Thursday, March 25, 2010

All Sorts of Psycho!

My favorite family betamax movie of all time is Back to the Future. Years ago us kids would huddle in my dad’s Batcave, which, indeed, was called Batcave until we had our rickety fire-prone house torn down. The Batcave was the one comfortable room in the house, where my dad’s vintage comic book collection was kept. Every once in a while we would watch Back to the Future and annoyingly recite the lines with the characters. My sister and I have almost memorized all the lines, but my brother would most of the time drift away after a couple of scenes and just play with our WWF action figures in his room, complete with the official squared circle ring at that. WWF has a seminal influence on us—it caused multiple bruises on me and my brother, and I even caused him to have a pretty long gaping laceration on his chin. It was his fault, he did Bret Hart’s the sharpshooter on me, and I kicked out of it, causing him to fly out and hit his chin on the wall.

In Back to the Future Marty McFly goes back to the past and causes all sorts of trouble between his parents-to-be. He is then thrust into an alternate present, then back to the past again to correct it, and then into the Western era. At certain points he meets himself. Which begs the question, if I could meet myself in the past, which particular self do I want to meet and what unspeakable things do I want to do unto them? So at the risk of causing an alternate future where I’m a lizard, I will now get in my Delorean and meet:

1. My 8-year old self reading my father’s super old comic books without care. I would pat him on the head and tell him to take care of them. He would get all bratty and shit, and if he does, I would get him on a piledriver position and ram his head on the cement floor.

2. My 9-year old self getting bullied by Alla, Edwar, Christia, and the rest. As they are taunting my wussy self I would… join in the taunting, lead the taunting in fact. You deserve it you wuss, now shove this plate of self-loathing down your throat and quit yer whining. I would then pat him on the head and give him a blowtorch. This too shall pass, I would tell him, now adjust that wedgie and burn them all to the ground. Burn this whole school to the ground!!! Hello, Tofranil and Prozac, I know. I’m just kidding, I would just probably give him a hug. Awww. And hand him a blowtorch in secret, too.

3. My angry 14-year old self typing angry, murderous, gruesome stories on our old Olympia typewriter. I would tell him, keep on writing these angry, murderous, gruesome stories, keep on writing and don’t stop, don’t stop I tell ya, don’t stop! As annoying as these ink stains might be you would actually miss the clacking one day, but one day you would type on something called a laptop and publish blogs that would spread your self-psychotification like a virus. You would wear your self-deprecation like a badge, and will actually enjoy doing it.

4. My angry 14-year old self actually playing the guitar. I would give him the chords of the songs of Beatles, CCR, Radiohead, and order him to play those songs, maybe you would actually learn cool music and not that wussy garbage which led you to drop learning the instrument altogether and actually smash the bleeping guitar one hot summer day in a fit of psychotic raaaaaaaaaaaaage. Or I would just cut corners, take the guitar from you and say, "let's just keep this in the closet beside the unused ethiopian flute and tae-kwon-do uniform".

5. My annoyed, sweating, itchy 16-year old self in white polo shirt, blue jeans, and buckled belt one hot Friday afternoon in the grounds of my high school doing the compulsory CAT exercises. You are right to be annoyed, I would tell you, but annoyance is not enough you chicken. What’s that you call me? Chicken. Nobody calls me chicken, Biff, nobody! Wuuuuuuungk! Annoyance is not enough, you should be indignant, enraged, incensed at this total waste of time. But even at this age I am still actually chicken, so I would just pull your arm and we could run out of there together. Run, moron, the batt comm saw us, run! Ruuuuuuuun!

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Food Hysteria: A Detailed, Accurate Reportage of the Internal Medicine Biggest Loser Competition So Far!

And so everyone is on a crash diet, with the goal of getting that pot money. We can all say it’s a quest for health, well-being, total emaciation, etc. but the pot money you would win once you underweigh everyone in the Internal Medicine’s Biggest Loser competition is quite major too. If I haven’t been pooping my bile acids directly with concomitant steatorrhea as a consequence of my recent cholecystectomy I would have joined. Too much information. Yes.

