I still don't have my computer back. One would think I had done something terrible and was being punished by the way I'm being treated here. I'm pretty sure, though I've never done actual time there, that the prisoners at Gitmo have more privileges than I do. As it is, I'm lucky to have my wonderful favorite aunt, Jillian, typing for me. (If that last sentence didn't sound entirely like my wording, it must be sheer coincidence.)
Today I walked down the corridor six times, and between one-third and halfway back five times. A wheelchair or someone strong enough to carry me had to transport me the rest of the way. My Uncle Scott and the intern assigned to my case say I'm lazy. They complain when I don't eat enough, then they complain when they have to carry me because I'm too heavy and I'm going to give them disc problems or hernias or something bad along those lines. I wish they would make up their minds whether or not they want me to eat more. The inconsistency is killing me!
Uncle Scott told me that Rebecca said it reached 112 degrees where she lives yesterday. It doesn't get that hot where I am now for the most part. I know there's a place near here where winds that are like the Santa Ana winds but less famous come and temporarily heat up the place dangerously and very rapidly, but I think it's just that isolated spot and I believe it happens exceedingly rarely. Where I used to live in northern California (parents are selling the house and I probably won't go back before they're officially out of the place) temperatures were pretty high in the summer, but not usually Death Valley-like hot. If's you're not afraid of tsunamis, mudlides, flooding, earthquakes, gang warfare, or incredibly high cost of living and property taxes, among other things, the California coastal areas are good places to live.
I would like to thank Matt, Faery Chaos, Amy, Amelia, Aunt Becky, Cara, Rebecca, Rebecca's family, Aunt Maria, Saints Timothy and Titus, Kristine, and Catherine for their kind words of support. Conspicuously absent from the list of people I'm thanking is Judge Alex. If you want to know why his name is not on the list, ask him. I would also like to thank my Aunt Jillian for calling and texting me constantly and never allowing me to get any rest. Rest is for sissies anyway. Who needs it?
I heard a rumor that the nursing staff is planning a party for the moment I leave this place. They should have been more discreet, because I would have left the rest of my Baskin Robbins Clown cones for them if they hadn't been so rude as to let me know of their plans for a celebration in honor of my departure. I'm going to ask someone (I'll bribe an intern because most of them are ditch-bank-Okie-poor and thus easy to bribe) to bake a nice batch of Ex Lax chocolate chunk cookies. Do they still even make Ex Lax? If not I'll have to think of something similarly disgusting but not something that will get me, or the intern, thrown into jail.
I just hope that I'm out of here soon. I heard that I have four more days left on my sentence. The nurses would like me out of here sooner, but such things aren't up to the nurses any more than they're up to me. My surgeon feels my pain and would like to get me out of here as soon as possible, but he says it's better to stay one more day and not have to come back because I checked out too soon.
By the way, for anyone truly interested in the workings of weak and bizarre minds, my twenty-six-year-old cousin who joined up with the Blackmore polygamous clan in Canada is now back in the states. She lost the child that she was carrying but is apparently recovering nicely. As soon as she is physically and mentally ready, she will relocate to a part of the globe that does not label a woman as either a prune-faced hag or lesbian (not that there is a thing wrong with being a lesbian, or even a prune-faced hag, if that's what someone is; it's just that the label shouldn't be applied randomly to any female age twenty-six or older who is not married)if she reaches the age of twenty-six without being lawfully wed or at least shacking up with a member of the opposite sex. (If she chooses the "shacking up" option, she will, of course, be branded a slut, but in that neck of the woods, being branded a slut is probably less stigmatizing than being identified as originating from the Isle of Lesbos.)