Bruised Rib
Pain, sweet, agonizing pain lost in a drug induced stupor.
Life is quite strange. The world moves by so quickly right now and thought is fuzzy. Very fuzzy, like warm blankets and kittens. I see kittens. The kittens are coming to take over the world! Run for the hills! Find a dog to protect you because THEY ARE COMING!
Okay, not really. But you knew that--I'm--yeah--that's it--I'm.
Please to be writing thoughts as head entered have them no be to. I seriously can't do islander speak. It eludes me. Perhaps I just haven't read enough of it to figure out the nuances. Or perhaps the fascinating swirly patterns on my LCD have intrigued me to no end...
Someone out the is probably wondering what I'm on--it must be good to get this kind of reaction out of me. It's Vicodin. And since I don't do drugs of any sort (non-asprin pain reliever being the exception once or twice a month) I think I acquire the full effects of drugs when they are administered to me.
I also think I'm putting myself into this state to avoid the hints of nausea that creeep around the outside of my head. These nauseous thoughts want only one thing. But I will not give it to them. I shall fight! *cries out in a bad Scottish accent* "FREEDOM!"
Umm, weee!
Dancing bears and care bear stares from xkcd me me laugh with glee. I rhyme in time to bad vibes over pipes. But the chair I sit in is soft with cloth no berth in a ship at sea. I write and type in thoughts of the waves of nausea that threaten to engulf me. Perhaps in meter I write though I haven't thought of the cares I think nor the thoughts I write in circle and workels. Workels! What word is that you silly cat--not the kittens again! Flee, run away! Run away for the large wooden badger was made and it flies at me. Silly flying badger of wood my mind sees that you are a figment of Newton's own creation. And I write more yet and let a get and a pet a table to set at the vet. The dogs bet as they will at the poker playing till that rings when cash is in hand and change is made.
Silly till. You are short! And short tills are bad. I wonder if short tills have short man's syndrome and constantly fight to prove themselves to tall tills.
Loopy snoopy Peanuts butts cigarettes at vets and karoke I haven't been to. When can I sing to tunes on a box with a fox Sam I Am?
I think I'll stop now the nausea isn't going away and my stomach turns and churns and yearns for non-asprin pain reliever to work instead of vicodin.
On an up note, hopefully the girl I'm meeting tonight for coffee (really hot chocolate--I'm a silly one--I know) will think me charming, endearing, and silly rather than a creepy druggy.
Oh yes...the original story--doctors can't do much for bruised ribs except give one drugs to relieve the pain.
Life is quite strange. The world moves by so quickly right now and thought is fuzzy. Very fuzzy, like warm blankets and kittens. I see kittens. The kittens are coming to take over the world! Run for the hills! Find a dog to protect you because THEY ARE COMING!
Okay, not really. But you knew that--I'm--yeah--that's it--I'm.
Please to be writing thoughts as head entered have them no be to. I seriously can't do islander speak. It eludes me. Perhaps I just haven't read enough of it to figure out the nuances. Or perhaps the fascinating swirly patterns on my LCD have intrigued me to no end...
Someone out the is probably wondering what I'm on--it must be good to get this kind of reaction out of me. It's Vicodin. And since I don't do drugs of any sort (non-asprin pain reliever being the exception once or twice a month) I think I acquire the full effects of drugs when they are administered to me.
I also think I'm putting myself into this state to avoid the hints of nausea that creeep around the outside of my head. These nauseous thoughts want only one thing. But I will not give it to them. I shall fight! *cries out in a bad Scottish accent* "FREEDOM!"
Umm, weee!
Dancing bears and care bear stares from xkcd me me laugh with glee. I rhyme in time to bad vibes over pipes. But the chair I sit in is soft with cloth no berth in a ship at sea. I write and type in thoughts of the waves of nausea that threaten to engulf me. Perhaps in meter I write though I haven't thought of the cares I think nor the thoughts I write in circle and workels. Workels! What word is that you silly cat--not the kittens again! Flee, run away! Run away for the large wooden badger was made and it flies at me. Silly flying badger of wood my mind sees that you are a figment of Newton's own creation. And I write more yet and let a get and a pet a table to set at the vet. The dogs bet as they will at the poker playing till that rings when cash is in hand and change is made.
Silly till. You are short! And short tills are bad. I wonder if short tills have short man's syndrome and constantly fight to prove themselves to tall tills.
Loopy snoopy Peanuts butts cigarettes at vets and karoke I haven't been to. When can I sing to tunes on a box with a fox Sam I Am?
I think I'll stop now the nausea isn't going away and my stomach turns and churns and yearns for non-asprin pain reliever to work instead of vicodin.
On an up note, hopefully the girl I'm meeting tonight for coffee (really hot chocolate--I'm a silly one--I know) will think me charming, endearing, and silly rather than a creepy druggy.
Oh yes...the original story--doctors can't do much for bruised ribs except give one drugs to relieve the pain.