Your Pharmacist May Hate You presents….

      Miss Margo note: I did not write the passage below; I am reproducing it because I find it moving and want to discuss it and share it with others.  


      It comes from a blog I like to read called Your Pharmacist May Hate You, authored by an anonymous pharmacist who calls himself “The DrugMonkey, Master of Pharmacy.”  I have no relationship with this person, I just read his blog, where he writes about his job, pharmacy school, his thoughts on the heath care system, his politics, and, every now and then, his personal life.  


      I stumbled upon YPMHY entirely by accident and started reading because I found his rants about his job in a corporate drugstore were really funny.  The rest of it really grew on me.  DrugMonkey has a great self-deprecating sense of humor, and even though his blog tile mentions hating, he’s more morose than hostile.  


      I am a little worried about him.  He is lonely and mentions drinking at night in almost every post.  Boy, I know what that’s like.  He also talks about how he prefers to work on Thanksgiving.  It sucks to be alone on Thanksgiving!  The second year after I moved out here to go to school, I was alone on Thanksgiving (I lied to my Mom and said that I had been invited to a dinner, so that she wouldn’t worry).  In truth, I bought some roast turkey from Whole Foods and washed it down with two bottles of inferior red wine and fell asleep on the sofa.  Good times, hey?  Yeah, that was a nightmare.  


       Anyway, this is a sad post by DrugMonkey, but I like it because I really really identify with it and I suspect just about everyone else can, too.  It is a really human post.  


       I hope DrugMonkey doesn’t mind my posting this.  If you somehow end up reading this and you object, sir, please shoot me a comment or an email alerting me to the fact and I’ll take it down.  Thanks!


                                 *                     *                  *    

It Rained Today.

So because it rained I got out the umbrella. It’d been a long time since I thought about the umbrella.

Never really.

But today I noticed the umbrella looked as tired and as old as I feel some mornings when I leave for work. I noticed the parts that faced up towards the car window and took the beating of the summer sun were faded, which gave the umbrella an unintentional two-tone look. And I thought about the rainy day in Pennsylvania. 

The rainy day in Pennsylvania when I was young and newlywed and honeymooning. Privileged and educated and nearer to the top of society than I’m sure my grandfather who couldn’t write his name ever would have thought a grandson of his would be. Normal. If you would have known me on that rainy day in Pennsylvania in 1994 you most certainly would have thought me normal. 
I might even have been happy. I don’t really remember. Other than going into an outlet store with my new wife and picking out an umbrella that would be big enough for both of us I really don’t remember a lot about that day. The umbrella is a time capsule from another world. I know I was there, but damn if I remember a lot about it. I look at wedding pictures and I wonder who that normal looking guy is in there. 
‘Cause I don’t feel so normal anymore. I haven’t for a long time. It really is a big-ass umbrella though. 
Thanksgiving is the hardest day of the year to not feel normal. That’s why I’ve always worked them. My employer screwed me this year though by closing for the holiday, but that’s not your concern. I’m just writing this to let  you know if you ever see someone doing something weird like sitting around and staring at an umbrella, sometimes that’s the kind of thing that’s going through their mind. 
I should try to get some sleep. Even though the sleep helps less and less, I should try. 

                             


2 thoughts on “Your Pharmacist May Hate You presents….”

  1. Wow! My pharmacist may hate me but my pharmacist is definitely depressed. Holidays can be tough. I remember my first Christmas sober. On Christmas Eve I went to an AA disco on St Mark’s Place with a bunch of guys from my home group. We sat looking at the empty dance floor, with pounding early eighties music going through us. Ho, ho, ho.

    One guy I knew back then was a master at what I call the depressive gesture. His name was Jack K. One Christmas Eve, I ran into him in the waiting area at Grand Central. Believe me, in pre-Guiliani New York, this was very low rent. He was sober about two years, and he was going to spend Christmas Eve there. Not in his apartment, not with AA people, but there in Grand Central with the sleeping derelicts and the stench of urine. He said he belonged there. Self-esteem issues I guess, but a tremendous sense of theater.

    John

  2. Hi John:

    I always hated nightclubs. I stopped going when I was about 22 (till then, I’d gone to them simply because it was what most people my age were doing). I remember looking around and asking myself, “What am I doing here? I don’t even LIKE this place!”

    I dunno how people enjoy dancing drunk, much less sober (on the upside, this aversion probably saved me from trying stripping when I was relapsing and financially desperate last December). I’m way too uptight. The last AA dance I went to–New Year’s Eve–I sought sanctuary volunteering at the refreshment stand. A dance party without booze. Reminds me of 8th grade, and we all know how much for THAT was.

    I don’t understand Jack K.’s motivation. Had he been homeless prior to drying out? That would explain some of it, maybe.

    Thanks for reading!

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