January 07, 2011
Originally published October 9, 2002
I remember exactly where I was one year ago today, and I wasn't happy to be there. Actually, that's a lie. I was EXTREMELY HAPPY, thanks to the morphene, but the IV in my arm, the catheter in my wang, the staples in my belly, the drainage tube with the suction bulb on the end and the cute little red-haired nurse who shoved suppositories up MY END every four hours tended to ruin my opium dreams. Plus, the pestiferous hospital staff kept pounding on my back and demanding that I blow into some bong-like device and float a ping-pong ball between two marks on a cylinder, instead of giving me more morphene and catering to my every whim.
They wanted me to get out of bed and walk around, too. So, I did, bare ass exposed from the back of the hospital gown and dragging all the tubes and baggage with me. I went straight to my overnight bag, retrieved my cigarettes and lighter, made my way to the bathroom and had myself a much-needed dose of tar, nicotine and carbon monoxide. I was sitting on the commode amid a rich swirl of Marlboro smoke when a nurse showed up unexpectedly and caught me.
"Smoking is not allowed in the hospital," she announced.
"I'm not smoking," I replied. "Go away and tell EVERYBODY YOU SEE that I am not smoking in the hospital. I'll back up your story."
She shook her head and went away. Damn good nurse.
I am delighted that I am where I am today rather than where I was one year ago. It took a while for me to recover from 10/9/01. As long as I don't over-indulge in the white zin tonight, I'll be fine after 10/9/02. That's a good thing.
I still regret that I didn't ask the red-haired nurse for her name and phone number. She had nice fingers.
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