Dear Dr. G—
As always, writing to you is categorically repugnant. So much so, that I need an anti-nausea pill to avoid puking on my laptop; which reminds me, I really should get a rubber keyboard cover.
I recall our days of your misdiagnoses and mistreatment of me with great fondness, especially your penchant for creating nonexistent illnesses. If memory serves, you were cocksure I had a couple of autoimmune diseases and a little cancer here and there. Oh, boy, at the time, being an uneducated patient, you had a blast with my body and I was terrified! What fun for you, huh? Tell me; was misdiagnosing me foreplay to fuck your wife, Diva Dementia? WAIT—don’t answer that. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to assume it was.
I tell you, that year or so spent replacing make-up for voluminous prescriptions you doled out makes me laugh so hard, I want to drive an ice pick through your brain. And, Dr. G, what an epic delight the side-effects from the medications you prescribed were. How funny that I didn’t even need them—are you in stitches, too?! They forced me into reclusion, losing numerous friends and categorically terminated my social life. Lest we also forget that I packed on more pounds than a hippopotamus?
HOW PROUD ARE YOU OF YOU RIGHT NOW?! Why, I can envision the priggish grin on your sickening face, radiating from your chapped lips and that unforgettable beige snaggletooth poking out to say hello.
To think a year or so after our break-up, I saw a good doctor (don’t be offended), and learned that I was only having an allergic reaction to medication you gave me. Hilarious! Don’t worry your putrid little head about it; I wasn’t angry in the slightest. There was absolutely nothing wrong with me, except that you were determined to kill me, and with the fervor of Hitler. I’m glad you didn’t have an oven in your office; it would have been too on the nose.
In closing, Dr. G, please know that my systemic and unrelenting hate for you paid off. I channeled it into reporting you to the American Medical Association. When I found out that I was one of hundreds of patients you mistreated, I was thrilled. You know what sealed the deal for me? When I was told they revoked your medical license. Good times!
Wishing you and Diva Dementia all the worst,
Katie Schwartz is a comedy writer, producer and essayist, among other writerly things. She collects vintage tchotch, not bodies, which is surprising considering her obsession with death humor. You can catch her weekly column at Monkeybicycle and other print work on Huffington Post, Exquisite Corpse, or here. If you’re not bored to death, watch some of her produced work at FKR.TV, FunnyOrDie or on the YouTubes.