan, after spending an absurb amount of time at her parents' home in Manchester over winterbreak, to find Mattson with a toothache.

In all the excitement of the joyous reunion between the briefly disconnected bestfriends and the fountains of gin and other tax-free alcohols, Mattson's toothache [a mild version of "extremely-painful" at this point] went on brief holiday. After all, in 6 more days, Mattson would be 21--that magical age in which he could acquire whiskey worldwide, instead of 20--that age where he could acquire whiskey everywhere but within miles upon miles of his U.S. tax address/home. Perfect timing!, since in 8 more days, Mattson would be flying back to said address and would most-likely require a drink.

Riina and Mattson partied and fested and took mini holidays to stockholm to cash in on "The Week Sweden Goes on Sale"... a prada bag and some prada shoes. All was well in Ginelot....

That is, all was well until the weekend came... and it was a bankholiday weekend as well. The toothache came back with a terrible temperment filled to the brim with a falsified claim for vengence.

Mattson awoke in the three nights preceeding his birthday--the day when dental offices would once again open--screaming in pain.

Riina and Mattson went on midnight quests to the mysterious hospital, which in itself, was quite easily found since there is a sign pointing the direction of the Sjukhus (literally: sick-house) on Munkgatan... past the park where a shabbily-made brochure at the chamber of commerce insisted there was gay-cruising to be found and that Uppsala had vibrant gay culture. Onto the street, so cleverly-named!: Sjukhusvägen (literally: sick-house-road). oh no! what's the word for emergency room!? Maahh...[t]..., do you mean 'casualty ward'? we eventually find it. the nurses give me digigesic (sp?)... Riina's mum calls it, Digital Jesus.

Night Two: same thing. only Mattson ekes out with something a little stronger than Digital Jesus.

Night Three: is a blur to the narrator.

Mattson's birthday! hooray! dental offices are open, hooray! riina pays for the cabride to effin' Flogsta, hooray and bless! The dentist would only accept cash. Swedish was his second language and english was only a word that sounded like the adjective prior to a particular "muffin" at the local grociers'. Mattson gets emergency rootcanal. Happy Birthday! hooray! The dentist will only accept cash. (eek! but that's another story.)

Mattson and Riina fill Mattson's prescriptions at the Apoteket on the highstreet but blocks from their abode. Mattson opens 21 presents given him by Riina, whilst in her bed...high on Vicodin.

It is dark by 4pm. The drinking began shortly thereafter. And all those nights of torture could have been avoided had sweden had the sense to keep at least SOME medical and dental offices open over weekends and/or holidays.

as for today,

my body seeks medical attention.

and i will be spending all day trying to get in for an appointment, but inevitably, resort to taking work off tomorrow (ugh! and in only 20some-odd days I could be getting PAID personal hours [i've accumulated nearly 2 workdays' worth]) in order to get a jump start on the overrun medical system.

but it's not their fault that they're understaffed and overworked. and i shant complain, either. cos compared to Sweden... the waiting for a walk-in is NOTHING... and at least i'm not tossing and turning in utter pain and anguish only to get a black market rootcanal at a stripmall in the suburbs.


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comments?? --->[thisaway]--->[[looks to me as though there are...]]---> 0 repercussions thus far

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[prologue] *** [epilogue] ***[plottwist!]

[[erstwhile]] ***** [[forthwith]]

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me
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immortality!



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