As Nurse McSexy walks towards Bubbles with the rolled paper, he notices me crouching behind her shins. "Do I even--."

"It looks very Monica Lewinsky'ish," I interrupt, crawling on my hands and knees to get out from under the counter. "But I swear--it's not."

As I stand, McSexy lets the paper unfold so it flops in front of my face.

"What's this?" I ask, taking the printout from him.

"Summary of your visit and instructions for medication," he answers. "You can officially go home now."

I give my Urgent Care data a quick scan. "That's it? No reason why I got a bitch of an itch?"

"Nope," the nurse replies bluntly. "Sometimes even science and medicine can't explain why things happen."

I turn to Bubbles with the hope maybe she has a different answer.

"Don't look at me," the nurse's assistant warns. With a thumb pointing to McSexy, she adds, "My job is to agree with this guy."

"Seriously?" I whine. "My skin was attacked by a mystery?"

McSexy leans in and kisses the top of my head. "You're the mystery." With a grin, he adds, "Your plan worked, by the way."

"Plan?" I question, attempting to give off the impression I'm not an eavesdropper.

"You were snoop doggin' under the counter," McSexy replies with a raised eyebrow. "Don't act like you don't know."

Bubbles chimes in. "I only saw the part where Doc lost his shit because you out-Godded him. What did I miss?"

McSexy steps backwards into the hallway, fighting to keep a smile from growing too large on his face. "That was pretty much it." Pointing to me he adds, "You're my soul mate! Thank you!" He turns and struts towards an examination room--throwing a kiss and a wave over his shoulder as he walks away.

Before reaching his destination, he stops. Turning to face me he adds, "I take that back. It wasn't a mystery that brought you here--it was fate. Fate wanted you right here, right now. I'm glad fate sent you." With a wink, McSexy disappears into someone else's examination room.

Again, I turn to Bubbles for some sort of wisdom, but all I get is a sassy expression and a thumb pointing to my room. "Girl--go put some pants on!"

Only me, I think to myself as I mope back to room 21. Only I would be attacked by a mystery.

I close the door and throw the hospital gown on the table-bed. Forgoing a bra, I pick my Chili Bowl sweatshirt up off the floor and pull the worn-out piece of clothing over my head. As I'm smashing my bra into my purse, I'm reminded of the time when my face smashed into PamPam's boobies.

I chuckle to myself. That happened.

Thoughts of PamPam's breasts slowly switch to memories of seeing myself reflected in her eyes. The emptiness. Cruelness. Being lost and unable to find a way home. Why?

Honesty and love. That's why I saw myself in her eyes. When a person doesn't love herself enough to be honest about who she is and what she wants, she's going to feel empty. She's going to feel as though she's surrounded by cruelness. She's going to feel lost and never good enough. In short, if a person defines herself with lies and self-loathing, she's going to be--

An imposter with imposter syndrome. I shake my fists at the ceiling and let out a small [GRRRR]. It was right there! Ex-Bot put my name on a check-off list, and I let him. He exposed my refusal to honor my true worth, and all I did was hide the exposure with more excuses and lies.

I glance at my distorted reflection in the shiny surface of the bed pan sitting on the counter. The truth I see now sort of pisses me off--pun intended. I survive life, but never live it. I attempt to be the person of my dreams, but don't love the person I am. No wonder why I keep seeing distorted reflections all around me--there's an imposter living inside my skin.

Switching my attention from bed pan reflections to anti-nakedness, I shimmy my gray granny panties into a pair of jeans and pull a pair of fabric boot slippers over my feet. I get the reflection thing, I think to myself. Law of Mirrors. I've always kinda understood that stuff--intuitively. I get that I can control the reflections around me. So why's my life such a shit-show?

The exhaustion of an eventful day has me rubbing my tired eyes with my hands, massaging the eyelids in round, circular motions like--goggles.

There's your shit-show producer.

Mortification Goggles made me look like a fool when McSexy first entered my examination room. Doubt Goggles had me second guessing the advice I gave McSexy regarding how he should handle SilverFox. Insecurity Goggles had me making water sounds at the faucet so PamPam wouldn't think less of my hygiene practices. Pee Goggles had me--

Wait! My heart speeds up as the current thought gets closer to full consciousness. It wasn't Pee Goggles! I made SilverFox lick his lips because I wasn't wearing any goggles at all!