And the competition is heating up! Unlike the TV competition this one is more intense, and everyone is cut-throat. There are no rules, you can try to lose weight any way you choose—diuretics, OHA’s, surgery, murder, total body transplant are all acceptable. They all had their weigh-ins just a couple of days ago, and just a few days in contestants HIV, UHBJAW, BL, Dondee, and Lloydie have been showing signs of emaciation. Lloydie hasn’t been eating anything. I’ve been leaving Marty’s Cracklings in the ICU bartolina and he wouldn’t dare touch the nefarious vegetarian chicharon, although I did catch him sprinkling powdered metformin on his rice. UHBJAW looked quite pale a few days ago, with weird facial tics, uncontrollable finger tremors, and scaling over both arms, obviously from some vitamin deficiency. Dondee is now too thin he is no longer 3D and can walk past a locked door. “What’s that you’re taking?” I once asked BL as I caught her popping a handful of tablets in her mouth. She just stared at me in total exophthalmos, hissed like a cat, and shrilled “It’s NOT eltroxin! It’s NOT!!!!” And in the restroom, disgusting mooshy feces all over all the time. Damn it, HIV, take your laxatives at home!!!

And in the universe’s attempt to balance things out (or some crap like that) all their hungers, all the food that they could have consumed, all their ravenous desires to stuff all sorts of trash down their mouths are being channeled instead to one specific mouth—mine. I am now so very hungry all the time. Okay maybe not all the time, I usually have no appetite to eat any breakfast or lunch, but come 7pm I want to eat everything. Why, just last night, after consuming two cups of rice and skeletonizing a bucket of Chicken Joy I tore open and consumed an entire family bag of Jack and Jill Potato Chips! Then I raided the ref and discovered and ate… a box of brownies! I then went to my sister’s to internet, we had a Shakey’s pizza delivered, and it was decimated in two munches! And right now as I’m typing this, my laptop keypads are getting soiled with sisig oil and bits of chicharon because I’m eating sisig as I’m typing, and I’m eating with my barehands because I can’t wait to stuff the entire hot plate down my fucking throat!!! Stop this competition, stop it right now!!!

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

I, Precog

Having spent so much time writing and reading chart entries I now know all the handwritings of all my colleagues in the department, and being in this department, writing loooooooooong entries is the norm. Writing something in less than a page is an atrocity, and there wasn’t a formal mandate on this, somehow there has been an unspoken competition to write the most elaborate, laborious entries. I used to write these sorts of entries before, until I realized that nobody reads them. Sometimes it just pays to be direct to the point, that way you can sleep or play Xbox the soonest. In the spirit of making things about me my handwriting is highly influenced by two things: the pen I use and the other people writing on the chart. As I don’t have a distinct, well-formed personality even at this age I end up mimicking the handwriting of whoever was actively writing in the chart. Others say that one’s handwriting reflects a person’s personality, but being a certified precog I think more can be gathered—handwritings reflect a person’s… future. And with that longish, elaborate, laborious intro I will now predict my batchmates’… futures.

1. Graciepoopieloopieroopiepoopietoop- G’s handwriting can be described as “loose”, I sometimes imagine the letters as ropes or threads being strewn or artistically looped on paper without care. Her strokes are very freeflowing, and she hardly makes any erasures. Interpretation: She has a secret fetish with ropes. She does unspeakable things with ropes, things which cannot be mentioned in this blog, but things which might herald her comeuppance. She also needs to be careful of freeflowing bodies of water, as they could kill her instantly.

2. Marth V- Marth V’s handwriting can be described as pretty, with elaborate loops, with graceful strokes, with hearts for dots on i’s. Okay so he doesn’t use hearts for dots on i’s, but it’s still very pretty. Interpretation: In the future Marth V will have relationships with very pretty women, but as his loops are elaborate so would his lies be so he could jump from one motel room to the next! These very pretty women would have to familiarize themselves with his post-coital look to have a clue.

3. Djanah- Djanah’s cursive handwriting is very standard, very impeccable, very clean, very firm. Make that very feeeeeeeeerm. Interpretation: She will be the next chief resident.

4. Tessieloopagoooparupaloupatoupatoup- T’s letters are HUGE. Nobody could forge her handwriting, except her brother, whose letters are also very HUGE. If you observe the end strokes of her S’s and R’s you would note that they slope upwards with such force, as if they are throwing something in the air. Interpretation: Truly such an occasion would come when she would throw me out of the callroom once again. On that occasion I would sustain blunt injury to the spleen and I would be hospitalized. Then I would need someone to cover for me, and being the kind person she is she would cover with glee. Which reminds me, I still owe her a tower of ice cream for covering for me last month.

