Sploenard S. Spleenus
It'0s g03d to feel neice for a chanje
Good. Really g0Od.
Not bad at all.
It's not so bad.
The good I mean.
Or the squelch.
Is this...good? Is this was good is? Gross. This is gross. No wonder things that regularly experience this are so bloody unbearable. At least now I can admire their wretchedness from a new angle.
I feel...different lately. What is this feel? It doesn't quite taste like the usual disdainful antipathy, nor is it my familiar sense of scornful distaste. It's almost...not like those things at all. It's like...it's like the empty void one experiences when there is a lack of anything else to detest, but somehow, there's something else in that void, a third thing besides loathing and nothingness. How dreadful. It's dreadful yet I want it to continue. Actively wanting an experience to continue is an alarmingly new experience.
I'm not certain if Miss Curdle has an intimate understanding of mutual spite or merely a very poor understanding of sponge baths, but in either case, the steel wool was an excellent touch.
The way that nurse sort of sags a bit and audibly squelches when she walks...it's such a special kind of vile. It's the kind of vile I can really sink my animosity into, like an unwanted gift sinking into the cesspool you made painstakingly certain they saw you throw it into as soon as you were done faking your gratitude and almost convincing them that you appreciated the thought.
I could go for that squelch again, come to think of it. Where'd she go off to? I must have pressed this button eighty or ninety times since the last eighty or ninety. I'm sure the sound must be grinding away at her last nerve by now. I wonder if she savors that as much I savor inflicting it?
Did I always have so many fluids? Good riddance, I say. They never liked me and I never liked them, the lousy freeloaders. She can do whatever she wants with them, and she's welcome to plenty more. In fact, I think I'll buzz her in again, just to show them how completely indifferent I am to their departure.
I have certainly been resenting this recent attention to a significantly more satisfactory extreme than I resent the usual lack thereof. I just may have to write my next complaint letter on the good stationary, just so they know how much I am loathe to care.
I suppose if I ranked every sapioid I've ever had the displeasure of interacting with on a scale from "insufferably dreadful" to "could have still somehow been worse, against all odds," I might actually have to come up with a new rank for Miss Curdle. Not a higher one...but not a lower one, either. Another column. Another kind of wretched. A kind that...makes some kind of sense, for once. There's something about the way she keeps subjecting herself to my presence slightly beyond the bare minimum required to fulfill her trivial duties.
So the green thing brought me an almost acceptable brand of Malaria, which at the very least should give this discharge a little extra punch. I must admit, if I were capable of the emotion, I might even consider feeling gratitude that the blockhead actually stumbled its way into something at least superficially resembling competence. Maybe I'll think about sending it a card summarizing some of the things I don't especially hate about its continued existence. There. I've thought about it, and I hope it's grateful that I've gone to an effort so much more exhausting than it warrants.
So some ridiculous green buffoon just buffooned its way into my presence, neither legitimate Hospital staff nor a half decent fever-induced delusion, and had the audacity to continue existing in my general vicinity without the slightest display of abject pity, making our feelings towards one another rather one-sided, to say the least. I can't even tell if it picked up on my spite, and it was QUALITY spite, I'll have you know, carefully fermented in a moist crevice between my indifference and my pessimism.
Did I hear correctly? Mystery Patient was shunted off to PEDIATRICS? What did a neonate do to deserve an "unprecedented" critical infection? What kind of sick joke is this? The lousy thing can't have even grown enough neurons to APPRECIATE this kind of good fortune. Proper suffering is wasted on the young.
"MY CHILDHOOD," A SHORT POEM 2:
Toothless dog with no anus
Enigmatic yellow streaks on a peeling tile floor
How did cigarette burns get on the ceiling
There is hair in my pudding again.
So I'm waiting on a seventh opinion when I hear Doctor Bow Ties yammering about some new patient's "omnizonal entropy" and "aberrant branchiation." It must be nice, contracting something unidentifiable. Something good and chronic from the sub-seething or maybe the void. Maybe they've even got some kind of scrab nabblet. No doubt they're already enjoying a whole new world of tissue scrapes, fluid samples and biosupportive tubulation as we speak.
Ugh. Did I not JUST set down my brine? Nothing's ever where you think you've left it, and when you find it, you just remember again that it was already a let down the first time. I may as well forget about it and pour a whole new drum.
I know what my discharges are supposed to smell like, and my excretions are easily a full 15% saltier than the last flush. We'll see if Doctor Quackpot thinks he can tell me I've just been drinking brine again.
Doctors. Let me tell you about doctors. You can show up on their doorstep, gushing vital fluids from any number of makeshift orifices, and before you can even burden them with HALF your complaints, you're waking up in one piece with nary a scratch. What kind of service is that? Why even GET critically injured if they're just going to rush you in and out like it never happened?
"MY CHILDHOOD," A SHORT POEM:
I did not wet the bed.
Why is it still so wet.
It's not that funny, mother.
FOR SALE: the tattered remnants of what may have once been a hint of optimism. Sticky for some reason. UPDATE: find it in whatever sewer you'll find a small, unused sense of dignity with some weird hairs on it.
Oftentimes, I wonder if there are those among you who deliberately subject yourselves to my thoughts. Could it truly be the case that there are those who have lowered themselves to depths of wretchitidity even I do not dare fathom? My heart would go out to you, except there's no reason you would be here of your own volition unless you knew you deserved some variety of torture. Whatever you did, I hope this is an adequate punishment.
A funny thing happened to me today, and that's "funny" like an unidentifiable odor. It's actually not interesting enough for me to describe. The fact that a thing of some sort happened is actually in itself vastly more exciting than the thing that happened, which is quite typical of my experience with happenings as a whole.
Life is so full of surprises, and every last one of them a disappointment. At least it's always for a different reason. That's why we bother, I suppose. It's quite the adventure, always living just longer enough to find out how else you can be let down. You would know; you're exposing yourself to my feelings as we speak.