I didn't know the rules on travelling overseas with medication, so when I came to England I left all my medicine and drug paraphernalia behind, except for two doses of testosterone that I hid in my carry-on bag. So, once I arrived I began my search for syringes to inject the testosterone.
This sounds like an easy task, just go to any drug store wearing normal clothes, nothing too hobo or shabby-sheek, because they may think you're a hobo who stole a nice shirt, then you can buy as many syringes as you can carry.
But when I asked for syringes in Britain, I only received judgemental stares and a harsh tone as they told me to leave. I was shocked: I don't even get this type of response from strangers, when, after they exclaim, “Cheers!” I reply, “Eat a dick, buddy!” with a jovial smile and a wave; they are left confused, not sure what they heard and then they simply chalk it up to the way Americans say, “Thank you!”
Although, yesterday when I gave a jolly, “Eat a dick, buddy!” in my finest hillbilly accent, as a big guy passed us on the sidewalk, I was shocked to find that he became so upset that he abruptly turned around to follow us for about a block.
Now, 
I had assumed that I could get away with anything by claiming to be just a stupid American, but I was quickly leaning that the English public draws the line at syringes.
After going to every pharmacy in town to ask questions equivalent to, “Do you sell marinated orphans, in a zesty lemon pepper sauce?” one pharmacist managed to see through the British propaganda and told me to go to the medical centre.
I was becoming desperate and I began having fantasies of beating up junkies to get their gear, but then I realized the lady was still talking about me to
“For what...?” I asked softly while hoping that they wouldn't recognize me as a moron.
“For your appointment,”
I could feel myself getting railroaded into something so I quickly asked,
“How much is it going to cost?”
“Everything here is free, the only time they charge you is when they refer you to another facility or when they write prescriptions,”
“Monday's fine,” I said, in shock, while remembering how much money I spend each year on medical care and wondering if I could finally start seeing a doctor about Cerebral Palsy too.
Over the last fifteen years I have had to choose which ailments to go to the doctor for because I couldn't afford both. But it wasn't really much of a choice since my kidneys were constantly getting blocked by stones, which would send me into the hospital for procedure after procedure.
On the plus side, kidney stones are taken very seriously by the American medical community and I received tons of the best painkillers that an illness can buy, which also alleviated the pain of Cerebral Palsy too. Also, since I was already going to the urologist so frequently, it made it very easy for me to ask, “Hey doc, what's up with my dick?”
I couldn't believe that Britain was really willing to patch me up for free and as the feeling of relief began to sink in, I realized that we were back at
As we walked inside I asked where all the local gyms were and which was the seediest, but my legs were done for the day and I couldn't handle another long walk without risking injury. So, my only option was to go online and place a bulk, overnight order with some medical supply company.
We woke up at 10:05am on Tuesday because we stayed up late to play dress up and gawk at a low hanging chemtrail that was obscuring British chimneys, in an effort by MI6 to ensure that the public gets maximum chemical exposure. I tried to rush
“Why would you want to be on time?” she asked as if she was still high on last night's gas attack.
“So, I won't miss my appointment! Seriously, we've gotta go!” I insisted, before running outside.
So there I was walking with a half-dressed
The waiting room began to fill up with old, British people that tended to drool while asleep, but then I heard the words, “bomb” and “terrorist” being repeated from a little radio on the windowsill.
The volume was so low that I had to focus all my attention to understand anything. Then I realized that there was a terrorist attack the night before a few miles away at Ariana Grande's concert.
As we sat there attempting to listen to each news cast to try make out the details
I began to suspect that the gas had affected her far worse than I had previously thought, so, I tried to talk some sense into her, “Now, you can't go blaming a terrorist attack on us arriving early to a doctor's appointment!”
“Idiot!” she exclaimed while pointing at the clock that read 11:45AM. At this point there was only two old people left in the lobby and one was in the process of hunchbacking over to Exam Room 2. Then it dawned on me no one called out his name, so I quickly said, “How did she know it was her turn to see a doctor?”
We both began scanning the room and then we saw the flat screen TV above us that was alerting the old woman that it was her turn.
As I opened the door I was surprised to see a plump, black man, dressed like a temp, sitting behind a desk in what looked like an administrative office. He asked me to have a seat and then explained that he could not treat me until my medical records were transferred.
I tried to offer some symptoms, but he had a one track mind and an insatiable lust for records. Within minutes my appointment was over and we set another appointment for a week later so I would have time to get my records emailed to him.
When we got home I spent three hours trying to get a call to go through to the US because T Mobile is useless; I can only imagine the panic they feel when the supervisor yells out, “Grab the fire extinguishers!!! We've got another international call!!!”
The call finally went through and I asked the receptionist for my medical records and she said that I needed to sign a medical release form from the new doctor and fax it to them. I explained that I was in England and they don't do that and she said that as an exception I could send her an email explaining the situation.
Over the next week none of my calls to the urologist connected so I couldn't confirm whether or not my records were sent. So, on the day of my next appointment I was just hoping for the best. This time I overlooked
The TV alerted me to go to Exam Room 3 and I was greeted with the same man, except for this time after he shook my hand he kept pinching his nose while violently sucking in. I immediately leaned back and regretted shaking his hand, but then I noticed that I was rubbing my right hand on my pants so I froze. I realized that I was being way too obvious like an asshole and on top of that I was infecting my pants with something strong enough to take out a doctor.
As I focused on not touching anything with my contaminated hand I began to wonder what type of doctor shows up sick and how did I wind up with the sick one? Do all foreigners get broken doctors, or just me?
I didn't know how to handle this situation so I began thinking of what I would do if I saw my mechanic driving a broken car, but then I heard him say that they had still not received my records.
As he began escorting me out while stressing the importance of records, I asked if he had a release form. He stopped for a moment to let his shameless nose suck at his fingers again, filling the office with a terrible roar that made me forget my own question, just before he replied, “No.”
I walked as fast as I could with my black-death-soaked palm high in the air, so that I wouldn't forget it and accidentally touch my face or penis on my way home. After using up most of
So, I hopped on TOR and headed into the safety and convenience of the darknet. While resisting the temptation to succumb to the siren songs of all the opiates and GHB, I managed to convert 35 Steem into a five month supply of black market testosterone.
Today is my first day injecting illicit, but hopefully real testosterone, wish me luck!