5. Uni-horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore- Now this one’s very tricky, as UHBJAW’s handwriting varies in style, size, and font from entry to entry, and each style is not necessarily reflective of her apparent state of mind. She could be writing about a very annoying patient, and the strokes would be very easy, medium-sized, and clean, her annoyance clued-in only by the teardrops staining the paper. She could be writing with much joy in a moment of brilliance at having made a very difficult diagnosis, and the font would be size 7 with lots of blots from the running ink of a broken pen. Interpretation: Uni-horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore would be a woman of the world, she would go around, and one day transmogrify into her different personalities. Yes, she would be a manananggal, a B-movie/penekula star wearing magic kamison with a twig in her mouth, an emasculating tennis player, a red nude Gollum, and yes, a Uni-horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore.

Wow I can probably do this for money. Send in samples of your handwriting with P500 enclosed! Poverty rules!

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Useless Pieces of Crap!

Finally got around to cleaning my closet, and this time my threshold to throwing things out is at its lowest. Unless the stuff inside is something I could eat, read with pleasure, smoke, or get addicted to RIGHT NOW, it goes directly to trash. Thick biology books from college--into the trash they went. Papers I wrote on psychometrics, psychoanalysis, and such--torn into tiny pieces and into the trash they went! Trinkets, photos, and small furry momentos given to me years ago--you would only cause me horrible allergic rhinitis which would cost much in terms of nasal steroids, so into the fucking trash box they were cast!!! Ever looking for something to salvage my mother scavenged at what I threw into the box and she discovered my old medals.

"Why did you throw them out?!" outraged mother said.
"Because they're useless shit," I said. Actually I think I only said, "dahil wala silang kwenta!"

Outraged mother gathered all them useless fake metals and placed them safely in a paperbag. But truly they are useless crap. They don't signify any intellect, talent, personality, or general well-being, because truly I am not a better person because of any of them! They didn't prepare me to college, nor did they make me any cuter. But before you schedule me into any psychiatric consult, let's channel this hatred to defenseless fake metals and answer the question, how can we probably make use of them useless medals?

1. Weapons. By simply holding their sash and doing a rapid twisting motion in the air we can turn them into some sort of deadly slingshot! And after they gather enough force or torque or whatever you physicists call it we can throw it in the air and we can hit the foreheads of those... HAMI's!

2. Toys. We can remove the sash, gather the round metals, and we can play with them. Or if we don't want to play with them, we can donate them to kids who would want to. And how the heck can they be of any use as toys you dare ask? Obviously we can use them as... pogs. Snort all you want, but back in 1995 I would actually spend P5 per soda cap just so I could redeem them as pogs.

3. So there are these unavoidable altercations in the residents' callrooms, altercations on work, on who didn't wash the dishes, on who's taking the psych wars that go with the Biggest Loser contest too personally. There is only one way to settle this, and that's with... an immunity challenge. Whoever loses will get thrown out by Tessieloopagoop from the callroom straight to the SOJR or something. And of course, the winner of these immunity challenges will be given an immunity necklace, in the form of our old medals. HIV being good at everything would win everything, so we would see him wearing twenty medals as he walks in the wards.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


Saw Thymes this afternoon and she screamed. She screams in glee whenever she sees someone she hasn't seen in a long time, and although I've seen her only yesterday the very packed, busy day and duty night must have made it seem like years (exaj) to her. Also, she screams whenever she drops something, whenever she likes the food she's eating, etc. I accompanied her to get Coke in the canteen, and she was visibly stressed. She claimed she was totally exhausted, and I believed her. I saw Ernest the other day and he is 1/28th the size he was. And as for Smoketh, she herself declared that she has withered into a giant prune.

"I'm sure in two months you'll transform from a prune into a total bitch," I told Smoketh. "Point it out then when that day comes," Smoketh said.

Truly we are now in the positions that we as students then looked up to with esteem. Back then whenever I would see residents and fellows they always looked so smart and unstressed and scary and respectable. It seemed that they've always felt smart and self-assured and dignified and competent and infallible. Now we know what it's really like, and it actually kind of, well, sucks.

