The knife-thrower's lachrymose assistant
next time a neurologist decides to get curious about my weird symptoms, i will slap him right square in the face. right there. square. i am tired of tests. i'll take them in the future, when i already have a stack of degrees and some money to make myself look worthwhile. i got a car, i got my own studio apartment, i pay my own bills--that there is when i will be ready to take all the time and energy out to satisfy some asshole's curiosity.
i have plaster on my head. they stuck plaster on my head in order to attach wiry extensions with tiny suction pads to my leg (for in truth, the other leg is unnecessary during such a test), stomach, chest, neck, face and scalp. at this particular moment i feel like a greasy ceramic monkey. a ceramic capuchin monkey, maybe. or maybe not. maybe i feel like a gibbon. or maybe a lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
the bed was composed of memory foam stacks. very expensive. the pillows were cheap.
just how i like them.
a video camera was trained on my body. i was under sheets. i was staring at the camera. i wanted to wave. i did. my wave hand had a pulse sensor at the end of my middle finger. yes, i felt like a ceramic monkey, but i also felt like frankenstein. frahnk-ehn-schteen. i fidget a tad violently when i sleep. this is why i will never sleep with anyone. i'd likely kick his poor ass off the bed. or perhaps i would knee him in the dick. that would not be fun, would it? i would imagine not.
she woke me up at 5:00 am. gave me some coffee and a questionnaire--one question asked "did you sleep well with CRAP?" i squinted my eyes and it turned into "did you sleep well with CPAP?"
i didn't sleep with CRAP or CPAP, so i left it blank.
i fell back asleep once i got home. i am up now, aren't i? i feel like i wasted the entire day. it's funny how one's perception of time is limited to experience, emotional/mental state, physical health and sleep patterns.
Candice Rice
rachel kendall