It’s 2 a.m. at your friend’s house. The place is silent; most of the dwellers asleep.
Would you walk into the bathroom when clearly the light is on within and the water is splashing into the sink? Seriously? I mean, come on.
That just happened to me. No knock, just the slow opening of the door whilst I stood at the sink washing my hands so I could take out my contacts. I turned around to see some random dude I’ve never met staring back at me wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a slightly stoopid expression on his face. It was really more that of stupidity than confusion. I gave him my *look.* He closed the door.
Who does that? And who was he? Weirdo.
One of my roommates hosts an interesting number of half-naked men in her bedroom for being a lesbian. Certainly more than I do, and I’m straight (save for my random girl crushes).
I need to get my own place.
**
This small, pointless anecdote comes to you because one of the THIRTEEN antibiotic pills I’m taking for FOURTEEN DAYS requires that I not lay down for half an hour after ingestion.
Another pill demands that I not drink ANY alcohol, lest I become violently ill. Apparently they use that specific medication on people who are trying to overcome alcoholism.
Another makes me puke if I take it on an empty stomach, even though I was only FOLLOWING THE DIRECTIONS!
Another leaves me with a wonderful metallic taste in my mouth–MMM, PENNIES AND FOIL!–but I’ve mastered the art of dropping it down the back of my throat to minimalize tongue contact.
Why all these whack meds? you ask. Answer: because crazy shit happens in my life so I can blog about it. I’m convinced this is the Supreme Reason for all my Life Dramz.
Long story short: I spent eight hours at Stroger Hospital on Wednesday; better known as COOK COUNTY Hospital for the Uninsured. And we all know that anything with the name Cook County (or Stroger, for that matter) attached to it is never good!
don't be fooled: it only looks nice on promotional websites.
After those grueling eight hours (and a total of probably 39 minutes of actual contact with medical professionals…the rest of the time was spent waiting and trying not to contract the hiv from touching door handles), they prescribed me an old-lady cocktail of pills to take; hence the reason I’m blathering all this right now.
But that is a story for another day; one that will sufficiently explain my blogosphere M.I.A.-ness and probably not sufficiently satisfy my professors who’re undoubtedly wondering where the hell I’ve been. Meh.
Coming next time.
Emergency Room? HA! Try "Five-hour melting pot of death and disease."
1 response so far ↓
1 bokeen // Apr 13, 2009 at 2:08 pm
Dikeatha (sp?) does have some strange bedfellows. It is weird how the den of squalor that she calls her bedroom becomes a flop-house every now and again.
Those clearly are not photos of Stroger hospital. They must be artist renderings, because the hordes of smelly, disease-ridden patients slowly dying while they waiting for care are conspicuously absent.
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