Monday, 30 March 2009

So I was waiting in the hospital corridor. It was lined with chairs, one of which I sat upon. The corridor was really too narrow to have these chairs arranged in such a fashion. As evidenced when I had to stand out the way to allow a glum, stoic looking gentleman to be pushed past in a wheelchair. He didnae even thank me, the cunt! Glum, invalid bastard. Invalid.
I sat down again and returned my attention to the magazine I had found. Some esoteric journal about the psychological effects of Arctic solitude.
The walls of the hospital were painted the colour of cunt. It was a sunny day. Light beamed in through a window. But it was a stagnant light, full of suspended dust motes.
My heid felt stagnant as well. Which wasn't an unusual state of affairs. I had to stand again to admit passage to another wheelchair, this one carrying an old lady, benevolent and shriveled. She beamed me a wonderful smile and I nodded at her with solemn respect. She was being trundled along by a pretty lassie who also gave me a wee smile. I smiled briefly and looked away, unable to hold her gaze, lest I be crushed by the weight of it.

An uneventful half hour passed. Two minor events occurred but they were so moot as to be not really worth detailing. I sat and skimmed this journal, flicking the pages rapidly in agitation. Closing the journal, discarding it. Lifting and opening it again. Sighing. Yawning. Itching various parts of my body (including my asshole). My asshole was scratched in as surreptitious a fashion as I could muster under the circumstances ie. sitting in the corridor of a public building.
To pass the time for a while, I sat and allowed myself to be consumed by a reverie in which I frantically ravaged a sexy but demure nurse. My penis became semi-erect. I arranged it so that it was concealed beneath my neat-fitting jeans. Another surreptitious act. I sighed again. Conjuring this lust was kinda regrettable when I lacked an outlet for it. What I mean is
Christians are misanthropes. Just an idea that reoccurred to me. Quite a contentious statement by any means. I'm not even going to defend it or support it with evidence at this juncture. But anyway, I digress. As I was saying, I lacked a moist woman hole to place my dick in. I'd had access to one up until quite recently. But my connection with that woman had disintegrated under quite mysterious circumstances.

A maroon lipped lassie wearing a Sonic Youth t-shirt walked past. Strawberry blonde hair, a laconic, disaffected gaze. I observed her in a state of near alarm. Petrified, mesmerized. What kind of hospital was this? Achingly gorgeous Sonic Youth fans did not belong in such profane venues as this. It was unheard of, not to mention obscene. It was also debilitating. I was crippled by longing at this stage. Crushed by melancholy. No, I exaggerate.
I was merely tantalized by the prospect of bliss but I also felt thwarted. Proximity frustration etc.
The only appropriate thing to do was to stand up and scream. But I resisted this absurd impulse in order to maintain some semblance of
Everyone desires certainty. I'm no longer in the hospital. Everyone thrives on certainty.

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