Whoo! And here I was thinking I’d been doing so well, not having very many of those panic attacks this year. Damn you, 2012, for your five ER visits (three mine), four urgent care visits (two mine), two sets of stitches (it may be three, but only one of those was mine), two cardiac stress tests (one mine, but it was the nuclear version), one “wow, you have crazy weird granulomas in your lungs and we don’t know why so let’s go send you to an oncologist,” one mammogram (obviously mine), and nine prescription drugs monthly (mine).

This post is dedicated to all the dumb fucks in the US who think we have the best heath care system in the world. We don’t. I’m glad to be alive, naturally. I’m glad we have health insurance, because the stack of medical bills on my desk may give me another bout of chest pain.

And of course, this panic attack has nothing to do with the SEVEN CENTS of royalties from a crappy short story (one I edited, not one I wrote) that was just deposited in my account. I don’t even want to think about the hours I put into that project, all for an author who insisted on changing not a Damned Substantive Thing (TM), including the unbelievable trope of a state-sanctioned traveling executioner. In the modern US. Oy. #headdesk

Or the authors who did absolutely nothing to publicize their books after publication, apparently thinking fairies would come down from the sky and sell books for them. THERE ARE NO BOOK SELLING FAIRIES.

(Want to make my day? Go buy my book on practicing law or going to law school. It’ll be ages before I see those royalties, but it all helps. Or, if you have a Prime account, borrow the books for free from the Kindle Lending Library. Or just go give me a nice review. Click “like.” That helps, too.)