Someone Shoot MeThis has been a very bad week.
Last Wednesday, the phones in our house died. I had no idea why. If I picked up the receiver, there was dead air.
But I still had DSL.
No, I don't know how that is exactly possible.
Since I did not know, I decided to call the people who should know: the phone company.
They couldn't show up until Friday.
Who needs phones?
The guy shows up between the convenient hours of 8 am and 6 pm. Apparently, I must have had nothing better to do that day.
The ENTIRE day.
He finally shows up and uses his years of training and experience to figure out
PhoneGuy>> I have no idea what's going on.
At this point, I was standing in my house with a stranger who cannot fix the exact problem he is there to fix.
We managed to ascertain that an extremely long awkward silence would not fix the problem.
I left him to fixing our phones and went to my computer. At the very least, I could spend the rest of the day crafting in FFXI.
And then my video card exploded.
Okay... Exploded might be a little bit strong of a word.
There are parts of my video card on the outside that should be on the inside.
This is bad.
I considered asking the guy who doesn't know how to fix phones if he also doesn't know how to fix computers.
So, I'm down a phone and a video card.
I end up having to swap in an old card just to use the computer.
A 64MB card.
I feel so unclean.
Funny story, did you know they charge money for new video cards?
That should be against the law.
So, I'm already having a bad week.
Could only get better, right?
Then a water pipe burst.
Communication breakdown... Fire... Flood...
I think I'm a few locusts away from armageddon.
I called a plumber on my cell. He said he would be there as soon as possible.
I immediately commenced holding my breath.
He suggested I wrap the pipe with some tape until he could get there.
I'm getting the duct tape ready and go to cut it with a box cutter.
You probably already know where this is going.
Three minutes later, the pipe is still leaking and now so am I.
Apparently, scissors beat paper, paper beats rock, and box cutter beats finger.
So now, I'm bleeding.
Susan was at work, so I had to drive myself to the hospital while bleeding.
This is actually harder than it sounds.
I somehow managed to make it to the hospital and rush directly to emergency.
As blood was actually emerging from my body, this seemed like a proper course of action.
You'd think a great deal of blood leaking from an open wound would be considered an emergency.
You'd be wrong.
Apparently, if you have not been shot in the face, you have to wait.
Don't worry, nurse. I'm sure this paper towel will do the trick.
Where's a White Mage when you need one?
Eventually, the nurse calls my name and I get to go into a little room and wait some more.
Then she came back and asked me what I cut myself with.
For future reference, don't say box cutter when asked that question.
"Box cutter" apparently translates into "give me extra needles".
Instead, tell them that you cut yourself with a sterile kitten or something.
The doctor who is, I assume, in the moments between shot gun wounds, looks at my finger and tells me that I am bleeding.
That's not a joke.
He said that.
I suggested that perhaps we should do something about that.
His suggestion was needles and stitches.
My suggestion was that he get the hell away from me.
I finally consent to the anesthetic and he stabs my finger with a sharp object.
I find this terribly ironic because I was there due to stabbing my finger with a sharp object.
Presumably, the burn ward is stocked with blow torches and lighter fluid.
So, the doctor is applying anesthetic.
I was not aware that anesthetic was applied by raking a needle over bone.
This is a very pleasant experience.
This is when the nurse starts telling me about how much worse it hurt when she had children.
I told her to take her uterus and get the hell out.
Why do people feel the need to do that?
I'm in obvious pain. I don't want to hear about the time you were in worse pain.
When you do that I wish you were IN worse pain.
Eventually, the doctor finishes stitching me up and leaves me to the nurse.
Nurse Cervix hands me extra bandages and shows me how to change my dressing.
Am I certified for this?
Did I get a Med School degree I don't remember?
I need to drink less.
They send me out with a sewn up finger and bandages I should have probably actually paid attention to when they were explaining how to use them.
Eh, it'll be on Wikipedia.
Man, this has been a great week.
At this rate, I'll have the Bubonic Plague by Saturday.
Dammit. I had Limbus.