The Wax Conspiracy

Waiting room magazines steal you from paper shorts

Sunset ushers a golden glow where the day is about to end and the night, the oncoming evening, is ready to be done with as you please. All the worlds in a sense of open opportunities before bed and the snooze strikes at 21:00 local time.

When you find yourself packing paper shorts as part of your carry-on luggage (because damn if there isn’t already a lack of space for all the charcoal underwear), that may be the good time to reflect on the waiting room life choices. Ones where instead of picking up a fresh pair of paper (or very thin paper-like fabric) shortpants you opt instead to walk out of the facility with the same pair you were given to change into as you lay upon that bed of buzzing and beige equipment.

But that is why they have another stash in the same mop and bucket closet they call a change room. They are there for the pickings. You are spending countless dollars to find nothing wrong with you. Your health insurance premiums will make you pay for it, the least you could do for yourself is to walk out of the facility with a stack and set of paper clothes to waltz around in on vomit dried carpeted walls.

Because you’re worth it. Most of the time. Some of the time.

You are going to die.

Not now. Certainly not yesterday. But definitely in an upcoming tomorrow.

Leave those magazines behind. They’re junk masquerading as entertainment and distracting you from the other goods. Out of date, grimy to the touch, they’re infested with expired coupons and wristprints along the perfume panels.

Those lollipops and other lollies in the waiting room beckon. Walk up to the counter, (avoid the strawberry flavour) stash them between your fingers and fabric folds and walk off. They’re there to make you feel like you’re getting one over them while they tear through your account and rip a hole in your savings. One more exam. One more consultation. One more rending doesn’t feel any more than the last dozen or so.

Count the steps. Examine the fraction out of the daily calories. Feel the pulse of those ankle monitors. You are dead on your feet.

Every little breath and bit is another step into a paper-made wardrobe and cupboards overflowing of sugar melting from the wrappers. Or hollowed out from a week long infestation of ants that come in the night as you sit outside gazing unto a short hit of the sunset. These are the true treasures of having to shuffle through floors silty in antibiotics.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 18 May 2016

The Wax Conspiracy

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