The people at Mayo Clinic decided that if I was well enough to mention Geneva convention laws, I was well enough to have a computer and what amounts to a vacuum sealed room. They’re leaving me trays of food, but nothing smells appetizing - and relax, no one smells appetizing. My stomach was pumped…more humiliation for the day… and while my blood is holding steadily at midpoint, my cravings for organ meat are subsiding. But seriously, why had no one tried biting a zombie back besides me? If you’re really infected, you’re screwed anyway, and at least you have the satisfaction of the confused expression that only a cadaver can have.
Joel remembers everything now, and he’s really, really pissed, but he says he’s going to forgive me, he just needs a proper night’s sleep and more perspective.
Dr. Z is going around waving his hand in front of nurses and the extremely tired, trying to get someone to talk on my behalf. At this point, I’m half-expecting him to take over someone while sleeping. Possession: nine tenths of metaphysical law.
I’m on quarantine, either until I die of starvation or until they actually diagnose whatever this cha cha my blood is doing. This leaves me with nothing to do but meditate, let people stick needles in me, pretend I’m Hannibal Lecter (my Halloween costume is all picked out) and look at a LOT of porn.
It’s gonna be a long year.
