WARNING: Topic ahead is so boring, it may cause entire sections of your brainular region to fall into a vaguely unpleasant catatonic state. Really. Read ahead if you want to, or if you’re having trouble losing consciousness for any particular reason, but you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Still with me? OK, here we go.
Yep. Health insurance. What did I tell you? And OK, friends in the UK and other regions of the world who recognize that basic health shouldn’t be a cash lottery for huge corporations who exist solely to take money from one group and prevent giving it to the other, you can stop snickering right now. It’s just not nice.
One of the many, many fun things when you are a writer without employer-provided health insurance is getting health insurance. And when I say fun, I mean fun along the lines of, oh, say, the kind of thing the devil might make up to punish you when he’s not feeling ironic. It’s fun for the devil, at least.
Don’t get me wrong, as a person who was in the individual market before the health care law passed, I recognize that it is easier now, and the insurance, overall is better. But there was really nowhere to go but up.
And insurance companies are still insurance companies. After staring at the plans the hospital I prefer will take, it’s clear it’s like squeezing a tube of toothpaste. It doesn’t matter where you squeeze it, there’s still the same amount in the tube.
Eventually, I will just have to close my eyes and pick one. I’m down to three possibilities, and none of them give me the warm and fuzzies. Each of them getcha in their own special mind-numbing way. I just have to decide how I want to get got.
Check out my full-length novels, Her Cousin Much Removed, The Great Paradox and the Innies and Outies of Time Management and Aunty Ida’s Full-Service Mental Institution (by Invitation Only), and the sequel, Aunty Ida’s Holey Amazing Sleeping Preparation (Not Doctor Recommended) which is now available!