I left Utah late yesteday afternoon for the quiet serenity of California's central coast. The director, fondly known as Chairman Mao, picked me up at the airport. Instead of driving me directly to the hospital, he took me to his home, where I spent the night. His wife and one of his two children were present as well. He wasn't hitting on me, as hard as that may be to believe. I can only speculate as to why he drove me to his residence rather than to the hospital, but I suspect it had something to do with letting me become gradually acclimated to the total disarray into which the inmates in my hospital wing had fallen since my departure. The Recreational Rapist had her way with the wing in my absence. While I was frolicking in Utah, she had the inmates square dancing and making potato prints. Potato prints are something kindergartners make when their teachers aren't sufficiently intelligent resourceful to think of worthwhile projects for them.
I asked Chairman Mao if the inmates were actually having fun with The Rapist's activities. He said the others are apathetic and miserable. This will make the job I must do easier on my conscience. Even if it were for their own good, I would feel guilty if I were to make them feel that an activity they legitimate;y enjoyed was beneath them. Who am I to tell anyone what they can or cannot enjoy, or what forms of entertainment will or will not allow them to be cool? It's not as though I am myself the Grand Imperial Wizard of Coolness.
If, on the other hand, I am merely giving a voice to their existing opposition to or dislike of the forced allegedly frivolity being thrust upon them by a dictatorial yet thoroughly uncool hospital employee whose duty is to promote psychological wellness through enjoyable yet entertaining activities, I can sleep at night. I don't wish to tell anyone that anything they genuinely enjoy is a geeky pursuit, but advocating for less powerful peers who feel that they are being made to look foolish is the sort of thing that gives me a sense of purpose while I am facing down my own demons. Furthermore, it appears I have been given tacit consent to do just that.
When I arrived back at the facility this morning, my first course of business was to weigh in. I was at 81. When I left three weeks ago, I was at 78. A three-pound gain at my weight is statistically significant. Chairman Mao and another doctor wanted to know how I had gained the weight. I don't like to give credit to those guilty of perpetrating totalitarian regimes, so I didn't tell the doctors about the times I had been forced to remain seated at a table until someone bigger and more powerful than I determined that my caloric consumption had been adequate. It seems that Chairman mao had a bet of sorts going with PseudoUncle. At stake was some sports memorabilia artifact. Since I weighed in at a pound higher than teh eighty pounds pseudoUncel neede me to weigh in order to collect, Chairman mao is sending a case of wine as well.ine I'm the one who had to stuff myself beyond comfort, I feel that at least one bottle of the wine that is being shipped to PseudoUncle should go to me. I probably don't even like wine, but at least a bottle of it should be mine to dislike.
My dad showed up unexpextedly this morning. He sat through a not particularly productive counseling session with me. When it was time for recreational rape, Dad brought a Scrabble game to my room. Before we started, two other inmates showed up in my room, and he invited them to join us. Seven other people appeared within the next ten minutes. It turned into a group effort and was fairly lame, but we at least saved nine people besides me from recreational rape.
My dad bought pizza for the inmates who wanted it at lunch.He offered to bring me some sort of take-out for dinner, but I felt guilty eating it in front of the others and didn't want him blowing my entire inheritance in feeding the residents of the floor, so we made the best of hospital food. At least there were ice cream sundaes for dessert.
Dad is spending the next three nights here with me. He has to work tomorrow, but he'll be bcak tomorrow evening. Sunday after my counseling session he's going to take me running and diving. He'll work on Monday then go back home. On Thursday the Pseudos will arrive here for pseudoAunt's pulmonology appointment, and they'll pick me up Friday morning after my counseling session. I'll come back here for some appointments but will be with them Friday through Monday nights, and even part of Tuesday.
Daddy is playing guitar for the inmates. The girl who hangs all over everyone's fathers is sitting right by him and staring at him. I don't know where her father is or if she even knows where he is. It's sad.
Enjoy the wine, Pseudorelatives. I love you anyway.