are made only to be cancelled.
Since all of the plans I had made for the 26th with high school and college friends were cancelled twice before we finally determined they wouldn’t push through, I just decided to go to the clinic the next day to have the results of my electrocardiogram evaluated.
And when it occurred to me that all the paperwork had been stashed away in my office locker, almost forgotten and mostly crumpled, I figured: The hell with it. I am on leave and it’d really be nice not to stumble upon anybody from the workplace today.
Based on the general physician’s diagnosis last week, the cardiologist would probably just tell me that everything’s fine and dandy with my pathetic blood-pumping organ and if I’d stop pining for that certain person the chest pains would completely disappear in no time. What’s more, he would perhaps conclude that I’m a hypochondriac. Or a lazy ass who’d find the lamest excuse to get a hold of that very precious medical certificate and not report for work. I’d prefer the former even if the latter sounds more truthful.
After the self-diagnosis, I merrily made a beeline for one of my favorite places: the book store. Even if I vowed not to buy any book until I reach the last page of Looking for Alaska (John Green), nothing stopped me from getting Starters (Lissa Price) off the shelves (I almost grabbed The Fault in Our Stars and the Hunger Games boxed set and some books from Booksale but poverty–). I figured it’s about time for another addition to the pile of books I would never have the leisure to finish reading; promises are made to be broken anyway, in the same way that plans are made to be cancelled.
I’m sure I’d regret this later and forget the book as soon as I leave the coffee shop but, well, as per my life philosophy: The hell with it.