12.12.07

covered in holes and electrode goo

dear algorithms students:

please just do what i told you to do when you find me passed out. i said don't call Security, fuck's sake. you called Security. i've been through this a lot, so i knew what had happened when i was woken up from my semi-overdose stupor on the lecture theatre floor by a black leather boot to the chest and a fucking megadecibel of Scots voice sounding like Billy Connolly on crack, informing me that I WAS OK NOW DID I HEAR HIM I WAS OK NOW I WAS GONNA BE OKAY DID I TRY AND KILL MYSELF THE AMBULANCE IS ON THE WAY OK.

it is not a good thing for the ambulance to find me. i have told you this, students, and you forgot, you bastards. i get taken to hospital, my entire fucking gastroenteral system and then some gets flushed (that's two cannulae, one in each arm, four IV bags to go on each one, and bedpans, fucking bedpans) in case it was a paracetamol overdose (what am i, twelve?), i gotta see a goddamn psychiatrist and they keep me in for a night and a full fucking work day, usually two.

now, unless you fuckers wanna find yourselves being yelled at by undereducated health professionals with room-temperature IQs, listening to more kinds of maddening constant noise than Guantanamo in a hospital that makes Soviet Russia look luxurious - you gotta love the NHS - with a Glaswegian trainee stabbing holes in your arms and muttering gibberish about you've got so much to live for, just do what i told you: sit me up, slap me round the face, and get me the fuck outta there.

L
(is covered in holes and electrode goo as it types)

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