I Could Just Eat You Up

And she was all like "I want to devour you".
Because if there's one thing boys like,
it's girls with
cannibalistic tendencies.
There ain't no party like a
Donner party
because a Donner party is
BYOB.
-
Would you like some white?

To Suck No More

I would have called the other day,
written you a letter,
I would have posted on your wall
but then I remembered




...die.


If the world ended tomorrow,
what would you do today?
(not tonight because midnight may very well escape us.)

I think I'd tell you I loved you
then, take it back
then say it again
...then take it back
and then pause.
to let that all sink in
and then


sprint!

(The adrenaline equivalent of an accidental kiss.)

Then stop.
breath
adjust
fall over?


Know that you kiss me at your own risk.
I may forget
or worse!
I may not.
worse yet
I may expect you to do the same
the horror! the pain!
shield your eyes from the rays of the sun,
though your skin remains unscathed.



Oh...


and die.

Love Gives You Lemons

I am ready to fall in love for the first time
to replace all other first times that were
forced first times,
unsure first times,
first of many times that all seem to be
the same.
A relationship is
letting someone hold a lemon wedge over your
heart’s paper cut and
trusting them not to squeeze, even the tiniest bit,
even by accident,
even when you make them flinch.
It means placing someone in the best possible position
to do the greatest amount of harm
and giving them a revolver.
It means trading in a bulletproof vest for a sign that says
“use me for target practice”
and hoping they never become bored enough
for a little game of Russian Roulette.

Rap of the Lovesick Sick Kid

Personality Test

Answer the following to the best of your ability:
When left alone in the hospital for several hours, how do you spend the time?
A. Sleeping
B. Watching Maury
C. Learning Klingon
D. Contemplating life and its mysteries
E. Beginning a journey to rap superstardom via Youtube

The title of the post impedes upon the integrity of this exam.

For some perspective, the video involves me in my hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown, and for added fun: with an IV jetting out of my left hand.
It is as terrifying as it sounds.
It required several takes; not for performance value per se, but due to the periodic intercom blaring that added just a tad too much authenticity. Not to mention, nurses get weirded out when they walk in on patients imitating Eminem to their laptops. Apparently such activities are unusual. 

The first few lines of this "rap" should erase any and all doubts of how absurd a person I am. (Or illustrate the dangers of mixing delirium with painkillers. The jury is out.)

Oh, damn
I feel woozy
is this a fever or
did you just kiss me?

Then there is a chorus of cliches and references to iron deficiency, Catholicism. I may very well be the next Lil' Wayne.
At the very least, my hair looks passable because the chemo-shedding had not yet kicked in.
(Hair Update: I have successfully managed to get traces of my DNA all over New York. Fingers crossed there isn't an unsolved murder any time soon.)

The periods of bedridden solitude that serve as fertile ground for the utter strangeness that lurks in my mind's corridors are interrupted by visitors: some announced, some checking for evidence of proper kidney function.

Every morning a flock of white coats in masks (There is a dress code to visit me. I am like the Pope.) arrive and stand clustered in silence at the foot of my bed while the most senior among them asks me questions, commands me to breathe. A med student would later inform me interaction with the attending (physician) inspires a certain kind of terror. I am merely annoyed. This white coat mafia is impervious to my usual escape tactic of inciting pity via demonstrations of wellness and boredom like the greatest of magicians. The attending shows his prowess at silencing bratty patients by announcing an order for massage therapy. (This is apparently a thing. And it is awesome.)

A woman comes by asking if I want communion, which I accept on the account that it is non-forced interaction with a human being who does want to talk about my bowel movements. (Standards. I have them.)

Soon after, a friend comes bearing a different kind of gift that in my heathen opinion is far more deserving of a "nectar of the gods" tagline: a Financier raspberry macaron.

A hopelessly bored medical student also finds his way into my room, probably because I am the only sentient being on the premises under 40 and unfamiliar with the hospital caste system. (As a sub-intern he is essentially an Untouchable.) He, of curly hair and Jewish descent, is a comfort amidst the unfamiliarity: it is as if I never left campus! My heart does not palpitate as it had with the male nurse (which is good, because it would have set off an alarm...) but our chat does prompt some of the usual getting-to-know-you anxiety: How would you describe yourself? What do you want to do with your life? How many children do you want? (I kid on the last one but given five more minutes I swear we would have picked out a white-picket fence for our future dog Baxter.) I should mention this conversation involved a mask and fuzzy yellow clothing cover and not at all in the sexual way!
I like my men like my hospital rooms: sterile.

Amidst all these demonstrations of friendship, I was being pumped with fluids via a technique I will unabashedly refer to as "double bagging". Meant to bump up frighteningly low numbers on the blood pressure monitor, it leaves one feeling like an overinflated balloon in a room of needles. (Sausage fingers: it's what's for dinner...dun dun dun) Sausages trying to escape their casings are terrible for typing, which is how I find myself weeks after the fact recalling all of these treasured moments for your amusement.

Until next time.

I Got a Fever (and the Only Prescription is Hot Male Nurses)

It began as all good stories do: with waves of energy coasting up the body from thigh to neck, gradually flowing back and forth until the change in temperature was palpable. I became light-headed and weak.

I had a 104 fever.

The excitement surrounding this discovery can be boiled down to a few lines:
"Can we bring you in the morning? It's 2am and not a good time to drive."
"...."

Of course, my friends at school are well-versed in the proper protocol for such occasions. They have hailed many a cab with proper snacks at inconvenient times to drag me, sweatpants and all, to get checked out. I once had a first date at the HUP ER and let me tell you, the saline is an excellent aphrodisiac. (Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.)

