TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 5
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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This is episode five. Today I organized my ceedees in one of the
sock drawers in the closet thang. Now I feel much better without
quite so much clutter around my computer table. Now that I can
run my teevee, I turned it on to catch the news this morning.
George, roomie and man of few words said, "Quiet, Paul. Sleep."
Since I had the last of my LiquiShits about three a.m., no doubt
disturbing him with the lights and the scurrying (not to mention
the steenk), I yielded and turned the sound off. Not that what
they have to say is all that important, did you ever notice how
really stoopid news people look when you can't hear them? George
and Spastic Lady sat in the dining room until ten o'clock last
night, spooning. He needs his sleep or he gets cranky. Damn.
He's only the roommate I won't ever see again when I leave this
tardfarm[tm] and here I am sounding like a wife.
I finally met the Goddammit Lady I've been hearing so much from
at odd times. She was lying in a tard chair this afternoon just
ejaculating like crazy (which she is). As I passed by she took
my hand. A nearby nurse warned me she's a scratcher. Goddammit
Lady just looked at me pitifully and started in with the St
Margaret of ERR Litany, Helpmehoney helpmehoney helpmehoney-- So
I sat in the aisle like a dope and held and patted her hand until
whatever demons torment her got bored enough to go back into her
woodwork.
I found out how they do blood sugar readings here, or, more
properly, how they extract the blood sample from our sore little
fingypoos. They take the needle-like insert for the spring-
loaded lancing pen and just poke your finger viciously. I asked
the med nurse Why do you do it that way and be so cruel. She
said Oh, the pen broke so they threw it away and just stick
people with the refill. Yeah, and the doofus on the cart this
morning brought me one with the sterility-guaranteed tit already
twisted off. No thankyou, Charlie Numbnuts. Wrest my own
personal Penlet from my cold, dead grasp, Dr Mengele!
Mr Cheez and Kurth (I know I didn't spell that right ... oh, fuck
you too) came over to see me today. I
think it's great they come all the way out here in the weeds just
to visit their token tard. They brought me far more food than I
ought to have. I had a monster cheeseburger, a great big greasy
taco, onion rings and half a large order of fries. When Nurse
Prick came to poke my finger this afternoon, I was at 265 which I
think is an all-time high since I got off of insulin. Oh well.
I knew what I did and it was worth it, but only once a week. Now
I will go back to being Good.
I met Sally today. She's huge. She weighs about 350 pounds and
has amazingly skinny arms and legs. All her weight is in her
midsection, which is an exceedingly dangerous way to carry it.
She's been a diabetic since childhood and is on hemodialysis,
which is where they stick big needles in your veins and do a
blood exchange into a machine to filter out waste products your
kidneys can no longer separate from your blood. She hates
dialysis and is on fluid restriction and hates that, too. She
tries to go around the fluid restriction by constantly chomping
on ice chips but the nurses are wise to this stunt. Sally whines
a lot. I got a great big charge out of telling her about my
lunch because she couldn't have any. I _am_ a _mean_
bastard^H^H^H^H^H^H^Hbitch.
After writing out a good bit of this crap, I went back to the
dining hall to see what was going on. The activity director and
the social worker were having an argument over not much, but they
were passionate about it. She finally took leave of more than
her senses and left Ralph and me to talk. My gaydar was on full
blast and I was picking up echoes. "I have found a sistah-
girlfren!" I thought to myself. We did the Where Are You From
and Are You Married crap. He couldn't figure out why I wasn't
married, so I told him. Then we got down to brass tacks.
He's bi and fooled around with boys when he was younger. He gave
it up for girls later on but still falls back on the old familiar
now and then. He's closety and feels a lot of family pressure.
When he was a kid, he felt "drawn" to the character of Bluto in
the Popeye cartoons. I told him I had a really bad thang for
Bobby Diamond who played the kid in the Saturday morning horse
opera "Fury" with Peter Graves, pre-Mission Impossible. We
agreed he was looking for the big, butch father and I was looking
for the companion-brother type. Whatever. We still just wanted
to fuck their brains out.
And so to bed, as Pepys would say. That damn transformer buzzed
all night. I awoke when it quit at six o'clock. This was just
in time for my morning finger poke. I read 117. Considering the
dissipated life I led yesterday, that isn't too bad. Mr Waters
at The ERR used to wake up to 257. I sat up and explored the
different set of teevee channels you get around here when you are
closer to San Hozay than to the Fag Capital. Early Saturday
morning all you can get are infomercials for some amazingly daft
schemes.
Breakfast was unremarkable except to say they have low-cal jelly
and syrup which actually taste like something other than
medicine. But I still stay after Mr Cheez and Miss Kooky to
bring me real preserves to smear on my toast and waffles. The
French toast is right proper here. I can't wait to see whether
they use the same breaded and fried rubber tire patches The ERR
uses for waffles.
After breafast I dozed off again but woke up to The Screamer.
Dunno who The Screamer is, but along with The Bumper, they make
life interesting and noisy on this wing. The Screamer you
understand. Think of a broke-dick chimpanzee having a pissy day.
The Bumper jostles whatever restraints he or she is in without
much lag in enthusiasm. Sally was in a truly evil mood this
morning when Dr Mengele came to stick her finger with a naked
poking needle. "GOD _DAMN_ YOU, YOU MISERABLE FUCKING
SONOFABITCH! HOW _DARE_ YOU STAB MY FINGER LIKE THAT! OH, JESUS
FUCKING _CHRIST_ THAT HURTS! I'M GOING TO REPORT YOU PEOPLE TO
MY DOCTOR!"
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