Chapter 42

A/N: I have a slight problem. I wrote the last chapter four months ago. I now no longer know what book I had Randy referring to. (It was a real book, not just something I made up). So barring some miracle from God, we'll just pretend that book line doesn't exist for now.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor


Journal Entry for Monday March 16, 1998

God it's good to have this thing back, even though the IV makes it hell to write.

Journal, I promise you I'll start keeping you somewhere safer where people can't accidentally stumble upon you and all of your juicy little tidbits of information about my life.

Even though Brad and Mark already knew about my current hiding spot for you, I was still weary of divulging the place to mom.

Things are still going well, post-op-wise. The doctor just put me on three new medicines yesterday, which was okay considering these are small pills. My previous two kinds were pills large enough to choke a full grown dinosaur.

There has also been talk of taking me off the IV, as well as letting me go home as soon as next Monday.

God, listen to me. I sound like some old man sitting around, just talking about my medical situation.

It really would be nice to go home. I could sleep in my own bed, eat real food (albeit mom's food; yes, her cooking is better than the hospital's), and I wouldn't be hooked up to all of these noisy, annoying machines.

I just realized something: tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. It's yet another example of an occasion that reminds me of dad. He'd always have a Reuben and a green beer for lunch. (He dyed the beer using green food coloring, by the way. Not even dad is crazy enough to drink a beer that's naturally green).

Not even dad is? I can't believe I just wrote that. He's been dead and gone for more than six months now, and I still think of him in the present tense.

At any rate, I'm terrified of what the hospital food will be like. I swear to God, if there is anything green on my plate outside of spinach or green beans, I am not touching it with a ten foot pole, let alone my fork.

Lauren came by yesterday. I think my current condition (all the machines and bandages on or attached to my body) was a little more than she bargained for. I mean, we had a good time, but I think she spent the whole time trying not to look at my head. When I mentioned this, she said she was afraid she'd laugh at my bald head, and she didn't want to do that and make me feel bad. Even after we shared a laugh at my head's expense, I could tell she was still nervous.

I really shouldn't complain too much; things could be worse, i.e. I could be in more pain than I am. Most people would tell me to just take more medicine if I'm in pain, but there're a couple reasons I don't like to take pain medicine.

Because of my previous escapades. (And I'm not talking about Cadillacs here either).

I'm afraid I'll get really addicted, like having to have it to function, and winding up in rehab, et cetera.

Okay, I'm going to stop writing now. This damn IV is starting to hurt like a bitch.


A/N: There are two significant sentences in this chapter. These two will change the entire story.

Thanks to randyiscool for helping me find the motivation to write this chapter.

Please R&R.

As always, thanks for reading.

-Yours truly, Randy Taylor