notes from underground

not exactly underground.

more like i'm on the second floor, with a nice view of a gravel roof and some cars parked in a lot. There are lots of nurses with various tubes and clear plastic bags, the contents of which they like to put into you. There are moving beds and expanding socks which massage your legs, and little, cheery measuring cups in the toilet for seeing exactly what comes out. (i guess they like to keep track of the in/out ratios).

Bloggrilla is out of surgery, walking and talking. At the risk of sounding ridiculous, the whole thing was so novel to me that it was actually kinda fun. But NOW i'm ready to gtfo (get the fk out).

I am percosetted and ambianned beyond all recognition, not to mention virtually boobless (however, I do have some very prepubescent looking buds. Which is not unpleasant). My skin is greasy, my hair is very 1980s electroshock looking, I walk like joan crawford with a rod up her butt, and I do not give a crap. Now for someone who is as self conscious as I am, this is highly unusual.

Oh, and upon waking from anasthesia, the most pressing question on my lips was: "do polar bears have tails?"

the mind is indeed a strange thing.

Update and sad note:
another thoroughbred faces surgery:
poor pretty guy. Hope he makes it thru surgery and has a long, happy career impregnating mares.