Busy. Sick. Running around.
Drove sick girl to hospital last night, picked her up at 2 this morning. Her kidneys went on strike.
I hate hospitals, dorks, hate hospitals. It's sad to see people stripped down to their blood and fear.
An e-mail I was going to write to Eva Moore today, but instead I'll write it here because I'm killing birds with stones here, dorks.
I went to the hospital last night. (My girlfriend)'s roommate was sick. She got no kidneys. Anyways, I saw something you might find interesting. What, praytel, you ask? And I respond ... get the fuck out of here with that praytel shit.
And then I say ...
I saw you. Well, I saw what you will be when you are 50. When you are 50 you will cut your right pointer finger and wrap it up with a wad of either cheap gauze or good kitchen paper towels. You won't be in pain, just a little worried. Your mind won't be focused on the hospital. Instead, you will be either thinking about a book you just finished or something your brother said to you.
You will still wear glasses. Your pajamas are hard to distinguish from your summer clothes.
You will get sick of waiting and realize you can patch yourself up. You'll walk out of the hospital with a look that says "My finger hurts and I'm alone with this" or "I don't want to see this much of this part of the world for a long time".
If, when you're 50, you are thinking the later ... we'll have shared a thought 26 years apart.
R. Fever is sick too, fever of 101.3. Me help with ice water, lots of blankets and a cold press. I'm Dr. Frankenstein for fevers. "It's Aleve ... it's ALEVE!!"
All I want to do is go back to her apartment and crawl into bed, close my eyes and not hear anything. Wrap my arm around my R., sleep, let my headache and snot drip away and dream about zombies, sweet blissful zombie hunting dreams. Forehead kisses and zombies, dorks, that's all I need.
Not much more to say except ... whew.
Whew, dorks ... mutha punching, whew.
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