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At 8:30pm last night I had to call the oh-so-eurofabulous Dr. Retsagi Laszlow to receive the official results from my first check-up in two years. I felt like I was getting back an essay I zealously slammed out kinda drunk the night before it was due only to print and sprint all anxious and vodkasweaty the next morning. Basically, this was either going to be very very bad {amy, what are you saying here? C+/B-} or the best analytical writing of my undergraduate career {check. check. yes! A/A+}. No joke, this is how our late night phone date went down:
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Me: .Hi, Dr. Laszlow? This is Amy-
Dr: ..110%!
Me: .What?
Dr: ..You are 110%.
Me: .I’m what?
Dr: ..You are perfect.
Me: .Perfect? Just the way I am?
Dr: ..Yes, just the way you are.
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So now that I’ve shamelessly tricked my general practitioner into becoming my own personal Mark Darcy, I’m going to self-prescribe some fun in the sun. Oookay, Marsh. You know what time is it. vacation time!
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See you in a week, internet!