And by people I mean doctors.
It all started when I walked into the room. Everyone in it was blown away — I could see it on their faces. These shocked expressions and dropped jaws have become standard reactions to my presence. I turn and talk to a woman in the room. She looks me in the eyes, slightly shaken; she seems a bit shocked by my calmness.
“You have warts on your arm,” she says.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I reply.
“No, really, you have an infection,” she states. “Have you been sexually active lately?”
“Maybe, why do you ask?” I answer with a wink.
“Because I’m your doctor and I need a straightforward answer.” Dr. Karonelli wasn’t playing any games. I proceeded to tell her my sexual history, all of the dirty details she wanted.
“You need to put on this cream twice a day,” she prescribes.
“Will you do it for me?” I plead.
“Get out,” she demands frustratingly.
I leave without a phone number, though she did note her email on this prescription pad. I read it outside while smoking a cigarette.
“What are you doing?” It’s her again — Dr K. I knew she couldn’t resist.
“Funny seeing you here, outside the hospital, doctor.” I say smoothly.
“You need to quit smoking immediately,” Dr. K. said. “I told you that was one of the ways to inflame the disease. Put that out now.”
“What, so I can live longer so you can flirt with me some more? I don’t think so, Doc. I’m riding on my own wave and there’s no shark that’s worth diving for.” I reply.
“God, I hope nobody is dumb enough to have sex with you,” she says.
“I don’t know doctor, are you?” I respond hopefully.
I am no longer allowed to visit the Balboa Hospital, but I know one thing for sure: I’m absolutely positive — HPV-positive.
Written by: Beck Nava — firstname.lastname@example.org
(This article is humor and/or satire, and its content is purely fictional. The story and the names of “sources” are fictionalized.)