Or maybe they really did feel and were that way, and it's just me. In which case I'm springing out my blowtorch.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010


If you've been talking to me for the past few days and I have this huh facial expression it's because I have a huh reaction to what you were saying, basically because I haven't been listening. For some cosmic reason I haven't been receptive to any auditory stimulus, except for auditory hallucinations. If you've been ranting and it was a terrifically interesting rant all I might have heard was a long drone of blablabla but it doesn't mean I didn't find you wonderfully entertaining, it's just that there is something competing with your fantastic whines, specifically, my own particular inattention. It's like having a horse palahoho, only it covers my entire head. This is not only limited to rants, as I haven't been listening even to consultants nagging me or giving me high, self-important admonishments. There's just something in the wind that's been sucking out any inherent receptiveness, and I want that wind to keep on swirling.

Cosmic Blues

Shalimar recently went home for a visit during her leave from her pediatrics residency in New York, and she’s staying here in the country for ten days. Shalimar is not to be confused with Ditz the Titz, although they were both my service mates back then and are both certified Cabo girls, along with Maan Eych. As interns of that medicine service we specialized in personal and social history.

“Patient is a jeepney driver in QC,” Maan Eych would say.
“Anong RUTA?” Consultant PSHX would challengingly ask.
“He begins in Katipunan passing by UPIS, turns left to UP Diliman through the entrance near the Islamic Studies building, turns right to pass by the shopping center and Kalayaan dormitory…” Maan Eych would respond, crossing her arms in satisfaction with a “HAH!” facial expression.

“Why only ten days?” Frichmond and I asked Shalimar in unison, and Shalimar could only say, “I could only last one weekend without Ben.” Frichmond and I choked on our roti and aspirated some curry sauce.

We are extremely elated for Shalimar and her state of affairs, and to think
that just over a year ago she was blogging about the possibility of owning a cat and being a spinster. But now she is blissfully in love, and we are all excited to attend her wedding and bar mitzvah sometime soon. Truly there is no reason to believe in the concept of lovelessness, as there are many fish in the sea, specifically, in the

“We have to feel that sometime, specialagentfoxmulder,” Frichmond declared, pertaining to the feeling of not lasting for days without someone, as a teardrop rolled down her cheek. “We have to feel that!”
“We have to feel that,” I agreed.
“But not towards each other,” Frichmond clarified.
“Not towards each other,” I zombily echoed.

Which got me thinking, what could I not last a week without (if that convoluted sentence is even right)? Even though I exude the demeanor of a high class, prudish, English gentleman I actually do have some vices, a lot of them, actually, at least one for each sense organ, and I have to indulge them on a regular basis. Because what is the point of living without vices? Truly we will live healthy, long lives, with the approval of our families, friends, and the church, but live long for what? Is lifespan now a competition? Does someone reward us if we die of old age in our 90’s instead of dying from MAP-induced stroke in our 30’s? What is the point of living long? And since we’re on the topic, what is the point of living at all? And since we’re being cosmic, where did life originate? Did it really originate on Oa, or is that the Guardians’ Ultimate Lie? Has everyone been lying to me all this time about the nature of life? If that’s the case, then why can’t we just die? Now? Now that’s an all together different topic, because do we want to die physically, or do we want to die psychically? Is dying psychically equivalent to having locked-in syndrome, or are the two constructs existing in two very different metaphysical planes? Am I just padding this blog with pretentious blabber so it would get longer and see who can endure it?

Welcome back, Shalimar, and an early goodbye once again!

Always On My Fucking Mind

“Naaaapakadaming always on my mind,” Smoketh enthused as she scrolled down my song list in my iPod. Indeed there are seven, starting with the version of the original big mama of them all, Brenda Lee, a version that actually rocks. Brenda Lee’s album photo defines the term “sinauna”, beehive hair and all. Excellent also are the versions, of course, of Elvis and Willie Nelson. Willie Nelson’s version is what I call a Kool-Aid song, particularly, Kool-Aid spiked with hundreds of poisons ala Jim Jones and his cult. A Kool-Aid song, as I have already discussed extensively in an old friendster blog, is a song that makes you want to kill yourself. There is also the meh version of Michael Buble, the histrionic version of Fantasia, and the vomit version of Anoop Desai. The list wouldn’t be complete without the saccharine version of James Marsden, who sang it in Ally Mc Beal. I looked for other versions of the song on the net, and apparently Shakira also sang it once in some live show. I would have downloaded it, except that it sounded like an orgasming transsexual narwhal-warthog hybrid.