I retrieve my medication instruction sheet and shove it carelessly in my purse. Then for whatever reason, I fold the hospital gown and lay it neatly on the end of the bed.

It's possible these hives WERE fate, I think to myself. I mean--seriously--this would make a great Wattpad story. Snickering internally, I add, Wouldn't that be crazy? Spend years working on that Fancy Lady project, only to strike Wattys gold with a silly story about Urgent Care.

Maybe I was destined to have an ass full of hives--on this exact day--in this exact hospital. But--

Something was still missing. My life hadn't turned out the way I wanted it to. Sure, I could take off goggles. I could pay closer attention to how I react to the reflections around me. I could be honest with myself and stop being an imposter. I could seek out experiences and people that feel homey instead of high. But even if I did all those things, I wouldn't necessarily have the blind faith needed to believe in the possibilities of my most deep-rooted desires.

Without some sort of evidence that a dream can happen, I think to myself logically, it's impossible to believe it will ever happen at all.

Right on cue, a baby spider appears before my eyes--dangling on an invisible silk string attached to the ceiling. In contrast to Fiddy Cent's frighteningly enormous size, this eight-legged creature is so tiny--it's adorable.

I open my hand and let the mini stowaway land in my palm. "Hello, little guy," I whisper. "How do you feel about the name, Bitty Cent?" As I stare at the tiny arthropod, a realization suddenly hits me--this is your sign.

In the wee hours of the morning on my porch bench, I asked for a sign and got nothing. At least, that's what I thought. The truth is, the answer I was seeking was right there in front of me--but I was too blind or too goggled or too mirror-impaired or too soul high to see it.

"The No Squash Pact," I whisper.

Despite being completely illogical, I knew the damn pact worked. If I returned spiders back to nature unharmed, they would leave me alone while I slept at night. This was my 20-year agreement with the webbed ones based solely on blind trust--and for whatever reason--it worked miraculously well. So well, in fact--it can't be a coincidence. Does trusting in the unknown inspire real miracles?

Does trusting in the unknown change my inner frequency, I wonder. Bringing the mini spider up close to my face, I whisper, "Does my inner frequency project the images of my outer life experiences, Bitty?"

With Bitty Cent gently cupped in my hand, I throw my purse over my shoulder. Smiling at the Queen's portrait on the wall, I reflect, I don't have to know where I'm going to be exactly where I'm needed. You were right, Queen Elizabeth. You were soooo right. My presence was needed here tonight--not only to help a handsome nurse clean his mirrors, but to help myself expand as a human being. The unknown is an infinite place, Marilyn. There's no way you'll ever be small enough to fit on a check-off list again!

I'm not sure if this next part technically happened, because it seems unlikely they'd play music over the hospital's speaker system--but this is how I remember the moment unfolding.

As I open my examination room door and step into the hallway--Bobby Brown's hit, My Prerogative, is pumping through the building. Bubbles scoots from behind the counter and joins me in the hall. "Let me walk you out," she says.

Swaying our hips to the music, Bubbles and I strut towards the swinging doors exiting into the waiting room. We look like two dopey characters on the Yellow Brick Road in a low-budget remake of the Wizard of Oz--but, whatever. It's awesome. If only the McSexy Wizard of Gauze was here, my sendoff for home would be perfect.

Throwing up my fist and holding it in the air for dramatic effect--I declare my commitment to trust the mysteries of the unknown. When I walked in the Urgent Care tonight, I was struggling for air and scratching at a mystery hidden beneath my skin. As I leave, I realize the outcome of my ailment is entirely my choosing. My thoughts are the allergy--my reaction to those thoughts is the prescription. Am I going to prescribe hell or healing? It's is my prerogative.

I think I'll be the fire that burns the Carnival House of Mirrors to the ground, I think to myself. Minus the marshmallow roasting, of course.

A John Hughes classic would end here. My story should probably end here too--but it doesn't. What does end here is my last memory of Bitty Cent. As Bubbles and I are swaggering towards the waiting room, the swinging doors suddenly fly open with a bang. Prior to the bang, I recall holding Bitty Cent in the palm of my hand. But after the bang--when he walks through the threshold--my mind goes black. I can't think. I can't breathe. I see nothing but--Smoke.

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

Final chapter drops on June 22, 2017--the one year anniversary of my Urgent Care adventure!

MUSIC: Bobby Brown. My Prerogative.

Your vote is truly McAppreciated. Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com