Thanksgiving Torture

So much for my plans not to eat the horrible Thanksgiving food my mother (the worst mother in the world) cooks. She arranged with the hospital staff to substitute their mediocre food with her vomit inducing feast. The turkey was so dry, parts of it were hard enough to stab the inside of my mouth and it was impossible to swallow. She offered me some moist, disgusting canned jellied cranberry to counteract it and some homemade egg nog that made me violently ill. The mashed potatoes had no butter and what I guesstimate to be about a quarter cup of pepper (she knows how I hate pepper).

Meanwhile, she delievered my screaming roommate a Thanksgiving meal made by a chef. This was to make me look like an ingrate so my roommate would hate me, wondering how I could possibly complain about such a delicious meal. Hers smelled so edible! I don't even want to talk about the difference between the pies we were given. It's too painful for me. I would give my right leg for a decent piece of pie if it weren't gone already.

Next time some horrible thing happens to me like being thrown on the train tracks, I hope it will be far, far away where my wicked mother (the worst mother in the world) can't feed me, laugh at me when I'm swelling like Will Smith in Hitch, and taking pictures of me while I'm constipated on the toilet.

I want my fake legs before Christmas so I can run away to a better place. Like the city dump. Or a mortuary. Or a Rosie O'Donnell variety show. Even her singing is better than that hardened turkey jerky that made the roof of my mouth bleed.

My doctor is coming to talk to me in about 30 minutes to discuss my progress. My offspring are wringing their hands eagerly in anticipation of me possibly coming home. I'm a little nervous about them having had unsupervised reign of the house (like their grandma would ever actually watch them).

Still Here

Thank goodness for small blessings. I have managed to successfully fake two major illnesses and am still in the hospital. I won't have to worry about my mother (the worst mother in the world) force feeding me candied yams tomorrow or that disgusting canned cranberry with the lines in it. I swear some people feel like it's not Thanksgiving when they don't have a canned shape gelatinous cranberry blob on the table.




I faked a huge melanoma with a Sharpie (had to draw it somewhere they hadn't seen yet) and a cardiac arrest. I grabbed my chest, screamed like my roommate, and pretended to go unconscious. If I could just stay here through Christmas and New Year's, it would be bliss!



My third problem I didn't have to fake. The doctor gave me Penicillin (totally allergic to it) and lots of it. Within minutes I looked like this:

The difference was, I didn't look as male, African American, or stinking rich. Also, I have two fewer legs than Will Smith. He looks like he's saying, "OH MY GOSH I'M GONNA THROW-UP! LOOK HOW UGLY I AM! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!! HIDE ME BEFORE JADA SERVES ME WITH DIVORCE PAPERS!!!!"

My mother (the worst mother in the world) took my picture in my swollen state and is using it for her Christmas card. I'm sure her newsletter will be the usual - a libelous biography of my life this year. She'll come out smelling like a rose as usual.

I'm off to plan my next crisis that will keep me here and away from that torture chamber I call my home.

My Lone Reader

I'm still in the hospital. I spent about an hour drumming my fingers until it got boring (when my roommate wasn't screaming, that is).

I figured I'd take the time to say hi to all one of my readers.

Hi.

My reader seems to want me to diagnose her because she calls herself Diagnose Rachel. First, a disclaimer. I am not a doctor. Now for some exciting guesses.

Having not even heard the symptoms, my educated guess is that she has meniere's disease, salmonella, and a nasty case of bacterial vaginosis. Now take two of these and call me in the morning.

That's Prozac. It works for pretty much everything, except for Worst Mother in the World Syndrome (my mother).

My roommate has overactive bladder and now that she's done hogging the bathroom, I'm going to call my nurse in hopes that someone will drag my legless body to the toilet. I should be getting some new legs soon, but I'm going to fake as many ailments as I can so I won't have to go home anytime soon. As much as I hate my roommate, she hasn't tried to kill me even once.

My Coma: The Best Vacation I've Had in Years

I woke up in the hospital a while ago. I'm a little fuzzy on the details ..... something about my mother (the worst mother in the world), offspring, and a freight train. Why does my coma have to be over?

I have a roommate. I hate her already because she thinks my mother (the worst mother in the world) is the greatest (she knows how to act normal when she wants to). She screams at the top of her lungs every time her IV machine makes a noise because apparently she thinks it's going to kill her. She had a hysterectomy. I want one of those for Christmas followed by a drug induced coma.

My nurse thinks I'm grumpy and keeps telling me THE dumbest knock knock jokes. She's really cheerful. I hate cheerful. Her name is Tanya. Tanya says, "Laughter is the best medicine!"

I'll show you the best medicine.

What the ..... ? Where are my legs? WHERE DID MY MANGLED LEGS GO?!?! Oh, Tanya, throw me a bone! You gotta warn people about these things! Like ... uhhhhh ... hi Mrs. Butts (Yes, that's my last name - shut-up!), you've been in an accident and your legs are gone. Offspring #9 thinks this is the best practical joke ever. He's giggling and high fiving his brother.

My mother (the worst mother in the world) says, "Look on the bright side. You lost about 100 pounds. How much do your arms weigh?"

Oh. My. Gosh. Can you get an insurance policy on arms? It's bad enough that my hand is still severely burned. Offspring #8 told me to hold out my hand and close my eyes because he wanted to give me a big surprise. He then shut my hand in the waffle iron and everyone cheered as they listened to the sound of my sizzling flesh. I cried and prayed for death.

I have to go. Tanya is trying to serve me a tray of garbage they have the nerve to call food.

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade

Just when I thought my mother (the worst mother in the world) couldn't be more evil, she proves me wrong. After a week long battle with diarrhea, she was being "helpful" and picked up a stool sample kit from the doctor and delivered it for me. The whole process is really gross. You have this mini shovel you have to use to collect various parts of your poo of differing consistency, color, etc. and put it in a few different solutions. I don't ever care to get this acquainted with my own waste, but it was medically necessary. Normally it's flush and "Let's pretend we never met. You're seriously gross."

So I'm waiting and waiting and waiting for the results and nothing. Mother said the doctor would give me the results in 5 days. I finally call the doctor's office and his response?

"What stool sample? I didn't get a stool sample. But yes, we could use a stool sample."

I had to do it again! So I did and I had to deliver it in my wheelchair because my mother (the worst mother in the world) wouldn't give me a ride! She had to drive to the opposite side of town for her weekly "Mothers Who Hate Their Children Club". She started the club and so far she's the only member. The meeting is in a bar.

Halfway to my appointment, the battery in my wheelchair died and I was stuck. I couldn't wheel myself manually because my hands are severely burned (that's a whole other story). It was drained from the last time my offspring played "Let's pretend Mom is a speedbump". Even more delightful, I was stuck in front of some pervert's house who told me in a very impolite way that he had always want to mate with a cripple.

Just then, this girl I know Kimberly drives past me, hitting an enormous puddle, drenching me all over. She stops to apologize. I tell her I need a ride. I share my ordeal with her and she has this silly grin on her face the whole time. Then she says, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade!" Sayings like this and "When life gives your rotten bananas, make banana bread" really tick me off because you know what Kimberly? Sometimes life gives you crap and there aren't any recipes that call for that. But if there are, my mother (the worst mother in the world) would surely feed it to me.

Kimberly didn't give me a ride either. She was late for Jazzercise. The pervert was more than happy to oblige. He said my black and blue legs matched my eyes. I can't believe I got there alive. I stayed at the doctor's office for a long time and paid some kid 50 bucks to tell him I was dead.

The whole day pretty much sucked.