Thursday, February 5, 2015
Life is like being on an operating table with tubes poking outta your ass.
One minute, you have sixteen tubes in, and seven out; the next minute, only fourteen of the original In tubes remain, three more Outs have been added, and the hairy beast of a nurse responsible for switching things around is snorting crack from the two tubes she ripped from your raw anus.
Other than that, my world is going great right now.
Thing is, plenty of writing is getting done.
Not all of it is fiction, but most of it bridges the gap between legible and tolerable, so I'm grateful for small mercies in spite of the fumes billowing over my ventilator.
Or are those fumes now inside my ventilator?
And why am I on this operating table in the first place?
Last thing I remember, I needed a mid-sentence wazz and a small donut.
Was I writing the blog post equivalent of a filler episode?
Speak to me, Matron — and pack inflating the bejesus out of my lungs with your donkey effect suction pump of a lust for all things zonkoid.
Nah, I'm cutting my losses here.
Like Whitman said, "never flog a dead horse when you have two dozen tubes poking from your butt and your caregiver is clearly a delinquent hoodlum."