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I am in disbelief and denial, for I hate doctors. You waste your time and graciously ask for some Penicillin VK to obliterate the streptoangina that's preventing you from eating, breathing, sleeping and speaking and for some reason, they take your blood. The next day, the lab tells you that "... and your organs are inflamed. Also, you have a liver infection that can only get worse." Thank you, Dr. Vague. What, do I have Boeck's sarcoid or something? Liver, huh? I'm not buying it, so about four days later, I ask my mom to call the liar up and confirm that there's nothing wrong with my liver. The next day, he calls, tells me I have the liver thing and, oh, we think it's spreading to your heart. Son of a b***h. Why did I even open my mouth? I'm sure if I called again tomorrow, he'd call the next day and tell me I'm dead. Perhaps I should get a second opinion. Wait... have I learned nothing from my mistakes? If I got a second opinion, it would be a 50/50 chance that the next guy would tell me I'm not sick, or I'm even sicker than previously indicated. Sam (God) help me if these guys don't go to Hell with me. Sadness Absence be gone. Just wait. I'm coming for you. With a Gir and a bouquet of roses.