Day 3

Day 3 

Whadaap fellow human beings. It’s a joy to be alive, joy to be breathing, joy to be reading some inspirational shit that makes you tizzy with the acceptance of your injury as the masterplan of God for something nicer than you could have otherwise imagined. ( I like stuffed words sandwich )

It’s not all that bad once you get used to the changed rhythms of life. I mean, for one thing, I feel an increased solidarity with my typwriter, which had in the past been ignored for more adventurous pursuits and I have been saved from several of the irksome tasks that the household imposes on it’s living entities.

Oh Anit! He has had an injury, how can we ask him to fetch stuff and take old people to the doctor. Yes, you heard that right, taking old men to the doctor was the task that I had been charged with, the singularly most torturing job that I could have been given. 

I mean, my grandfather is alright, doesn’t grumble/complain and even gives me treats to inspire me for the next trip… but nothing can prepare you for the mind numbing horror of waiting lines, of having to see sick, dying, crying, vomiting people stand next to you and even though you can feel their pain, you can’t do anything, because obviously you’re not a doctor and euthanasia is fashionable only for the horses. 

My grandmother is another matter altogether.!Her hypochondriacism has been well documented over the past decades and it doesn’t help that the doctor told her the umpteenth time that it’s just gas that’s been troubling her and ‘not really’ a heart attack. I mean, you wait and wait and wait and the doctor basically tells you to fart off! Now, since this has happened for a record 8 times, and each time the heart turned out to be just as fine, I was disinclined to pay attention to her next time. I mean, its tough acting like a good guy. 

Anyways, now that my own life has been invalidated by a ‘twist’ of fate, me and my typewriter are going to enjoy the recklessness of freedom in my bed.