Tomorrow during grand rounds the head honcho and his lackeys will decide my fate. Originally I was to be sprung from the pokey for certain either today or tomorrow. Then the pesky matter of platelets, or lack thereof, arose. One or another of the lackeys has nothing better to do than to dream of scenarios in which I could conceivably bleed to death. I could assist him. her, or them if his, her, or their imaginations are running dry. Perhaps I could suffer a gunshot wound directly to my aorta, possibly even in the interception of a bullet in a political assassination attempt. My jugular vein could be slit by a crazy person. I could suffer an abdominal aortic aneurism. I could even be attacked by an escaped barrel of leeches. The possibilities are endless. It's just sad that the lackeys are keeping me here longer than I need to be under false pretenses so that my aunts, Godparents, and other miscellaneous relatives and family friends will deliver food to the staff.
Platelets, schmlatelets. Get me out of this $(@#^%* prison!!!!!!
Gung Hay Fat Choy, and think twice before kissing someone with whose health history you are not thoroughly familiar