Each tiny limb pointed in slightly different directions.
But imagining their common origin to be the same, not unlike the flashes of a firework spraying outward from the center of the explosion, I was able to envision them before the plumping. The right was a reflection of the left, and the left of the right. And for a brief moment, among the mechanical-like rotatory movements of the wiry stubs, there was perfect symmetry. I had a sudden flash of Violet from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (or Willie Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, if you're instead, a fan of the original) rapidly enlarging into a blue sphere, arms and legs stretched as if on the rack. She, unable to walk, had to be rolled out of the factory.
It occurred to me that this wasn't so different. Then, a new flash of thoughts barreled through my mind which seemed to center around the science and logic of this, and phenomena like it.
"Why would this be the plan that evolution chose? It seems terribly vulnerable at this very moment." I think, as I'm walking palm up, channeling my inner child for a horrible prank.
"Come to think of evolution and vulnerability, why in the world do we sleep? I mean, how vulnerable are we when we are unconscious? Very! Not as much NOW with locks on doors, burglar alarms and such, but, back when we had to worry about those effing saber tooth tigers.... it just seems awfully dangerous to fall asleep. You'd think the insomniacs would have been the only survivors, right Darwin? Our dozing ancestors would have been devoured in their sleep. With all the risk, I guess that makes the act of sleeping, for some reason, really important. At least I'm good at one important thing. I'm going to evolve the hell outta this body.... or, well, wait.... I don't think it works that way. Wait, what am I doing again?"
I look down at my gloved hand, "Oh, right!"
The 8 mechanized pistons swirl like the hands of a clock moving far too quickly.... Though they do nothing but wriggle in the empty air.... they propel not this glutton.
"Ugh, it's like me after I eat a Chipotle burrito. Man, I hate it when people pronounce it Chi-pole-tay.... it's Chip-oat-lay. Wow, I get annoyed easily by grammar related missteps. Speaking of missteps...."
I then think to fake a slip and send flying my recently plucked iron filled epicure. But, I think better of this. "Must.... be..... professional...."
I am, after all, recently aged 28 years. And, I am at work, so I should act like it.
I turn the corner and enter the bathroom, peer down at what looks like an oversized flesh colored kernel of corn, with red, wriggling hairs, 4 on either side. At the point of the kernel sits a tiny maroon spec that moments ago was buried in a quite brave, and cute, little girl who had been playing in the woods with her family 3 days prior. She had left not only with memories of s'mores, fishing and campfires. She had even taken with her the actual scent of their smoke in her hair, but also tucked in her golden locks hid an unwelcome and parasitic gourmand... a hitchhiker of sorts. Across state lines, and eventually into my ER it rode.... gorging itself to the point of immobility along the way. It looked of the obese restaurant patron in "Monty Python's: The Meaning of Life" just prior to exploding.
"How is it that you've evolved into this? How can this be the best version of you? You can't even move. You've eaten so much so that you are unable to touch any of your 8 legs onto the ground. Don't you just get eaten by a bird the instant that you detach yourself from your host? If not, what do you do while you wait for your body to digest your greedy meal? You can't move... so, I guess you just sit there. Ugh, I hate ticks."
This is my second to last thought as I flush the vampiric insect down the toilet of the ER.
My last one being, "What exactly do I diagnose this girl with... 'Attached wood tick, removed???' And I wonder if there's an ICD 9 code for it?"
No comments:
Post a Comment