There has been a paucity of really good songs lately that I would resort to looking for covers of already established great songs. Satellite by Dave Matthews Band, another Kool-Aid song with high concentrates of organophosphates and super warfarin, has been covered by some person called Mika. Nothing against whiners, I’m a high-grade whiner myself, by Mika’s version is so whiny it traverses the time space continuum, reverberates, and transforms into a one-note shrill. Mike also sounds like a wuss. I quickly deleted it for its unworthiness. I downloaded Glee’s rendition of Somebody to Love, by Queen. Worthy pop ditty, but my favorite version would probably still be the birit version of Elliott. Sometimes the remake is better, such as in the case of Sheryl Crow’s version of The First Cut is the Deepest which is far more sensible and carries much more (pretentious alert!) pathos than the Cat Stevens original.

In between listening to Corinne Bailey Rae’s Put Your Records On and Eminem’s Kill You Smoketh heard a 30-second track that was strangely familiar but definitely annoying. “Is this…” Smoketh checked the iPod display, “It’s Mitral Stenosis!!!!”
I love murmurs. I still don’t know how to differentiate one from the other, they still all sound like the background sound effects as a buxom blonde walks in on a trap of Jason Vorhees, but they help me sleep.

Splatter, Splatter

And on my face, a blotch of coagulated blood. I don’t know how it got there, all I know is I haven’t checked the mirror for almost an entire day and nobody pointed it out, but there it was, a huge cake of cracking solidified blood which I scraped out unmindingly before thinking it could be someone else’s blood. I do these things without thinking first—around fifteen years ago I was so fascinated to see a strip of plastic covered in poop and blood sticking out of our cat’s ass that I pulled it out with my bare hands. Since I was on ICU duty I tried to recall who could possibly be spouting blood, and realized that any one of them could have thrown a gob from their tracheostomies.

And just a couple of days ago I texted Achtung Baby without being PC—dinudugo ka pa? And this morning, what should I have for breakfast but the wonderful dinuguan from COOP. Dinuguan from COOP always reminds me of our internship rotation in rehab. I would eat it while yakking away with Smoketh, Achtung Baby, Len Len, and Roxy Lim, which would be followed by a block screening of Saw II. Saw II is rather inferior to the excellent Saw I but still wonderful in its own right, as it features Saw I survivor Amanda being thrown in a vat of cap-less syringes. Amanda would later turn out to be a total bitch.

Back in clerkship during our anesthesiology rotation I was stuck in that small room in the delivery room with the anesthesiologist-on-duty, and the two of us were watching a DVD of Monster starring an uglified Charlize Theron who would fuck truck drivers and kill them. “Ay, parang… parang… Tagos ng Dugo,” anesthesiology resident said. “Pero baka hindi mo alam yun, masyado ka pa bata nung ipinalabas yun.”

“You mean Tagos ng Dugo starring Vilma Santos as a stripper who would kill anyone whenever she sees blood in the vicinity?!” I said in excitement, although maybe not in that cinematic manner. Of course I know Tagos ng Dugo, I was watching it in RPN 9 or was it IBC 13 as I was lying down on our humongous family bed covered by a humongous kulambo, which we used to call Noah’s Ark because my parents and all us 3 kids were sleeping there. Tagos ng Dugo used to give me nightmares. Only because of the implications of the regularity of killing—I can’t recall exactly, but I guess she would go out and kill someone whenever she was having regla.

Submucous myoma would be massacre.

My Magic Lasso Will Take Care of You! Said Wonder Woman, the Superfriends Version

As I am typing away in the bartolina that is the ICU callroom I know that if the ICU catches fire I will get cremated in two seconds. The extreme cold would make me insensitive to any nearby flame, and the smoke I would obliviously sniff with delight. There are no secret panels, no teleportation machines, no hidden escape routes to the ambulance parking lot. A few years back I was living in 611 Nakpil with Jonafun, Coooooooooey, and Prometheus. My room was on the second floor, and my father noted in paranoia that I would get cremated in two seconds if the house caught fire.

