I’m still here! I’m half the woman I used to be, and it feels great (okay, not great, but much better).
We’re (MC and me) still hanging out in the hospital. I’m hoping to be discharged very soon, but this is all dependent on labs, my acting game and how quickly I can run laps around the ward later today. I’m looking to set a new record because I’m beyond done with this place. Two days may not seem like much, but for anyone who has spent time in a hospital, you know that even an hour feels like an eternity. The normal laws of space-time don’t apply here.
I may be legitimately losing my mind, as evidenced by this evening’s discourse between Manchild and myself. Being the sweet, wonderful man he is, he decided to spend the night with me so he too can enjoy q 4 vitals checks, and 4am blood draws where they have to turn every single bright light on, like you’re sitting in the center of the fucking sun. He may never agree to do this again.
I’m on some heavy duty pain medication, which makes me a little loopy, and a little weirder than normal. That on top of post-anesthesia brainfuck, and you’re looking at some pretty wacky shit going on up there. The fact that I’m even awake and semi-cognizant is nothing short of a miracle because we’ve got Dilaudid, Phenergan, and a tiiiiiny bit of Benadryl fueling me. This is obviously one of those times I should be cut off from the outside world to save the masses from my insanity, but no one is awake to stop me, and it’s over an hour ’til my next check!
MC was screwing around on his laptop, looking for an appropriate t-shirt to wear to RenFest, which starts this weekend and runs through October. I like any sort of festival that serves whatever food you want on a stick. Deep-fried Snickers bar on a stick? Check. I’m sitting on my whoopie cushion monstrosity of a bed, sort of zoning out (nothing new there), and he asks my opinion on a Vikings t-shirt that reads “Floki’s Shipyard”. Nice, but the Vikings invaded before the renaissance period. Not that it even matters because they didn’t have corndogs or other foods-on-a-stick back then, but if we’re going for historical accuracy, this is an important point to consider.
And then, mid-thought, I break out into song.
“Here comes Pete, he’s a meat puppet, a meat puppet, a puppet of meat!”
Whoa, whoa, what? There was a look of terror on his face like maybe all of the drugs had made me literally blow a head gasket and I needed a neuro exam immediately.
“What? It’s a video on Youtube.”
Do not watch the following video if you wish to sleep or enjoy a burger ever again. On second thought, don’t watch it at all. I just put it here because Pete made me do it.
All of the silent obsession over meats on a stick brought me to this likely conclusion of Pete, the meat puppet. That’s not weird, is it? That’s not scary, is it? He was scared. And this, my friends, is how to scare Manchild. I didn’t even have to show him the video.
Bless him for bringing his laptop because my phone stinks. And so it allows me to more easily order an 18 bulk pack of icebreakers mints. All the freshness, all mine!
I’m not a fan of these things either. In case of flood, hang onto me. Now I shall try to close my eyes and wish for sleep, only to be scared out of near-sleep five minutes later by a nurse. Ah, this is the life.