"You've got malaria"

"Yep," the doctor continued, "that's definitely malaria. You can tell, of course, by looking at your red blood cells underneath this magnifying thing right here." The doctor motions to a microscope sitting on the table next to the patient. 

"You mean a 'microscope'?" the patient asked, skeptic of the doctor.

"Is that what you call that thing?" he responded curiously. "Huh," he said, accepting the patients statement as fact, "I always just thought it was kind of a, I don't know, novelty item, you know? Like one of those electricity orbs where you put your hands on them and your hair stands up."

"No," the patient began, "it's nothing like that."

"Well, I always thought it was. Any who, oh yeah, about that malaria," the doctor said, placing a sample underneath the microscope. "See right there? Yeah, you got it pretty bad. Like on a scale of 1 to 10 I would say it's about an 8 and a half. Oh man, look at that one right there. That blood cell looks like it's about to explode. Like John Goodman at Kentucky Fried Chicken or something."

The patient became more worried. Not so much at the fact that he just found out that he has malaria, but more-so at the idea that this 'doctor' could even pass whatever test they make doctors pass to become legitimate physicians. 

"Where did you say you went to school?" the patient asked, "I have a son who wants to become a doctor."

"Oh, I didn't," the doctor responded. "Now, about my fee."

A Revisiting (Part VII) "110807"

glass of wine/tin-can telephone/clouds never really follow me around/a sunset illusion

"So...what are you doing again?" He asked curiously.
"I'm writing a story, asshole. How many times do I have to tell you?" The other replied.
"Shit i'm sorry, it's just, I dunno, you NEVER write stories. Or anything for that matter. In fact the only time i've actually seen you pick up a writing device that wasn't directly related with taking a test or bubbling in what ethnicity you are was when you drew a ballsac on that one guy's face with permanent marker when he fell asleep on "Pirate's of the Caribbean."
"Well excuse me for wanting to be a little creative. Can't a guy just once try to express himself creatively without his asshole friend pouncing on him like he were a cheap hooker. 'Cheap Hooker'. That's a good one." The man puts his clever choice of dialogue to the paper. He started writing earlier today. Its been about three hours since. He's got about three or four pages done. It's true though, what his friend said about him. He never writes. Never.

what day is it? morning. is is morning? god it must be. the clock at his bedside flashes 11:38. fuck. did the power go out? it had to of. oh fuck. fuck. please let it be morning. i can't miss it again. harvey, his dog, whines in the hallway. oh shit the dog! i don't have time for you man! i'm sorry. i have to go. fuck. i'm done now.

two people sit at a bench in the park. it's half past ten in the morning. winter time. the sun just finished shaking off the sleep. it's brisk, chilly, but comfortable. the two talk about this and that. a family of ducks play on the shore of the lake.
"So, God, has it really been that long?" The man asks of the woman, trying to find his memories.
"Yeah, three years. Three and a half if you count the months I spent in Glasgow." She replies in a warm tone.
"Well, I don't, but I suppose it does help put things in perspective."
they share a quiet moment as the ducks begin crossing the pond.
"I should get going," the woman begins, "I really can't be away from the office too long."
"Oh, um, yeah okay. Well...so will I see you around?" He asks.
"Sure. I'm always around."