Driven by boredom, cramps and general loathing for the universe, I have joined Twitter. This will make stalking me far more efficient in that I'll be a happy tweeting partner in my own stalkerisation. Sort of like the way a few years ago I was offering free ladders to anyone who would be interested in looking in my bedroom window, except, you know, textual and I bet it will be just as popular, which is to say, not at all. Whatever. Here I am, anyway. I know your heart is just going pitter pat in anticipation of my next witty, pithy outpouring. Or not.
I've been thinking that driving around the St. Joseph's Hospital visitor parking lot every morning for twenty minutes or more in the hopeless quest for an empty space is so much fun that I should probably keep on doing it even after my mother gets out. Just to keep that aforementioned loathing all fresh, bright and beautiful and also to see heartwarming sights like I saw this morning: a young woman in a hospital gown, dragging her IV pole along behind her, hunkered down in a far corner of the garage desperately puffing on a cigarette. I feel for her and also now I've kind of figured out why there was that guy in a hospital gown with his own IV pole going down in the elevator the other day. I thought at the time that he was just making a break for it, which makes total sense. The hospital is a scary place and I am absolutely convinced that there is an entire tribe of people who just live there. The other day I saw this one guy, who I swear lives there, since he's always there and never speaks, just wanders around, dressed in full scrubs. If he's performing surgery we're in real trouble; I am sure that he just lives at the hospital and doesn't work there. Cue the Twilight Zone theme here. Or possibly call me paranoid, but remember, just because they're all out to get me doesn't mean - yeah, exactly.
I have found a place to park, though, that's even better than my old highly illegal spot and I don't even think it's illegal: it's just about a mile or so away from my mother's room, which leads me to believe that the hospital is doing this on purpose to make me exercise. They apparently tried to get my mother to exercise last night. She went about 10 feet and refused to move any further. The nurse tried to pull her along with the ubiquitous IV pole.
"I'm going back to bed." said my mother.
"Oh no, you're not," said the nurse.
"Oh yes, I am," said Mom, and proceeded to do just that. The nurse called in her supervisor. "What's the problem here?" asked the supervisor.
"She won't walk any further!" said the nurse, pointing at Mom.
"How far did you go?" asked the supervisor.
"While she was calling you," said Mom, "I went down to the lobby, out to Biltmore Avenue, hailed a cab, went home, had a cup of coffee and I'm back now. What more do you want?"
"What happened then?" I asked, intrigued despite the fact that I was mentally preparing a small speech entitled Mom, You Need to Walk Around to Get Better for Chrissakes.
"She was too busy having hysterics," said my mother with pleasure, "to get mad at me."