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This is just a little excerpt, why it is what it is? Well, you see, I was for a while using a LOT of fucking pain meds my doctors gave me, and when I was in the hospital, shit was WEIRD, so this is a chapter more about that for, no real reason, but yah, it does have a plot related purpose.
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I love correcting things I am not supposed to. Read my additions in a nerdy annoying voice. Have fun. No offence.
I was in the clinic room again [damn you clinic rooms! Why you keep bringing me into you?!?], this time I didn’t flip shit [last time - dude, full chimpanzee shit flippin']. My head was wrapped up with bandages, I hit the MG hard from the stop and lost consciousness soon after; thankfully the doctors told me I should be fine in a week [that's a medical contradiction, but I'll leave this]. That’s not going to work. I couldn’t stay here while the battle waged outside, I was there at the start, and I was going to finish it, might have been the painkillers talking, but they were talking LOUD, drowning out my doubt [while sitting on this cloud, being really proud yo].
The doctor walked in, a tall man of asian descent [of course.. together with his Mexican gardner], his scrubs were bloody, and he had some dried blood on his face [he's eating the patients! RUN!], didn’t look like he came from anything good just now. In my groggy [this is the second time in my life I hear someone using this word. just noting] state, I didn’t notice the chart he was filling out, or the shotgun strapped on his back [in scrubs... with shotgun.. neat]. “How are you doing sir?” He asked in a hoarse voice, “You were in awful shape when you came in, minor concussion, bleeding pretty bad, and stress on the skull, no fracture though, so thank God for that.” [No, no.. he should be like - Ching chong..desu sepukku kawashimaaa? *peace sign*]
My movements were slow, not deliberate like they would be otherwise, but, almost weightless in the way I seemed to lose fine motor skills, but the stupid part of my brain was in full swing [let's get drunk and bang hookers, it said]. I reached out for the doctor, and attempted to grab him, maybe throw him down, something, I don’t know WHAT I was even trying to do really, I was out of it. [Fucking doctors, telling me I have cancer! Take that!]
The doctor easily sidestepped my arm [it's called "strafe" nowdays], hitting it lightly with his clipboard, “If you keep this up agent, I will have no choice but to sedate you. Now, cut the shit, and hold still. [ew.. ]” He lightly, yet strongly grasped my head, turning it lightly and with extreme care [That is one bipolar doctor, I say]. Mostly, he was quiet except for a few “hmmmms” here and there [he was also half man-half bee]. I looked on his side, and saw something I was hoping was a knife [it was his medical ukulele actually], I reached for it, but my arm was so slow and lazy in its movements, but still, I reached.
I managed to grab onto the doctor’s coat, and my hand was swatted away by him [second time now.. what an asshole. Swatting people n' shit]. “Stop now sir.” He said in a mildly annoyed tone. He put the chart back where he got it from [didn't he already walk in with a chart? Contradiction your Honor! click - present evidence], I don’t know where it was, I didn’t give a fuck [.. ok.. you never assigned any significance to it before, why bring it up now].
“Now, it’s going to take you a week before I would recommend going out into the field. However, you seem eager to leave here. I’ll tell ya what, [I sell propane and propane accessories]” He said getting down low to me [wow, wow.. hold your horses], “I think, if you take it easy, and DON’T make me rearrange your face [Rearrange it into Leonardo diCaprio's face, doc], you should be good to go in 5 days, but no sooner than that.” [what about 4.75 days? can we keep bargaining doc?]
He walked over to my IV and looked at it for a moment [I hope "IV" isn't "penis".. also I hope it isn't in a jar on the next table], before injecting some clear liquid into it [fuck I knew it!! ]. “Hey, man, wassat?” I was able to say before I just stopped, I felt nice, and started floating away to somewhere [hospital is flooded !! SWIM!].
Cut to the next day, and I just started gaining consciousness. Turns out the doctors had learned after my escape from the clinic before, and as a deterrent, I was kept under heavy sedation and guard [just in case he starts escaping sedated]. Makes sense, I was planning something; but in that state, I couldn’t remember shit [got lots of 5 minute plans out of that though... ]. But, the next morning was interesting. It all started when Conor walked in [And then Arnold Schwarzenegger walked in], and I think that it was that morning that led to my life going as it has been ever since, the words of a single man can change much.