“I set up an emergency fire escape plan!” he excitedly told me one day. I checked our window. There was a huge roll of very thick rope by the window sill, with one end tied to the metal window bar. There was a construction site helmet and a face mask. And at the end of the rope, a message written in pentel pen: Have No Fear! I know, too much Green Lantern.

I never did get to use the rope, but my dad was quite delighted with himself at this innovation. He likes these innovations. Even up to college my sister had the predilection to sleep walk, and when she started to go dorming in St. Scho she was afraid she would wake up in Taft Avenue. To solve this my father gave her a similar roll of rope. She would tie the rope around her waist and tie the other end to the bed. She would always be jarred awake by a yanking motion whenever she would start to sleepwalk, but she would never be mistaken for a dormitory white lady. Come to think of it my dad has this thing with ropes, basically because we have a hardware store specializing in ropes and fishnets. Good thing none of us is suicidal. Hee-hee, none of us.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Attention Test

While sitting in the ambulance parking lot at around 3 pm, after having, er, facilitated an ambulance conduction, with the help of some residents from other departments, obviously it should be a collective effort being a very toxic task at that. Fragment. So while sitting in the ambulance parking lot I realized, which is a pretentious word as it wasn't even a new thought, it has been there every moment every day so it wasn't a "realization" in the strictest sense, in much the same way that Jean Grey was so distressed that she couldn't contain the Dark Phoenix entity every second of every day so she would just rather have Wolverine stab her to death and stuff and such drama. In the end she sort of disintegrated herself by getting in the way of some Mkraan beam. But it wasn't really her or something, I think it was some just physical manifestation of the phoenix force or something. So. While sitting in the ambulance parking lot I realized... that I wouldn't want to walk back to the callroom. I wanted to teleport. I wanted to blink out of that moment and appear in the callroom. Teleportation is a run of the mill science concept but I would still want that power. Obviously I would have to contend with the already much tackled issue of the possibility of teleporting into a solid object, such that my head might be appear inside a rock or something. If you see me my body wriggling with my head inside a rock don't free me. I would walk with a rock for a face.

its all a lie, said guest blogger Smoketh. Lie!

whoever said that fellowship was more benign that residency must have been on lsd. i was chatting with smoketh and she said with such conviction "if you are considering going to fellowship to have more success and prestige, think it over, because you will be living in a non-stop world of the devil wears prada." topic sentence.

wrong. i am smoketh. again. guest blogging. and i am babysitting the little duwendes cleaning up the dializer left overs as i speak.

hmppph. i now gape at specialagentfoxmulder because i am out of thoughts. i am no longer interesting. i cannot think of anything to write. i am a whithered grape...raisin at that. or even a prune. a big prune. fellowship has done this to me.

dear reader, is this the fate that you wish to have?

unlike specialagentfoxmulder, who after his intensely difficult CVS exam, is now just downloading itunes 9. gone were the days of our music appreciation sessions and sing-along to the mp3 files here in gjays. gone were the days of confusion regarding which is the best itune version to use on my ipod. i have turned into a prune, a charting machine prune.

rant rant rant. rant rant rant.

a meal of siomai in hap chang will solve all this. siomai. and taho. and garlic fish. mmmmmmm.


We finally had the megacode, some sort of practical exam for the ACLS accreditation thing, wherein we would treat the manequin with the fake veins and destroyed foam trachea, and the fun remote-controlled cardiac monitor that could instantly show torsades 2 seconds after an asystole. It was fun, very much educational, etc. Everyone was so engrossed that before we knew it it was 8 pm. 8 pm!!!-- I screamed in my head as I hungrily stuffed handfuls of Unihorned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore's pack of Tortillas in my mouth.

"Just defibrillate everything so we could getouttahere!!!!" I whimpered in my head.

"Poooooooooooooh%a 8:30 na!!!!" one of the facilitators whined out loud.

"Truly this is transforming from a megacode into... a nega-code," I said with finality.

