March 14: Suddenly, I burst into consciousness. It seems that I am a test strip for a glucose meter, a small miracle of technology precisely engineered for an important task. Within minutes of my awakening, I find myself in a small plastic container with 24 of my compatriots. I am puzzled, however, because I am the only strip in my container that appears to be sentient. This is especially unfortunate in the case of the rather attractive strip right next to me - I could share some thoughts with her, if you catch my meaning!
April 7th: After weeks of sitting in warehouses and being bounced around in trucks, I have arrived in a pharmacy. I wonder how long the wait here will be?
May 2nd: I have been purchased. I confess to feeling a little swell of pride at the amount of money paid for me: I am easy, but not cheap.
May 14th: I chafe at the length of my wait. My compatriots have been disappearing one at a time, naturally, that cute strip next to me was the first to go. I must say, the rate at which we're being used is somewhat slower than what I understood to be optimal. Nonetheless, I feel a strong affection for the man who bought me, and look forward to playing my part in supporting his health care goals.
May 18th: The day for which I was created has at last arrived! The container is opened, and I am removed. I am placed into the meter: the fit is perfect. I am touched to a drop of blood, and I process it according to my engineering and deliver the good word to the meter, which promptly displays the result. (163? As a fasting reading for a meds-only T2? What did he EAT last night????)
My joy is complete, my destiny is fulfilled. The man whose very life I have helped preserve has left me in the meter, presumably to contemplate the excellence with which I have perfomed.
May 19th: I begin to wonder, now that my purpose is complete, what my future holds. This morning I was removed from the meter and replaced with another strip. Rather than being placed with dignity in the luxurious final resting place I expected and deserved, I was casually tossed into a pile of other strips that have given their all. It's dusty, too.
May 23rd: My existence gets worse and worse. This morning, the pile I was in was swept into a wastebasket. I, however, fell outside the basket onto the floor. A few minutes later I found myself adhering to the bottom of the man's foot and thus carried into his shower, where the water washed me off his foot and into the tub's drain strainer. The conditions here are unspeakable. How I wish I had entered the waste stream with my fellows, bound for the serenity of the landfill or perhaps even the blessed oblivion the incinerator offers.
May 25th: How long will it take this man to notice me here in the drain? I have come to hate him.
May 26th: At last, the tyrant notices me here in the drain. He plucks me off, and tosses me toward another wastebasket - and again he misses. (I hope his pancreas explodes.) So I lie here, right next to the toilet. I will say no more of my situation here. Oh, that this consciousness with which I was cursed might have an end.
June 3rd: Finally, finally, my blessed end is nigh. Again, I was thrown away, but this time actually made it into the basket. The last few days in the waste stream have been disgusting, but here I am on a moving belt, and I see the incinerator ahead. Oh lovely nothingness, I come!