I was in the clinic room again [damn you clinic rooms! Why you keep bringing me into you?!?], this time I didn’t flip shit [last time - dude, full chimpanzee shit flippin']. My head was wrapped up with bandages, I hit the MG hard from the stop and lost consciousness soon after; thankfully the doctors told me I should be fine in a week [that's a medical contradiction, but I'll leave this]. That’s not going to work. I couldn’t stay here while the battle waged outside, I was there at the start, and I was going to finish it, might have been the painkillers talking, but they were talking LOUD, drowning out my doubt [while sitting on this cloud, being really proud yo].
The doctor walked in, a tall man of asian descent [of course.. together with his Mexican gardner], his scrubs were bloody, and he had some dried blood on his face [he's eating the patients! RUN!], didn’t look like he came from anything good just now. In my groggy [this is the second time in my life I hear someone using this word. just noting] state, I didn’t notice the chart he was filling out, or the shotgun strapped on his back [in scrubs... with shotgun.. neat]. “How are you doing sir?” He asked in a hoarse voice, “You were in awful shape when you came in, minor concussion, bleeding pretty bad, and stress on the skull, no fracture though, so thank God for that.” [No, no.. he should be like - Ching chong..desu sepukku kawashimaaa? *peace sign*]
My movements were slow, not deliberate like they would be otherwise, but, almost weightless in the way I seemed to lose fine motor skills, but the stupid part of my brain was in full swing [let's get drunk and bang hookers, it said]. I reached out for the doctor, and attempted to grab him, maybe throw him down, something, I don’t know WHAT I was even trying to do really, I was out of it. [Fucking doctors, telling me I have cancer! Take that!]
The doctor easily sidestepped my arm [it's called "strafe" nowdays], hitting it lightly with his clipboard, “If you keep this up agent, I will have no choice but to sedate you. Now, cut the shit, and hold still. [ew.. ]” He lightly, yet strongly grasped my head, turning it lightly and with extreme care [That is one bipolar doctor, I say]. Mostly, he was quiet except for a few “hmmmms” here and there [he was also half man-half bee]. I looked on his side, and saw something I was hoping was a knife [it was his medical ukulele actually], I reached for it, but my arm was so slow and lazy in its movements, but still, I reached.
I managed to grab onto the doctor’s coat, and my hand was swatted away by him [second time now.. what an asshole. Swatting people n' shit]. “Stop now sir.” He said in a mildly annoyed tone. He put the chart back where he got it from [didn't he already walk in with a chart? Contradiction your Honor! click - present evidence], I don’t know where it was, I didn’t give a fuck [.. ok.. you never assigned any significance to it before, why bring it up now].
“Now, it’s going to take you a week before I would recommend going out into the field. However, you seem eager to leave here. I’ll tell ya what, [I sell propane and propane accessories]” He said getting down low to me [wow, wow.. hold your horses], “I think, if you take it easy, and DON’T make me rearrange your face [Rearrange it into Leonardo diCaprio's face, doc], you should be good to go in 5 days, but no sooner than that.” [what about 4.75 days? can we keep bargaining doc?]
He walked over to my IV and looked at it for a moment [I hope "IV" isn't "penis".. also I hope it isn't in a jar on the next table], before injecting some clear liquid into it [fuck I knew it!! ]. “Hey, man, wassat?” I was able to say before I just stopped, I felt nice, and started floating away to somewhere [hospital is flooded !! SWIM!].
Cut to the next day, and I just started gaining consciousness. Turns out the doctors had learned after my escape from the clinic before, and as a deterrent, I was kept under heavy sedation and guard [just in case he starts escaping sedated]. Makes sense, I was planning something; but in that state, I couldn’t remember shit [got lots of 5 minute plans out of that though... ]. But, the next morning was interesting. It all started when Conor walked in [And then Arnold Schwarzenegger walked in], and I think that it was that morning that led to my life going as it has been ever since, the words of a single man can change much.
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