Mexican Devil Alanis Whore has been lingering at the Emergency Room for hours now, and she is already off-duty. She has been there during her entire 24-hour duty, and she looked tired. She has done well in her shift, and the reward should be immediate egress and sleep. Still, hours have passed since she has been relieved, and she was still sitting there, writing something, talking to her patients. I don’t know what gripped me, I couldn’t stop myself, I just had to tell her and I did: “Hey, Mexican Devil Alanis Whore, go home. Go home and fuck.” Mexican Devil Alanis Whore didn’t slap me, but she did grumble something incomprehensible in sheer sleepiness.

Maybe it’s all the Irvine Welsh I’ve been re-reading, or maybe it’s the heavy metallic and rap music playing repeatedly in my player, or maybe it’s the bunch of Vertigo comic books I’ve been recently obsessing over, but I’ve noticed that I have been extremely potty-mouthed the past few days. Irvine Welsh, of course, is the writer of such cult classics such as the novels Trainspotting and Marabou Stork Nightmare, and the wonderful short story collection The Acid House. His novels are always filled with white trash European characters beset by the same problems—addiction to drugs, addiction to alcohol, addiction to sex, etc. For those who want an introductory read I highly recommend The Acid House. Stay away from Filth and Ecstasy. His Porno I haven’t read yet.

Back to me and my attempts at making excuses for my potty-mouthedness. Just a few days ago I was attempting to suction the ET of a congested, anuric patient with overflowing frothy secretions, and the patient coughed, spraying a huge amount of lung fluids all over my face, at which point I just screamed unabashedly, “Fuck!!!” I was reporting on black walnut toxicity three weeks ago in front of them consultants, and the black walnut bottle fell on the floor and rolled away, and I muttered as I ran after the rolling bottle, unmindful of their highnesses, “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!” How burgis, you point out, trying to stretch the issue, so let me just say that those were the only times I’ve said FUUUUCK in recent memory. 99% of the time I would utter the more piquant “P()T@!”

Just so you’d know—If you care—I am not always like this. I tend to use these cuss words in my short stories when appropriate, but in real life I always manage to contain these words in safe thought bubbles. I’ve brought up this issue with HIV while eating in the callroom, and he pointed out that I might be having some unresolved issues these past few days that bring about this cussing spree. This is an interesting theory, except for the fact that being a totally shallow person I rarely have issues. I usually finish the things I have to do, move over to the next task like a zombie, and whenever I have to complain or stress-out over something I blog about them. Wait, that could be it. I haven’t been blogging the past few weeks from sheer laziness, so maybe the whirling thoughts of nastiness had to be cathected some other way. Cathected. What a totally poser word.

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