I would recover from any illness or injury faster in a spa-like environment than in a typical hospital. Wouldn't you? As it stands, I finally go to sleep because my mom rubs my back while my dad plays guitar for me. Then some half-wit technician comes in and injects me with something that's supposed to help me sleep, which wakes me up for the next ninety minutes. Then my lungs get all congested. Someone calls the repiratory therapist and she comes in with her apparati that makes me look like R2D2. The stuff that goes into my lungs also makes sleep difficult to come by, but I bear ill will toward neither the therapist nor the nurse or doctor who ordered his procedure, because my lungs cannot be left congested. So then my mom rubs my back and my dad plays music on his guitar and I doze off until some nurse comes in and says she heds to check my vital signs. It went on like this for hours until my dad put a "Quarantine" sign on my door. I have heart and blood pressure monitors, as well as instruments that tell the content of oxygen in my blood. My dad is smart enough to read the instruments and tell someone if there is a problem.
I'd like to get out of here tomorrow, but it's looking like one more day here. Some of my friends from the loony bin came down to visit me. They kidnapped me and took me in a wheelchair back up to the crazy ward. We had a good time for about an hour until I was found. My mom was picking up my dad at the airport, so neither one even found out. Dr. Jeff said he'll rat me out if I make one more false move. I don't need to make another false move. I've already had my fun.
Now I just want to sleep, but no one will let me. I want to go to a freaking spa.