Anyway, so I was fairly convinced I was going to die. (Not entirely, but I did think to myself "If I die on rt. 3 because my mother insists on driving the speed limit at 2:30am, I will haunt the shit out of these people.")

I was greeted at main campus by a sleeping guard.
disgruntled: "Are you here to see a patient?"
disheveled: "...I am one?"

You're probably wondering what kind of person goes on spontaneous 3am hospital trips.
My best guess? People who should not be allowed in hospitals.
They include: people trying to siphon off morphine. people trying to pull a plug. people unperturbed by a sleeping guard.

I attempt to open the door to the urgent care center only to discover it's been chemo-proofed. Bastards.
The other human gatekeeper "guarding" the door points at the button on the wall: "Enter". Ah yes. That would be it.

With spotty wifi, my sole source of amusement is the unnatural and honestly, unfair level of hotness of the male nurse tending to me. His appreciation of my manicure and book choice confirms my belief that he is the perfect male specimen.
A friend offers practical applications of hot murses: raise a patient's blood pressure, get the blood flowing, other things increasing in inappropriateness.

It is time for the standard chest x-ray, a test used by doctors for the most accurate scapegoating. With each hospital visit I am further convinced this "touch of pneumonia" is just my lung throwing a tantrum. (It never gets what it wants!) I am escorted by a kindly gentleman who I am sure prefers his interaction with 22-year-old girls to not involve wheelchairs. He does get to tell me to breathe though, which I imagine is slightly erotic. Though this is chest x-ray number one thousand I have managed to forget the no bra and jewelry rule. X-ray tech assists with the necklace and all that remains is the question of the bra. I hesitate and decide that yes, I can attempt this sans IV-occupied arm. How hard could it be?
... I sincerely apologize to every guy I ever laughed at.

I would also like to thank Forever 21 for making see-through tshirts that don't appear to be see-through until it is too late. Really spices up those late night chest x-rays.
Working around the IV takes longer than the actual procedure. Also, I have a bra hanging off my arm. Casual.  The tech tucks my see-through shirt self into the wheelchair with strategically-covering blanket. I'm sure this guy is thinking "I really don't need this right now." And I'm thinking "How x-rated can we get up in here?"

I return to base and decide the best (read: laziest) course of action is to replace the offending garment with one of those ever-so-titillating hospital gowns. I wonder aloud about asking the hot murse for assistance with said shirt removal. I then remember the public venue and oh, the fact that I am not in an episode of Grey's Anatomy. I ask mom.

It is now 5am. I am awake because ERs are expressly designed to keep patients slightly on edge with periodic beeps, whistles, and scratchy-voiced announcements. I am surprised there isn't a circle of hell modeled after this. Side note: someone should really do a modern take on Inferno.

Another murse approaches and announces I need a second IV. These are not the kind of surprises one appreciates at 5am. He has kind eyes, so I allow him to fiddle around my arms without fidgeting and/or panic attack. He informs me of the blood spurting out of my hand in the same voice one would use to comment on the weather. I decide I like him.

A doctor comes by and throws around words like "sepsis" and "catheter". Realize I may be here for awhile and that they intend to do something terrible with my nether region.
Blood pressure is elevated: success!

-
Check back next time for med student interaction, "rap of the lovesick sick kid", and other bits of amusement.

Bath Salts: A Prescriptive Model

I have a prescriptive model for the world of the living:
Live.
But what of living passively through the carefully instagrammed photos of another life? The status updates that describe scenarios one only dreams of encountering, feelings one hopes to never know.
Live in a day dream of your own making. One may never know the difference of delusion if one refuses to compare to another reality.
I heard bath salts are excellent in that capacity.
…nibble.

Chasing Hurricanes

I would call you a rainbow but I
don’t mean to say that you’re beautiful or
out-of-reach or as rare a presence in my
life as a sun shower. Or that I can’t compel you
to appear because some outside force
decides how you come and go,
seemingly for a second. In the window of
my life you should be inconsequential: a
well-appreciated, fleeting
joy but I suppose the ephemerality of
it all has me finding you strangely wonderful.
I cannot chase you past the sun,
I cannot capture you beyond a
photo that convinces me in
times of uncertainty that you once existed.
The summer rain that spills in sun
seems to illustrate the coexistence of
futility and possibility.
I remain afraid
that I am chasing hurricanes
without noticing that the wind at
my back is taking me in circles.
You lace my eyelids when I
stare at the sun, you
soothe the sky’s wounds after it is
cracked open, you are meant
to lead to some greater promise or reward but
I know better.
I would call you a rainbow but your
sentience prevents me from
chalking you up to a perfect storm.
You exist with purpose.

Irrational Fear of Heart Tandem Skydiving

Years ago,
I decided I required courage.
My imagination runs away with me sometimes,
which is how I end up with these
worst case scenarios: heart hostage crises,
heart kidnappings, heart tandem skydiving accidents.
I have a Groupon for skydiving, yet
I'm still terrified of your opinion of me.
(and your opinion of my opinion of you.)
My self esteem has worked
tirelessly alongside my ego to construct an
appropriate Reading List, so that I may not
stray to the forbidden shelves in the library of
my long term memory as I devise a
best guess of what's on your mind (and
heart).
Real courage implies facing one's fears and
I hide behind a thesaurus.
Holder of parachute,
I cannot face you
and
if I had real courage,
I would face myself.