Tube-feeding, if done forcefully, and against the will of the one fed, is rape.
Rape is this: It is forceful insertion of a body part or object into an orifice of the victim’s body against the victim’s will.
So, while we usually think of rape as forceful insertion of a man’s penis into a vagina of a woman against her will, it can also be forceful insertion of a tube into a nostril while Security holds the patient down and she screams.
Or, she is told, “If you don’t cooperate, we’re sending Security.” With two or three nurses twice her size standing there looking mighty threatening. Or possibly threatening to call her parents. Whatever it takes. Some even get tied down. And then, telling her it was all for her own good. That’s what they always say afterward, isn’t it?
Never mind that tube stays in for weeks or longer. And you never know what they’re putting into it. I kinda doubt that tube feed is jism. Next time they flush out the tube, ask them to warm up that syringe full of water laced with psych drugs first before they shoot it into you. I think it might go down better that way.
I dug being the only child for a while. Then, I saw what it was like for other kids around me to have siblings. So I decided I wanted some, too. Mom got pregnant. How nice. Along came my baby brothers.
However, they were noisy, so I complained to my dad. He assured me they’d grow up someday and not have such squeaky voices. I waited a few days and didn’t happen to notice any change. I figured he had told me a fib.
Maybe I could summon up that stork again to take them back. Could the stork do a double? Two at once for efficiency’s sake?
Naw, that bit was a fib, too. Stuff ’em back in. On the other hand, my mom was mini like the whole lot of us, and it didn’t look like both brothers would fit.
Grin and bear it, right?
It’s 81 outside, 91 inside, in the back room. Puzzle is okay, snoring away. The floor in the front room is hot. I don’t understand why. I think later I will put more foil on one of the windows in front. I wonder if I should buy a freezer. That might be a better bet than AC. I could make ice, and use it to cool me and Puzzle. I could make ice packs and put them in bed with us. I could put one in Puzzle’s bed, too. The water coming out of the tap is rather warm. Don’t worry, I filter it. I feel warm, but I really don’t mind. I guess people adjust. I’m even getting my work done. It’s a lot nicer when the kids aren’t out there screaming, which is what they do most of the time, actually, when they’re home. I think they’re at school or day care. I usually can hardly wait for the school bus to show up and cart them off. Yes, they’re nice kids, it’s just that I have so much to do and I really can’t stand constant screeching.
Can I deal with this? I’m okay. Outdoors, 82. Indoors, 87. I’m adjusting. About two weeks ago it was 92 two days in a row indoors and I think I had mild heat exhaustion. After that, I put foil on two of my windows. It made a huge difference. Last night I was in a panic over the heat issue, telling myself I was going to have to move outside for the summer or go camping or something to avoid heat stroke. How am I going to get my work done and still stay alive? There’s no library here. But I think I can go to a gas station with outdoor seating. I really don’t want to go to Tienda Inglesa. It’s too public there. I can go to the gas station down the road and set up my laptop, maybe find a place with some shade, or bring some shade of my own. I’ll bring Puzzle. I’ll have to. She can’t stay here and bake. I wonder if I can sleep in my patio. I guess I’ll have to. It was sweltering last night, over 90 indoors at 9pm.
To top it off, my cell phone is dying. Oh well. It’s just “stuff.”
Can anyone remember how to spell my last name? I guess not. I’ve had to correct people since grade school. I always had to correct it whenever I got published. I’ve been handed the wrong pills, the wrong bills, and I guess when they send the hit man, he’ll kill the wrong me.
The day I die, the mourners will weep for someone else. They’ll bury me next to Julia Green’s husband/boyfriend Curt, who isn’t dead, and charge her the funeral bill.
But I’m still alive, right here, misspelled, laughing.