OMFGBBQ, PRANKSTERS, I MISSED YOU. You don’t even KNOW how much I missed you. I missed you so much that I am actually sitting here, crouched over my computer like a Letter C, in actual pain, because I missed of you and was sad in the pants because I WAS SO VERY ALONE (and lonesome) WITHOUT YOU.
I think that means I’m alive. That, or death looks remarkably like my life.
Since I do not have long in this Letter C position before I pass out from lack of oxygen, I will give you the highlights.
I woke up from The Surgery in the post-op recovery room to someone singing the pina colada sing. If you don’t know it, be glad. (Or, at the very least, know that you’ve probably never sung listened to other people warble bad bar karaoke as much as I have.)
Anyway, I like the song because I am 12 and I have changed the words from, “If you like pina colada’s and dancing in the rain…” to “if you like PENIS COLADA’S and dancing in the rain.” Which is much awesomer, and far more hilarious, BECAUSE GET IT!?! PENIS COLADA!?!
Then I was all, “So, what did the surgeon say?” because frankly, who doesn’t want to know how their motherfucking surgery went? And the nurse was all, “you’ve asked me that four times” like I was an asshole idiot for not remembering that. I mean, hi, POST-OP RECOVERY ROOM. She should have been glad I wasn’t flinging my shit around. Ass.
Still, no one told me about my surgery. For all I knew, I could have gotten a nose job instead. Which I hadn’t wanted.
So, finally, they moved me to my floor, where Dave told me that the surgery went well. I don’t know what that means, suffice to say that they took off 6 pounds of crap, moved a bunch of muscles around and gave me morphine through a button that I could press whenever I wanted. That was more than “well,” but you know.
THEN, I got my roommate. Pranksters, she needed a taco kick because apparently, she’d never heard of the concept of an “inside voice” or “personal space.” The moment I arrived, she began to shriek. Not like, in anguish, just like her normal speaking tone. Bitch couldn’t fucking shut her whore mouth. For four hours. At one point, she was arguing with her mother, talking on the phone AND watching television while inviting her husband to bring her food. At 8 PM. I’d been trying to nap off the surgery for that entire time to no avail. She had no medical reason to be there other than she seemed to enjoy the attention.
It was then when I informed the staff that one of us would be moving.
I must have looked serious because they moved her right away.
I’m home now and while I’d like to say that laying around and recovering is full of the awesome, I’m kind of bored. Also: in some pretty bad pain. I’d describe what I’ve been doing, but primarily it involves “sitting on the couch,” “peeing” and “laying down.” If I had wet paint, I’d be watching it dry. If there was grass growing, I’d be watching that, too.
I’m wearing a binder, which means I can’t eat, which also explains why those ladies in the 1900’s were skinny. Binders = corsets = HOLY SHIT, NO ROOM IN THE INN.
Also, I feel like a cockroach. You never realize how much you use your abs for until they’re all “peace out, asswipe.” If I’m stuck in bed, I’m still stuck there until I’m later retrieved. It’s pretty good punishment, I guess.
Now I’m left to moulder on the couch and debate the true question of the ages: who sang the better version of “Hair of the Dog?”