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Don't Touch Me

by VM Brasseur on April 29th, 2008

No, don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me. Just get out of here already, would you?

I mean, it’s bad enough you starved me all day. It’s bad enough you didn’t let me drink any water. And then you wouldn’t give me my medicine. That was a bit of a blow, let me tell you.

As if all those things weren’t bad enough, then you put me in a box and take me there. We were there for over an hour and a half. They did unspeakable things to me. You let them. You even paid them to do it, you sicko.

So, no, you don’t get to touch me. Bugger off. I’m going to lie here alone and sulk a fabulous sulk, thankyouverymuch.

Or maybe I’ll lie over there. On the couch I can’t stand. In the room I can’t usually bear to enter. Right next to the torturing wretch to whom I’m not speaking.

Just don’t touch me. Much.

Little does Moira know but today was a treat compared to what’s coming up for her on Friday. Anaesthesia, CT scan and rhinoscopy. Oh, the fun we’ll have!

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