Oh, man, check it out, you guys. I found the beginning of my NaNo story from 2005. That year, I wrote for two days. I am doing way better this year. At least as far as wordcount. I can't speak to the quality but WHATEVER. NaNo will soon be my bitch. And so will Harry Potter (the books, not the person). I just can't help thinking how nice it'll be next week when I've won the bet and have all this extra time to write while Joe is making me dinner. Hee.
Anyway, here's my 2005 story, all...like, one chapter of it. This totally counts as blogging today because you guys have never read it before. I WIN. WARNING: the following is pretty bad but what else are you going to do? Work? I don't think so.
The worst part about my car accident, and I do mean this, was the unfortunate fact that I was listening to The Backstreet Boys when it happened. I have a hazy memory of paramedics lifting me out of the driver’s seat while “I Want it That Way,” blasted from the car stereo. The part of the memory that I’m hoping did not happen was me singing along. Unfortunately, since the paramedics kept referring to me as “Backstreet Girl,” I have a feeling I did not make that up. Par for the course.
Most people don’t think that’s the worst thing that happened to me. When I told my brother that, Mike surreptitiously glanced at the wheelchair I’d been tethered to since the accident.
“I know,” I said. “I can’t move my legs, blah, blah, but come on. THE BACKSTREET BOYS.”
He sighed and shook his head. “You’re right, that is pretty bad.”
“I mean, N’Sync would have been a little bit less embarrassing. At least Justin Timberlake turned out not to be just some no-talent, bloated, singing douchebag --,” I started.
“Nice,” Mike interrupted.
“But Nick Carter? Howie D? That’s just sad. And why do I know their names?”
“That is an intriguing question.”
“Yep, pretty much,” Mike said. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but closed it. He did this a few more times before he noticed I’d seen him.
“Hey, FishBoy, what’s up?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you. Mom told me it would embarrass you,” he said.
“Is it more embarrassing than The Backstreet Boys?” I asked.
“Alex. I am telling you. You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, just tell me! I can handle it,” I said, and straightened the blanket over my legs.
“Well,” he looked down. “Apparently you confessed your love to one of the paramedics.”
“Oh shut up! I did not,” I could feel my face redden.
“You so did. He was quite smitten, I think. He came to visit you when you were . . . out.”
“Oh, damn. That’s hot,” I said.
“Ok, Paris. So are you embarrassed?”
“I’m so not,” I contended, trying to will my face to return to a normal color.
“You’re face is pretty red and --”
“Shut it, I’m not.”
“Ok, Ok. Listen,” he said. “I’ve gotta go to work but I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Sure, no problem,” I said. “Have they said when I can leave yet?”
“Alex . . .”
“I’m just so sick of this place,” I said, blinking away tears. “Ha, get it? Sick of it?”
“Hilarious,” Mike said and grasped my hand. “They want to keep you here for physical therapy, at least at first. They think it will help.”
“Right, I know,” I said and wiped my eyes. “Go! Go to work or you’ll be late and get fired and end up unemployed like me.”
“Oh, shut up,” he laughed. “See you later. Love you.”
“Love you, too, sissy.”
His laughter followed him out of my room and then I was left in silence. Well, kind of. The hospital is freaking loud. I mean, when you think about the last time you visited someone in the hospital, you were probably only there for a couple of hours, at most. It wasn’t that loud, was it? But when you live here, loudness takes a different form. It’s relative. Sure, there aren’t fire alarms and air horns going off in the hallway, but when a place is that quiet even the softest noise is jarring. The beeping of the machines, the rattle of the food carts, nurses laughing, it all gets very annoying eventually.
Luckily, I don’t hear many people crying. I’m not on that floor, not anymore, and when I was I wasn’t aware of much of anything so the most sadness I’ve had to deal with are the looks of pain and guilt in my mother’s eyes. Which makes me feel guilty. Which makes me sad, which makes her sad and it’s all just a vicious, annoying cycle of sadness.
At least I’ve gotten to catch up on my reading. You know that list of the 100 books you’re supposed to read before you die? I’m on number 57. Also, I haven’t had to shave my legs in like, forever. It’s kind of disgusting, sure, but if anyone stares or says anything it makes them the bad guy because I’ve got bigger problems. Ha. Jerks.
This hospital does have a pretty sweet entertainment hookup. What I mean is, they have a TV and they let my brother bring in a DVD player to hook to it. I can quote the entire first season of Arrested Development, which I’m sure is a talent I can add to my resume.
My favorite pastime here, though, has to be sleeping. If you do it during the day you can say you’re napping. But, you can also go to bed at 7:30 and not get up until noon the next day. Then you can take a nap after lunch. Really, if you think about it, you can spend the entire day sleeping and no one would really know. Or care, because, hey, you’re in a hospital, what else are you supposed to do. Maybe I can get a candy striper uniform so I’ll have something to do.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s naptime.