în cușcă dacă la spital și la policlinicile de stat se merge cu programare.
Au râs. Au spus că e cea mai bună replică pe care au auzit-o pe anul ăsta.
Vedeți? Nu degeaba sunt clown...
:(
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December 19th, the 4th day of captivity
I almost feel at home here.
Wag came to visit and he brought everything I need. Chocolate - check, almonds - check, he even went all the way to the fourth floor for some coffee - check, my precious iPod - check, I have everything I want!
Wag's been asking me if I've done any of those "things to do when I'm free" lists.
Well, no, I haven't done any. Yet. And I wonder: what good are they for? It's already so warm and well in here.
It's my lair.
The nightstand is full of clothes - mine, half the bed is a dirty mess - mine, I go to the toilet in just my jammies - I need no robe, it's home!
I suspect a twisted case of Stockholm Syndrome.
I realise I'm the one keeping this hospital alive: the dozens of nurses would be unemployed, the peasant's milk would not be drunk, chicken carcasses would be wasted instead of deliciously cooked alongside potatoes, the government's money would be wasted on something actually useful instead of paying the heat for this place (there are 0℃ outside but we keep both windows open because it's just too warm).
The Hospital is a living thing and slowly I feel my roots getting deeper into its flesh, becoming part of it.
It's so warm and welcoming, I'm giving up, I'll become an appendage. The parasitic Silly!
Wag came to visit and he brought everything I need. Chocolate - check, almonds - check, he even went all the way to the fourth floor for some coffee - check, my precious iPod - check, I have everything I want!
Wag's been asking me if I've done any of those "things to do when I'm free" lists.
Well, no, I haven't done any. Yet. And I wonder: what good are they for? It's already so warm and well in here.
It's my lair.
The nightstand is full of clothes - mine, half the bed is a dirty mess - mine, I go to the toilet in just my jammies - I need no robe, it's home!
I suspect a twisted case of Stockholm Syndrome.
I realise I'm the one keeping this hospital alive: the dozens of nurses would be unemployed, the peasant's milk would not be drunk, chicken carcasses would be wasted instead of deliciously cooked alongside potatoes, the government's money would be wasted on something actually useful instead of paying the heat for this place (there are 0℃ outside but we keep both windows open because it's just too warm).
The Hospital is a living thing and slowly I feel my roots getting deeper into its flesh, becoming part of it.
It's so warm and welcoming, I'm giving up, I'll become an appendage. The parasitic Silly!
18.12.2010
Hospital life!
Ah, I wonder if there's anyone genuinely and rationally loving it?
Really, no matter how luxurious the conditions, how kind and attentive the staff, how unimportant the disease, can anyone love hospital life?
Everyone I met here couldn't wait to get out. Some of them were really ill, some only had a passing thing, but all of them wanted to go home. To die there :)
I've been told I'm apparently ok but things could turn for the worse any moment and only here I have the things that can keep me alive. At home I could die. Oh noes, teh dramz.
All in all it seems patients and doctors somehow agree on one thing: the place to die is at home, home is where Death comes.
I guess poor silly Death can't keep up and does not update addresses that often. It just can't find you in hospital, nope. It is not on its radar.
Yes, I know I'm morbid, but really, I am not a child. I know people ...die!?! Some old, some young, some rightly so, some deserve it less, but, you know, people die! That's no news.
yeaaaah...what was I writing this for? I don't really know.
Hospital life!
Some might say it is like a vacation. And it could be: I get plenty of rest - what else to do?, no stress, do not think of work or other worldly problems - how could I, I'm isolated in a little bubble. It's just me and my friends: the tiled walls.
But it isn't: I'm surrounded by old people. And by old I mean most of them over 70. I do not know if I've been punished or didn't provide the correct password, but I didn't get into the young and cool people's salon. Nope.
I guess my problem is not hip enough.
Rest and relaxation is such a weird concept. One would think it would suffice to just lie down and do nothing, stare into nothingness, but for most people it is a custom thing.
For me it's music, chat over a cup of coffee with pleasant company, walks, hobbies.
We don't have any of that here. Activity is strictly forbidden unless it's a walk to the toilet.
Here we have thoughts. Maaany thoughts. Most of them creepy, depressing thoughts. And they say attitude is the key!
I want happy thoughts! Please?
Ah, I wonder if there's anyone genuinely and rationally loving it?
Really, no matter how luxurious the conditions, how kind and attentive the staff, how unimportant the disease, can anyone love hospital life?
Everyone I met here couldn't wait to get out. Some of them were really ill, some only had a passing thing, but all of them wanted to go home. To die there :)
I've been told I'm apparently ok but things could turn for the worse any moment and only here I have the things that can keep me alive. At home I could die. Oh noes, teh dramz.
All in all it seems patients and doctors somehow agree on one thing: the place to die is at home, home is where Death comes.
I guess poor silly Death can't keep up and does not update addresses that often. It just can't find you in hospital, nope. It is not on its radar.
Yes, I know I'm morbid, but really, I am not a child. I know people ...die!?! Some old, some young, some rightly so, some deserve it less, but, you know, people die! That's no news.
yeaaaah...what was I writing this for? I don't really know.
Hospital life!
Some might say it is like a vacation. And it could be: I get plenty of rest - what else to do?, no stress, do not think of work or other worldly problems - how could I, I'm isolated in a little bubble. It's just me and my friends: the tiled walls.
But it isn't: I'm surrounded by old people. And by old I mean most of them over 70. I do not know if I've been punished or didn't provide the correct password, but I didn't get into the young and cool people's salon. Nope.
I guess my problem is not hip enough.
Rest and relaxation is such a weird concept. One would think it would suffice to just lie down and do nothing, stare into nothingness, but for most people it is a custom thing.
For me it's music, chat over a cup of coffee with pleasant company, walks, hobbies.
We don't have any of that here. Activity is strictly forbidden unless it's a walk to the toilet.
Here we have thoughts. Maaany thoughts. Most of them creepy, depressing thoughts. And they say attitude is the key!
I want happy thoughts! Please?
How Silly Got His Emo On
- a bildungsroman -
by Silly O'Idiot
'Twas a cloudy December day. A glorious day, the third day of cold - you remember the first two don't you?
Well, my dear All, the third day of sickness is supposed to be about dry cough & no mucus. It's supposed to be because what Silly woke up to that day was far from it: high temperature, chest pains, suffocation.
After having little to no sleep the previous night - all thanks to the constant cough which went through the lungs like sharp razors aaand impeding wheeze - Silly sure had found who to blame for his inability to focus and his zombie like senses: the bitchy witch Illness.
Our hero bravely summoned modern magik - coffee and kanelbullar, but could not eat anything.
Maybe an enchanted shower could wash away this cursed state?
Fortunately no, and giving up on his bravery Silly called the doctor for an appointment. How very responsible!
Unexpectedly, the strong spirit that Silly is didn't manage to get to the doctor.
After many fights with one's senses of just crumbling down to the floor and dying on the spot Silly called forth the practical and sane mind of one noble knight known to most of you by the name of ..Wag!
Months and years of constant roaming follow, around an apple sized world - or just ten minutes by taxi ride through the land of the City - and finally our heroes reached the end of their journey: the mighty Hospital
...or is it the end?
In the Hospital Silly is left alone for five days for through sufferance and dedication (to remain sane) our Chevalier must win the hand of one Lady Asthma - a really enchanting and delicate character.
In the real end, the end end, Silly got what it wasn't waiting or wished for: a fancy disposition when one breath could sweep it of its feet!
I guess it's what one deserves for..I don't really know what for, because it just came out of the blue, but meh.
How very emotional!
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