Time: 2:57Am October 28th (started work at midnight:30, but arrived early at around 9pm to catch some sleep before my shift)
Batteries: ?? (I’m sick, so whatever my body is telling me is getting lost in translation right now)
Stomach Contents: about 1 pitcher of Alexander Keiths from about 8pm (explained later),
975mg acetaminophen from about 10pm,
1000 mg of acetaminophen from 2:30am,
20 mg of dextromethorphan hydrobromide from about 2:30,
5 mg of phenylephrine hydrochloride from about 2:30,
4 mg of chlorpheniramine maleate from about 2:30.
I am absolutely loaded right now.
October 26th, a bit before 10pm:
“Man,” I said to my co-worker [Kristy], “this cold is really beating the shit out of me. I can’t fucking stand it. Is it wrong of me to want to cough on everybody in this hospital so that I can spread the joy?”
“You’re pretty sick. In the non-clinical way,” she paused and corrected herself, “I mean, you’re a sick guy in the creepy motherfucker sorta way.”
“Well, I don’t need curing for that,” I coughed painfully into the crook of my elbow. Choking down your coughs into the your elbow is the new healtcare craze, in case you didn’t know. “What I need to get rid of is this cold. I can’t even eat anything, my throat is killing me and I just…” I thought about how to describe it, “I just don’t feel like it.”
“You should have some chicken soup.”
I thought about that, and sighed, somewhat dreamily: “Yeah, that’d be sweet, huh?”
I decide, despite everything, that I’m going to work an extra half an hour. It’s one of the rare evenings that I’m working as the FastTracker, which is something I haven’t done in perhaps a month. The FT position is arguably the easiest position to work, and it’s at the very least, my *favorite* position to work. An extra half hour is easy work, read: easy money. I’d be going to [Supergirl]’s after work anyway, and she’s currently writing one of her phsio papers. A half an hour of extra work isn’t going to kill me, and it’s half an hour more time for her to work on things more important than hanging out with me anyhow.
I take out my phone, and my thumbs key in the message: “Mind if I stick around work for a half an hour more? How’s the work comin along?”
she replies in an SMS: “Whatever works for you! I’ll be here. I made some chicken noodle soup for you, but I can’t really taste it >_> so I hope it’s good!”
Leave it to her to not only choose to share her bed and her lips days in a row with a man who is obviously sick, even after he gets her sick too, she makes him chicken noodle soup.
… to loosely quote something from a book I recently read, which I’m adapting to my own needs:
“God’s gift to this planet full of terrible people is [Supergirl].”
October 27th, around 8pm in MacLeans pub.
It’s only a bit over a couple of hours since I left her downtown apartment, and even that, on good terms. I was supposed to meet NitroNilla down the street within 5 minutes of leaving her apartment, but, goodbyes always get distracted and after much wrinkling of clothes and ruffling of hair, I managed to meet up with NitroNilla down the street. Only about 15 minutes late. She, for someone who has never been in a long-term relationship before, and I, someone who has never really been much the ‘physical’ sort of boyfriend, we just get caught up in these sorts of things all too easily, all too naturally. I should point out though that things like that are just bonuses– it’s really things like the chicken soup that make her so important to me.
Anyway, here at MacLeans: I’ve half decided that I want to get plastered. Which is a bad idea on pricinple, because I never drink to drown out feelings, and it’s a bad idea in practice moreso because I’m going to be working at the hospital in a bit over four hours. Thankfully that half decision means that I only get tipsy and not drunk.
“She sounds like a keeper,” said [SiB], who joined NitroNilla and I later. “Man, I wish I could help you.”
I will admit several things this night.
I admit, first of all, that I was tipsy.
I will admit that SiB is right, despite that he and I often disagree on the subject of women: [Supergirl] is a keeper, as far as I can tell.
I admitted to SiB, which I haven’t to anyone else yet: I’m in love with her. I keep using the word ‘natural’ or ‘easy’ because it’s just that. I can’t describe it any other way.
I admit that I wish SiB, or anyone for that matter, could help me. I don’t often or easily admit to needing help from anyone.
So why do I need help?
It’s october 27th, somewhere between 1AM and 3AM. It’s not quite pitch black outside, with the downtown Montreal lights still filtering casually through her curtains, casting a cool blue about her white walls that makes the place seem even colder. Every now and then we hear something– a truck bowling down the pothole riddled street, police sirens, shouts, whatever. I’ve gotten used to it almost. She and I are in bed. We’re both absorbing heat from eachother– we’re both a little sick, and the room is a bit chill, even under covers.
“I’m so glad to be graduating, finally,” she says.
“What are your plans afterwards?”
“… schooling,” she says hesitantly. “But not for another half year or so. But…”
“There’s a break between the semesters. I think I’ve earned it, don’t you?”
“I think so.”
“… I wanted to tell you. I’m looking at Australia.”
… silence. She doesn’t move for a long moment, and I’m intricatley aware of each breath passing between us. They seem so loud, and it seems so long. The city is quiet, as if waiting.
“For med school?” I ask.
Now, let me go back to paraphrasing that quote from earlier in this post, because it didn’t use all of it.
“God’s gift to this planet full of terrible people is [Supergirl.] And if He is someday really, truly angry at us, He will not send floods, or earthquakes, or bombs or angels–
–He will just take her back.”