the TB report, Good Friday edition

So I meant to write last night but this whole lack of internet thing is starting to drive me mad. Doesn’t look like I’ll be getting internet soon, thanks to the Germans and Jesus, and so I will text out today’s reports with my thumbs, which thankfully are quick and not bleeding yet, due to excessive posting.

“Well, Jesus is dead today and so is all of Stuttgart.”. Ahh, my friend Laura sent me that as a pick-me-up, she’s fantastic.

So the Germans. Where to begin. Well, we can begin with their little Jesus vacation they’ve all taken, leaving me coffeeless, without internet and more helpless than usual today. I know, I sound insane and petty, compared to the universal mourning and recognizing and praying and such going on today, but whatever. This isn’t the Jesus report. That’s called the Bible and I’m sure they’re giving out copies today so enjoy.

Back to the Germans. Apparently they’re all at home, waiting for Jesus to make the world right again on Sunday, or I hear Easter is Monday here, who knows. Actually, I think they’ve done a brilliant thing over here. Easter is obviously Sunday, let’s not be foolish, but then they’ve gone and declared Monday a legal holiday, therefore giving themselves a full, four day weekend. Either way, god (really) forbid they work on Good Friday or meaningless Saturday or Easter isn’t on Monday, Monday. Yeah, they’re all off finding eggs and praying until Tuesday. Jesus Christ.

This weekend might be a good weekend to start writing about things that led to my sinning existence or reasons the church has scarred me for life. That list is long, though, and so we’ll ease into that slowly, though…I am in a hospital near a bunch of dying people. Wouldn’t want to send the wrong message.

Instead, this morning we’ll go over meaningless discoveries I’m stumbled upon in the past 24 hours.

Like yesterday. I was so tickled with myself for finding a shower and stealing hand towels and making the most out of my morning. Well, today I went to shower in same secret shower and it was locked. Locked because it’s the utility closet. Of course it is. That would explain the four pair of knee high rubber boots and buckets and brushes, creepy rubber gloves, harsh bleach and mop I showered around yesterday. And so I was unable today to explain to the non-English speaking nurse why I was trying to pry the utility closet door open w my sock boot and right arm, while holding two new stolen wash clothes in the other. Awkward.

Interesting, disturbing and somewhat nice discovery of the day: I can check myself out for 3 hours every day. This is somewhat surprising to me, considering these people live to make rules to live by and to let patients just parade in and out of the hospital seems a bit bizarre, considering I’m stuck in the close to death tb watch ward still. (They are wearing masks now in my room and I’m not even that concerned) I suppose they don’t care if I subject my friends, Chris and the dogs to this slow death I have, so what’s it to them? Odd, though.
So I’ve considered going home tonight, tomorrow, and Easter each for a three hour visit to see the pups, Chris, get some stuff, watch tv, eat real food, etc but considering my increasingly dramatic and emotional state this week (such as my mapped out plan to run away last night like a heartbroken teenager), its probably for the best that I just stay put. That and I didn’t find it so amusing when Chris informed me that he could very well just tell people I’m in a mental facility, considering I look normal (not true, I am not at my freshest this week and I find that offensive), I’m wandering around in pjs like normal, ranting like normal, and who really has seen me to prove otherwise? He’s hysterical, really.

But speaking of homes, which I’m not in…I suppose I can handle this alternative rehab/fat camp substitution I’m in, but I’ve decided I’m not cut out for either a nursing home or the life of a POW, both of which I had somehow convinced myself I could handle, if need be. (Don’t ask, these ideas just come to me)

The nursing home thing is just sad and if one or any of my unborn, pain in the ass, ungrateful future children even consider putting my ass in one decades from now, I will smother them in their sleep. That being said, I still stand firm in not welcoming any of my parents into my home in 30 years. That is Katie’s job, she’s the nurse, not me. Ill buy the supplies, books on tape, diapers, etc.

Now, the POW thing is really just an idea I once had after I met some girl at a bar who told me that while she was a Ranger (of the secret ninja variety, of course), she was taken hostage and made a POW and after her enemies knocked her around a bit, they made her drink her own urine. I was fascinated and mesmerized and the more she carried on about drinking urine while we bonded over jager bombs, the more I was convinced that I too could be a strong woman who can handle a nice, hot cup of urine.

That is an untrue story because I can’t even subject myself to the one slice of jellified tube meat they keep sticking on my bread every day. Disgusting. I’d rather starve. And so POW, no, not for me.

And so those are my thoughts for this morning.