Because the requests for happier fare have been many, I offer the following Thanksgiving love...
Linoleum Flavoring
I'm pretty sure the ground shouldn't be under me.
Well, of course it should be but the proximity to my face is troubling. Too fuzzy, like looking through a dirty... whatsit.
Glass. That's it. Man, I'm thirsty.
I seem to be several notches past normal perpendicularity. Is that even a word? Maybe I should open my eyes and locate McGee. Heavy, these flaps of skin. The person-shaped blur is too far away to ask. No, he's right here. Wait, he's gone. Judging distance is hard from this angle. It's all too close and out of reach and I'm getting a little concerned. Someone must notice my predicament because there's a hand connecting to my shoulder, the one not playing Titanic-meets-iceberg with the linoleum. My lower lip is stuck there too, sampling the plastic.
Needs salt.
Goodbye floor. Mostly because that hand is pulling me over, letting rows of ceiling tiles replace the floor tiles. Not much better, as views go. The shove is awfully rough to inflict on the mortally injured.
I'd complain but I've misplaced my tongue.
She's here and looks like divinity. The wrathful kind.
Ziva groans when my indelicate slur labels her an angel. But she's got the wings and all. Sheer and billowy and I can't believe I used the word billowy. It's the headache's fault.
The next time I act like a drunk, I should actually drink.
Usually when my inebriated mind talks to myself, the dialogue involves eighties lyrics and half-formed arguments on such nonsense as the feelings of inanimate objects. But other than the slightest impulse to hum Sledgehammer, I sound sane enough in my own head. The paramedics appear to agree.
Nearby sounds grow clearer now, which is a shame. I don't need to know that the blood drying on my lip isn't born of heroic internal damage. Even in this state, they won't leave my delusions alone.
I bit my lip.
After passing out.
And smooching the floor.
Hercules never had this kind of day. But the medics are kind enough to slap the label transient orthostatic hypotension on my day. Dehydration, the underlying cause of my dive, just makes me thirstier still.
Fortunately my pretty nurse, the one who accompanies me home despite her protests over the inconvenience, comes baring frequent liquid refills. And I'm wondering how I can milk this situation into a goodnight kiss. Later she tucks me in and the kiss is, according to my recipient forehead, as platonic as humanly possible.
I'm sore, I'm tired and while the embarrassment remains considerable, I'm not remotely unhappy. Because she's curled up at my side like a babysitting sentry. All harsh ponytail and tiny snores.
It makes me forget that I can still taste linoleum.