This is what I get for parodying and making fun of colloquialisms--I end up using them more frequently than the more well-versed ones do. Being stuck in that extremely cold room viciously hungry was indeed a nega, so in the spirit of cosmic nega I will now add to the over all sum of everything that is nega in this universe and list down... the things we want to vomit on!!!! or vomit at, whichever preposition is correct. I'm really bad at prepositions. You know years ago when I was in grade 6, I think even up to when I was in college, in between watching the X-Files and using my first ever desktop computer.... oh, the list. Here it is:

1. Heroes. Yes, the TV show! The atrocity that has ripped off everything from X-Men's Days of the Future Past to Legion of 3 Worlds is something I would like to vomit on! Everyone has healing powers, because healing powers are soooo cool! And the cheerleader, see I've forgotten what her name is, has the Red Tornado Complex! What is RTC, you don't ask? Red Tornado is a DC character, an android-robot, who always gets destroyed whenever a writer wants to demonstrate how powerful a villain is or how grave a situation has become! Flesh and bone characters like Batman wouldn't even get a scratch, but a supposedly futuristic metal android would get maimed, crushed, and dismembered with a simple handgrip by that teenage mutant ninja turtle clone Wonder Woman villain Genocide!!!! Because indeed, the cheerleader gets torn to pieces all the time!!!! Is the number of exclamation points in this rant proportional to the amount of vomit I want to vomit on this show?! Because indeed, I want to vomit buckets on it!!! BUCKETS I tell yah!!!!!

2. People who smoke in closed spaces. I mean it, I'm not being ironic, because we want to inhale smoke and destroy our lungs, NOT smell it and sneeze for days with an intractable allergic rhinitis attack!!!!! Smoke is supposed to give you fun, then it should waft into the air and mingle with all the other poisons in the atmosphere, not cause major spectacular sneezing fits!!!! Because those intranasal steroids are bleeping expensive, and I need them on a daily basis just so it wouldn't look like I've been crying for days on end!!!! Just the other day the attack has become so debilitating my face has turned into a giant wheal and I would sneeze after every question I would ask the patient, and this patient has 90% bilateral conductive hearing loss!!!! Vomit bowls of allergic snot on you, peoplewhosmokeinclosedspaces, bowls of allergic snot!!!!!

3. Doctors who don't reply to text messages about their patients' well being. Given the nature of work politics and the fact that I'm chicken, I would not elaborate on this as much as I have on the previous entries, but suffice it to say that, these are your patients, and the nature of a training institution doesn't justify telecommunication kebs! Years ago when I was the fungus feeding on the etc etc I couldn't get this person to respond to my concerns about his patient's major toxified state, that after ten infuriated texts I decided to spring a sort of trap text message!!!! "They decide to go home now, PF?" I asked. An immediate reply I got. VOMIT, I tells ya, vomiiiiiit!

Sertraline is kicking in. Finally I will stop now. Pant.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Silver Banshee

That morning the ones who shared the callroom with me during the previous duty night would tell me that my 3 alarm clocks have been ringing incessantly for hours on end without eliciting anything but a grunt from me--and that grunt might have been from something else I've been dreaming about. Grunt, okay, not moan or whimper. I didn't even press the snooze button, I didn't even throw the bleeping phones away, I didn't even panic that the rings might have been referrals for people dying--I just slept there and totally ignored them alarms. As they were all blaring out I did eventually wake-up, but what actually managed to snap me out of sleep was this admonishment from a dutymate:

"Ang mga phone mo!!!"

This brought me back to total wakefulness and thankfully so, as I had so many things to do.

I will forever be in debt to you, JJL, you are indeed the mistress of breaking through the REM barrier.

A Very, Very Thirsty Fetus

As I’ve blathered about two hundred entries ago back in the Friendster blog era, my most frequent dream was going to school and discovering I was nude. This was more common among youngish people than I’ve thought, but as soon as I’ve resolved all my bestiality, frotteurism, and other paraphiliac issues through illegal drugs—I mean therapy—those dreams have ended. For the past few years the dream that has frequented me most involved me going to a toy shop and finding oodles and oodles of hard-to-find action figures at an extremely cheap price. I would even find action figures of Princess Projectra, Kid Psycho, and Bouncing Boy, none of whom were even actually made into action figures yet. How fun! How wonderful! How so totally golly-gosh-gee! Then I would suddenly wake-up to an ugly wife, vinegared tulingan for breakfast, and unemployment.

