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).