You've met them—but let's be honest, you haven't—douchebags: the guys who own an Escalade and park across two of the best parking spots in the lot. The people who send spam. Perez Hilton. They're the guys who act like douches because they'll never have to see the people they're torturing with their wanton douchebaggery.
This post isn't about those guys. It's about the gigantic box of meds that came to my door in a very cold box this morning. Injectable hormones, oodles of syringes and needles, alcohol swabs, pills the names of which I won't even try to remember, some baby asprin, a disposal box for the biohazards, more syringes and needles, and yes, douches. They didn't even charge me for them. Nobody told me there would be douches.
And now I sit here, hoping they stay put in their insulated box with the other non-refrigerated meds and don't sneak out and talk at the movie theater. You never know with douches.