A few days ago after finishing my morning rounds of three patients at 10 am I ran to Robinson’s for my toy rounds which have been getting less and less frequent each month, what with poverty and all, and what should I discover with glee but… the 4th Annual Toys and Games Convention, with the booths just finishing their set-up! Thousands of loose, relatively cheap toys were just being brought out, with very few competition in sight. In the spirit of materialism I immediately rummaged through the buckets and trays and boxes and tupperwares of old action figures and discovered in total excitement: Loose DC Direct Silver Age versions of Green Arrow and Speedy released in 2000, which could be bought then in a box set for P2,500! The booth is now selling these DC figs for 3 for 1,000, so for completion I grabbed… The DC Direct Vic Sage Question!!! Palpitating I checked out another booth and discovered and got… DC Universe Wildcat, Booster Gold, and Blue Beatle!!! At 1/5th the price!!!

And it wasn’t a hoax, it wasn’t an imaginary story, it wasn’t a dream, I didn’t wake-up beside an emaciated wife with crooked teeth and syphilis, but I did get an emergency call from Fulet Esplana who asked me where I was. “Errr, I’m, errr…” I stammered. “Special Agent Fox Mulder,” she said firmly, “Achtung Baby is now in the ICU. Her BP is 70/40.” In the spirit of my Violet Lantern of Love for Achtung Baby I ran to the ICU and discovered some other batchmates of ours huddled in front of her. Her blood pressure was still 80/30 after an hour and lots of fluids, but since she was awake we all just made kwentuhan and laughed with her. Proof that when the patient is your batchmate it doesn’t matter how HAMI you are—you stop being a doctor and start being a Blammoid (to check how a Blammoid looks like check out the Aquaman Blammoid figure a few entries down).

“Maybe we should get a urine sample or something?” Kyawa said.

“Or maybe we need to hook her to oxygen or something. Or do ECG, I guess,” I said.

“Should we call in for 2D-Echo?” Hokum asked.

“What could have caused the shock?” Discombobulated Dina asked.

“EWAN!” we collectively said. A fellow we knew came in. I rapidly told her the events and asked what she thinks caused it. “Malay ko,” she said, affirming our cluelessness.

Achtung Baby’s blood pressure went back to normal after a few hours and 3 liters of fluids which distended her bladder much. Achtung Baby’s OB-Gyne texted that it could have been due to insensible losses of pregnancy—it’s one extremely thirsty 9-week old fetus therefore. Finally Achtung Baby’s husband came in. ICU setting or not whenever I see Tapaenguin I instinctively check if he has brought us tapsilog, being a big-time owner of a popular tapa restaurant foodchain.

Shouldered by Tessieloopagooparoopiepoop

I’ve already said multiple times much to your MK (major karindihan) that I need to exercise and have illustrated the exact reasons why. 1. I pant and almost go into syncope just after two chest compressions during CPR 2. I need huge biceps on which I can tattoo the entire Justice League of America and 3. I need beefy arms that would adequately receive my self-injections of pain meds and prevent the needle from nicking the bone. But the cause of the pain has already been surgically removed, you snootily say, sipping your daiquiri. Why yes, indeed, but I still need them pain meds for, er, various sorts of pain.

The fourth reason is so that I wouldn’t get evicted so easily from the callroom. There are so many reasons to evict me—I speak in various, highly annoying international accents sporadically, I demand that people make me sandwiches, I demand that JD-Lu set-up the X-box, I keep a lot of used plastic cups on my table that actually harbor festering kiti-kiti, my table has nothing important on it that can be used by random passersby for emergency such as staplers and trodat inks as there are only comic books, action figures, plastic cups, and torn-out pages of Harrisons on it, etc. Just recently I whined within the earshot of Tessieloopagooparoopiepoop that the door lock is very cumbersome. With just a few seconds separating them Tessieloopagooparoopiepoop had to take the following high-grade whines from me in quick succession:

“This is so cumbersome, maybe if someone will volunteer to buy a lock that would snap back automatically it would be best for everyone involved,” I said.

“Oh gee, it actually takes four hands to open this lock, turn the key, hold my COOP food, and scratch my head in puzzlement,” I said after four seconds.

“If there are four locks, three mutants, two cedar trees, and twelve keys, with the variable x approaching y in an asymptotic manner, would you agree that…”

“THAT IS IT!!!” Tessieloopagooparoopiepoop screamed as she lunged for the door. “I will open it for you it’s so easy to open it… THERE!” And with one push from her shoulder she managed to throw me out the door and I landed in SOJR.

I need to exercise.