Wake up, you piece of shit. I know somewhere in there you are laughing at me, aren't you? You know right now I could be at home, watching tv or something. Whatever the hell people do on weekends. But instead I'm here, wasting my life away waiting on your lazy-ass to get up.
It's Friday today. Will you fucking wake up if I sing Rebecca Black to you? Maybe you'll feel the same hell I'm feeling. Take that as my revenge on you for being dumb enough to get hurt. Maybe a little bit of revenge for all the times you thought it'd be real fucking cute to sing songs at me whenever you pleased, selfish cunt. Don't play innocent- I remember. It was always some song on that one station on the radio, sunny something. Some numbers.
You would always dance all crazy while you sang and make gestures at me along with the music until I laughed to get you to stop. It's not like you ever really made me smile with that ridiculous clown act.
You know, I don't even know what time it is.
I just know that it's morning again, and that I managed to stay here despite what the nurse said, because that bitch can't tell me what to do. If there is anything good about being small, it's that I can hide easier. No one noticed that I was still here. Are you proud of me? I'm thinking positive, like you always tell me to.
Aunt Maggie stopped by, along with your mom. They were sniffling of course, but what's the point? Crying won't make you wake up, unless you're some sort of princess in a fucked up fairy-tale version of Sleeping Beauty, only you need tears to wake you up instead of a kiss from some magical prince.
Fuck me. I'm getting jealous of a made up prince. I hate you, Andy.
Maggie brought soup, but it makes no sense. You're not awake, so how can you eat this?
She's felt the baby kicking. She tells me that it's a boy. Like I care. Like I really fucking care.
Ok, so I had asked what gender it was, but it was only for your sake. I know you'd want to know. So I'm telling you now.
She hasn't picked a name yet, but she and Johnny are working on it. They've come up with some ideas. Johnny apparently thought Bernard was a good name, but I'd say it's pretty dumb. Can you imagine, having a stupid sounding name like that? Going to school and having to tell all your friends your name's Bernard.
Don't look at me like that. It is a shitty name.
Do you mind if I eat your soup? I'm fucking hungry, and it's not like you'll be eating it anytime soon. It looks like it's some sort of potato chunk stuff. You don't like it that much do you? I remember whenever you made soup, it was always more of a chicken noodle kind. Which is typical- of course you would like that kind, you goddamn perfect poster boy.
What had you said about it? That it made you feel warm inside or some shit like that. The first time you made some for us, you almost burned it because you were trying to explain it to me because I'd never had it before. You thought it was the saddest thing, that I'd never tasted this. You tried to use words to describe how wonderful this stupid soup was, and I didn't get it. Because it's just fucking soup.
Except when you held me so close to you I almost suffocated as we ate it together, I think I sort of understood what you meant.
I'll say I'd never been so warm in all my life, with your fucking hot soup and your sweaty embrace- fuck you.
Oh, before I forget, your mom says to get well soon, and that she loves you. Typical motherly things to say.
The nurse just caught me again. Fuck her. She can't make me leave just because the hospital closes. What would I do that would be so bad anyways, if I stay? Use their bathroom?
She's changing your IV. You're a selfish fuck, you know that? Making these people all dote on you while you snooze away like a hibernating bear. Do you know how many other patients she has to take care of? Who the fuck do you think you are?
Who the fuck do you think you are, laying there probably dying when I fucking don't want you to?
The nurse doesn't say anything to me. Good. I would have cussed her out. Again. Telling me it's not good to stay here all day- what does she know? How does she know what's good for me, huh? Can you tell me that, Andy?
That's right, she doesn't. Only I know what's fucking good for me.
I've probably played cards with you four-hundred times. You've lost every time. For once, I'm winning. Don't even accuse me of cheating, you lousy shit. I'm playing fair, for the record. And, in fact, I only cheated at a board game that one time, cut me some fucking slack. And it was fucking scrabble. That game is really the worst creation known to man, especially if that man is really bad with words, like me.
Andy, I'm not fucking going home. It's boring there and there's nothing to do. You can't make me go.