Monday, 11 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Eleven

They tell me the same crap just like yesterday.

And they call me impatient.

Am I the impatient, rubbing my feet in front of other patients, just because I do not want to come into my husband's mouth and fake an orgasm?

I want to write everything what I think about the orange blankets, the whole orange and white hospital, secretly dancing Lars and Dalton shoving his tongue down Yumi’s throat.

But then I realize that I might be left without supper.

And I really do want pancakes.

With hospital-made banana syrup.

Surely made with patients' pancreases.

At least they don’t get somebody else’s tongue shoved down their throat, they are mute like me, they don’t play guitar, they don’t dance, they don’t flirt and they get patiently eaten with syrup, they are syrup, they are the dead, cheers Orwell.

Day Twelve

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