Five claims came back denied for this reason, and if I can still count correctly, six other claims are waiting in the pipeline to be denied in the same fashion. Because they are so fucking prompt at processing them. I called and the insurance company confirms. Realistic extrapolations bring the total of these claims to be just about what I am going to earn as a teaching assistant this summer.

So, unless the women's health care center has a solution (and it'd better be a very good one), which I cannot determine right now because, honestly, who is going to discuss the intricacies of financial aid with me on a Friday evening right before five...

No physical therapy for me before September.

Exactly and precisely the news I needed to hear right now.

Ranting PS: I'm going to a party tonight. A well-dressed wine and cheese thing. Where I won't be able to fucking drink because of my stupid medication, will have to wander along in my great little black dress, proudly displaying my bright red sunburns, and will not be able to complain about my health-and-money issues to anybody because I don't want to discuss my vagina with these people. I will, instead, pretend to be happy about having gotten (without asking for it) an "honorary appointment" to one of the programs most of my lab mates belong to, because (according to my advisor) I already meet the requirements (I'm not even quite sure there are any, given that nobody has ever heard of this "honorary" stuff) and there are only privileges for me in it, which might (or might not) mean that I'll be invited to a conference they are all going to, and which in any case I'll probably will not be able to attend because of my teaching assistant duties at the time. Plus my right eye is itching because I cried my mascara into it. Great. Just plain, fucking, GREAT!

Cracking a smile PS: Listening to Benabar, a French singer. He has this great song (about turning thirty, incidentally) in which he goes for a walk alongside the ocean and says "Tout ce que j'en conclus, je dois pas être un poète, c'est que ça doit être chiant, très chiant d'être une mouette." ("All what I can infer, I'm not much of a poet, is that it must be bloody boring to be a seagull."). I'm in this kind of mood.