After i broke my knuckle, i sat around for half of an hour, then ate a burger, then played the (fabulous!!) Rick and Morty videogame with Seamus, but at his wise insistence, i decided i was prooobably busted enough to go to the ER. (He’s marvelous. If it wasn’t for him i probably would already have died in some super-Darwin-Awards way.)
When we got there, they put this tracking device on me. I figured it’s because they knew my time was coming to an end, which meant i was an endangered species and they needed to record my migration patterns and mating habits.
However, Seamus explained it was just so we’d know when our table was ready.
Hilariously, the 1 – 10 pain scale means NOTHING to me. I do things that reach a 6 or 7 just for fun, and this was only a 3, but all broken bones are way more serious than playing couch MMA with a friend. They declined to use the triple-axis pain graph that i offered as a replacement for their wimpy 2-D chart.
They put me in scenic Room #11, which boasts a vista of overflowing trash cans and the melodic shrieks of hyperventilating children. This was the only time that day that i really regretted my injury. (That, and the few seconds of soul-hollowing sorrow that followed the realization that i’d have to stop climbing for a few weeks.)
That bed actually was pretty comfy. If i thought i could have wheeled it out of there without getting caught, i would have loaded it onto our car.
They asked me to flip off the machine, which was awesome, but the print-out they gave me was the G-rated one you see below. ):<
