Micro-double epsilon update: I am a filthy, dirty liar who deserves nothing more than thirty lashes with a wet noodle. Opera will let me publish my blogs under BeOS. It just required the right sort of virgin sacrifice. Ain't that always the way?
So today is a short ramble, mostly because I'm wincing in pain slightly, though nowhere nearly as badly as last night when I had to type one-handed. No, not for
that reason, you bleedin' perv. Let me take you back to the day before, when things were bright and cheerful...
Ah, I remember it as if it were only yesterday. I've taken to walking on the closed-off road behind my house, 'cause it's like closed-off and like a road, so you can like, walk on it and not be, like, killed by a car. There's this little yappy dog who lives in the house by the road (at the bottom of the seeeea...) who's claimed this road as his own. He constantly chases me around, never touching but always trying to let me know that I was tresspassing! His owners assured me on my walk down the road today [Irony alert ahead] that he simply
would not bite, and as I've passed this little yapper before, I believed them!
So after this dog finishes mistaking me for his Kibbles and Bits and Bits and Bits I rush to the nearest walk-in clinic. They'll save me, won't they? But no! I'm intercepted at the door... no more patients! Oh the pathos! Oh the humanity! Oh well, go to another clinic...
CLOSED! Damn and double damn, go to another cli--CLOSED! Good thing I don't actually have anything really wrong with me, or I'd be a dead man right now. As it was, I was losing blood pretty fast -- damn, that dog looked small but he sure has his secret ninja dog moves down pat -- and I was running out of paper towels (Lint in your wounds... priceless) to soak it all into.
But... wait. I'd watched Thursday night NBC before... there was a place. A magical place called the E.R. that would save me! Yes, George Clooney, get out your suture and don't spare the chest spreader!
Triage is a noble art, and one that probably takes nerves of steel and balls of a strong copper-alloy. I respect triage; how can you not respect someone who has been trained to say 'you will go and you will stay'? That said -- was the triage nurse on duty doing crack? Had they been sniffing the surgical glue in the back room again? I'm still bleeding here, guys, and you're letting in the splinter patients? Argh, and I don't deal with boredom well either. All I have to watch is The Sports Network, so I learn all about how... someone... did... something... somewhere... er... right. I guess I didn't absorb all that much from it.
I'm in! I'm in! I'm admitted past the gates of paradise, oh happy, frabjuous day! Salvation is but a few minutes' wait! wait... wait... wait... wait...
Three hours later, I've played my walk-man (I was bitten on a jog, y'see) continuously and the batteries are wearing low. So's my patience. So's my tolerance for
The Phantom of the Opera. Finally, a doctor wanders in. He stitches me up (I'm partially immune to anesthetic, so I get to feel the whole damn operation) and puts me on antibiotics (which I hate with a passion for what they've spawned) and sends me home.
Total trip time: eternity. Next time this happens, I'm getting two shots of whiskey (one for my hand and one for me), a needle, a thread and sewing up the damned thing myself.
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