And then the cast of ‘Good Times’ walked through the door.

I’ve been at the hospital sitting with my boss for the last two days, so forgive me if this all sounds a little disjointed. I promise I’m not drunk. Or drugged. But not for a lack of trying; those damn nurses just wouldn’t share the morphine with me.


And because I’m so tired, I’m transcribing most of this straight from my journal just so I can say that I posted today.  Apparently when I’m sleepy, I curse a lot more than usual. So for the sake of your delicate, precious eyes, I’m going to leave out about 90% of the ‘fucks’ from the original version. You’re welcome. I guess.


Clearly the lack of sleep is getting to me. Whoever designed the hospital made it abundantly clear by way of uncomfortable furniture that they didn’t want visitors staying overnight. I’m pretty sure that fucking pink chair I slept in last night is the same device they use to waterboard Gitmo detainees, because sweet hot damn it’s uncomfortable.

For some reason, it only reclines 30 degrees and in order to keep it back that far, you kind of have to brace yourself against the bottom of the footrest and pray. Every time I shifted around to try to get comfortable (chuh!) it snapped back up to full attention and I went sliding across the room. Because of course it was on wheels. And being the rational, reasonable person that I am, I didn’t think to even look for brakes until the next morning.

2 hours of sleep. Maybe. I think the nurses thought I was going to off my boss in her sleep by choking her out with the IV line, because they came in every hour or so.

The first night I was there, I was walking back from the bathroom when I overheard a nurse’s assistant with dreads say something about how they’d been having a trouble with the Psych patients on the floor. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t exaggerating. The door next to my boss’s room was wide open, and a man who was roughly the size and weight of a young killer whale was sitting on his toilet, fapping furiously while his wife sat across the room watching 20/20.

Y’all, there are things that can’t be unseen.

Also? Also. This place is full of hot effing men. Every member of the surgical team who came in looked like an extra off an ABC doctor drama. The surgeon who came in first was wearing a gigantic Calvin Klein belt buckle and Gucci loafers that practically screamed, “I have a tiny penis and a large paycheck.” I didn’t want to embarrass myself by opening my big fat trap, so I picked at my cuticles and thought about how pissed off Señor Shiny Shoes would be if someone puked all over the $600 worth of dead cow on his feet.

The next guy who looked and acted just like Matthew McConaughey. As in, wavy(ish) long, blonde hair and a laid back attitude that spoke of how many hours he spent hitting the bong during his undergrad years. In other words, my dream man. (Sorry, baby. If you’re reading this, I just can’t help myself.)

It’s a good thing Red has already put a ring on it, because I was about five seconds from leaping from the waterboarding chair and tackling him, caveman style, so I could knock him out to drag home as my personal cabana boy.

Add to that one surgical techs who looked just like a young Whoopi Goldberg and a night nurse who was a dead ringer of Edna Mode from the Incredibles, and you’re one cliché short of a pop culture special on VH1.


And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go take a shower and pass out for a few hours before I have to drive home. As my daddy would say, I look like hammered shit. I am one sexy broad right about now.

About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
This entry was posted in Nerdness, No one else will think this is funny, The Month of Blogging Dangerously, Uncategorized, Weirdness and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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